IPS 3515 
 .A68 05 
 1913 
 
 I Copy 1 
 
 ...i:i:'''-'i:;ii;'i!Z'"^'i'ii:)iw'':: 
 
Class / c^^^^ i^tj 
 
 GopyiightN^ 
 
 j^/d> 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
AN OLD FLY BOOK AND 
 OTHER STUFF 
 
(Page S7) 
 
 BASH BISH FALLS 
 
 y4 ^ if (ibo-je the limpid pooty 
 -/Tl Across the rock zvhich there o'er hung. 
 Shy Daphne from the zvaters cool 
 Her s?iowy veil had flung, — 
 
An Old Fly Book 
 
 And 
 
 Other Stuff 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN WARREN HARPER 
 
 R. S. PECK & CO., Inc., 
 Hartford, Conn., 
 

 Copyright, 1912, By 
 JOHN WARREN HARPER 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 EC 24 1913 ©:i.A36i39l 
 
TO 
 MY MOTHER 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 Acknowledgment is herewith made to the 
 Hartford Courant and Hartford Times, in which 
 many of these pieces have been published. Also 
 to the Boston Transcript and Providence Journal 
 for copying several of them, and special acknowl- 
 edgment to Scribners Magazine for permission 
 to reprint The Exile and An Alaskan Cathedral. 
 
 J. W. H. 
 Hartford, Conn. 
 1912 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FISHING VERSE 
 
 The Cast II 
 
 An Old Fly Book 12 
 
 The Twitchin' o' the Elbow .... i6 
 
 "The Call of the Wild" . . . „ i8 
 
 The Little Red Barn Over East . . 22 
 
 Suppose ... 25 
 
 The Yarn 28 
 
 My Love 32 
 
 An Old Fishing Hat 35 
 
 The One That Got Away . ... 36 
 
 Only a Quiet Pool 40 
 
 In Canada . . ... 42 
 
 On Grand Lake Stream 43 
 
 A Day Off 44 
 
 A Meditation 47 
 
 The End of the Trout Season .... 49 
 
 To a Wild Rose 51 
 
 Jes' a Dreamin' 54 
 
 Regrets 56 
 
 The Last Cast 58 
 
 A Query 60 
 
 A Fable 62 
 
 He Never Took a Vacation .... 63 
 
 OTHER VERSE 
 
 The Exile 67 
 
 Evening on Moosehead Lake . . . , 71 
 
 The Coming of Winter 72 
 
 7 
 
8 CONTENTS 
 
 The Storm 75 
 
 The Passing of Autumn .... 76 
 The Song of the Kennebec . -11 
 
 March in April 80 
 
 Winter Sunrise 83 
 
 Belgrade 84 
 
 Bash Bish Falls • 87 
 
 Duck Shooting in October 88 
 
 Mars Mawch 89 
 
 The Open 93 
 
 The Wreck • . . . 95 
 
 To a Wild Rose by the Sea .... 97 
 
 A Church 100 
 
 Spring Song I02 
 
 The Robber 103 
 
 The Forest 105 
 
 Mount Bigelow in Maine 106 
 
 A March Sunset 107 
 
 Sunset and Night , 109 
 
 Katama ill 
 
 The Connodaguinct 116 
 
 To the Sea . . . 120 
 
 The First Robin I2i 
 
 Winter in the Lap of Spring . . . . 122 
 
 Indian Summer 125 
 
 Before the Toy Window 127 
 
 Duck Shooting at Saybrook . . . . 132 
 
 The Song of the Wind 133 
 
 A Cowboy's Wooing 136 
 
 A Rainy May 139 
 
 To a Wood Thrush 141 
 
 To a Cricket 143 
 
 An Alaskan Cathedral 152 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 It will not have taken the reader long to 
 have discovered that the author of this little 
 volume is an ardent lover of trout and salmon 
 fishing. He begs to acknowledge the soft im- 
 peachment and to state that it was primarily 
 written for those who love " the gentle art of 
 angling," but to which has been added " Other 
 Stuff " to give it a wider range of appeal to all 
 those who love the open. The piece Before the 
 Toy Window, while not strictly in keeping with 
 the tenor of the book, is placed herein at the 
 special request of friends who desire to keep it in 
 more permanent form than a newspaper clipping. 
 
II 
 
 THE CAST 
 
 OUT into the world this little book 
 I cast — perchance to an unfriendly fate. 
 Not poetry's fine feather'd hook 
 I use, but rather that more humble bait 
 Of simple rhyme — Yet am I bold 
 To place the hope upon each line 
 That you may " strike," perchance take hold. 
 And all your kindly thoughts be mine. 
 So, like the boy whose only lure 
 A worm and pin which he had bent 
 And " shiners " caught — like him I'm sure 
 If this, my cast, appeal to you, 
 And I can land a smile or two, 
 I am content. 
 
12 
 
 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 T T lies there on the table, it is faded, old, 
 
 -*- and worn. 
 
 Its pages turn'd to yellow now are water stain'd 
 
 and torn; 
 Some fray'd out flies are in it and a leader and 
 
 a line, 
 And about a thousand memories in this old fly 
 
 book of mine. 
 
 For it somehow sets me dreaming in the fire- 
 light's flickering glow. 
 
 And the summer seems to come again that died 
 so long ago; 
 
 I forget that it is winter with the sleet against 
 the pane, 
 
 For it takes me back to Canada, it takes me 
 back to Maine. 
 
 It is silent with an eloquence that is louder far 
 
 than words, 
 I can see the ripples dancing, I can hear the 
 
 song of birds, 
 
AN OLD FLY BOOK 13 
 
 And there comes an air as bracing as a glass of 
 
 musty wine, 
 And the chalice fond that holds it is this old fly 
 
 book of mine. 
 
 There are some who strive for shekels, for piastres 
 
 and for pelf, 
 And too soon they go to pieces and are laid 
 
 up on the shelf ; 
 But for me I find my riches in that larger 
 
 brotherhood, 
 Of the grand life-giving open, of the stream, 
 
 the field, the wood. 
 
 So to-night my thoughts go wandering with a 
 
 sort of wayward will 
 Like the breeze that bends the clover as it sweeps 
 
 across the hill, 
 And a love of nature haunts me with a worship 
 
 half divine, 
 As I turn again the pages of this old fly book 
 
 of mine. 
 
 For it takes me back in fancy to the scenes I 
 
 used to know. 
 Grand Lake Stream and Montmorency, Table 
 
 Rock at Kineo; 
 With my guides I pole a ** dug out " up the 
 
 wild Miramichi, 
 
14 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Stopping now to try a bright fly for a salmon 
 from the sea. 
 
 There behind that rock I cast it where the eddies 
 
 seem to curl, 
 I can see the " rise " that follow'd, I can see the 
 
 mighty swirl, 
 And the leap out in the sunshine like a bar of 
 
 silver fine, 
 My first salmon on a Jock Scott from this old 
 
 fly book of mine. 
 
 And it brings back Lake Chepednuk and the 
 
 wilds of Pirate Brook, 
 The rapids of Clearwater where a four pound 
 
 trout I took; 
 From Roberval to Tadousac and a pool I long'd 
 
 to try. 
 But I didn't — 'twas a hatchery — and that's the 
 
 reason why. 
 
 And mountain guarded Moosehead with its mists 
 
 of early morn. 
 And the long, wide dam at Wilson's where the 
 
 Kennebec is born. 
 The Frenchman's and High Landing and the 
 
 pool beneath the pine. 
 Like friends they come to greet me in this old 
 
 fly book of mine. 
 
 So I care not for the wint'ry blast that whistles 
 shrill without, 
 
AN OLD FLY BOOK 15 
 
 For to-night I've caught the salmon and the 
 
 speckl'd squaretail trout, 
 And from out the page of memory comes a ne'er 
 
 forgotten day, 
 Like the grand old top of Spencer o'er the mists 
 
 of Lilly Bay. 
 
 There's a fray'd out Silver Doctor and a Parma- 
 
 chenee Belle, 
 They have lured the speckled beauty and they 
 
 cast o'er me their spell 
 With their memories of a brooklet that around 
 
 my thoughts entwine, 
 And I seem to hear it rippling through this old 
 
 fly book of mine. 
 
 So I muse before the firelight in my library alone, 
 
 O'er this faithful vade mecum w^ith a charm 
 that's all its own. 
 
 And the reason for my dreaming you'll not find 
 hard to guess. 
 
 In these feeble lines I've written and the mean- 
 ing they express. 
 
 I have volumes more pretentious standing stately 
 
 in a row. 
 And some sets of fairish bindings that I'm rather 
 
 pleas'd to show, 
 I can see within the firelight their gilded titles 
 
 shine, 
 But — it's a different grip that holds me in this 
 
 old fly book of mine. 
 
i6 
 
 THE TWITCHIN' O' THE ELBOW 
 
 WHEN I look out o'er the medders 
 From the winter brown and bare, 
 An' the river overflowin' 
 From the snow a-melting there, 
 When the air is kinder milder. 
 An' the sky is full o' blue, 
 An' it looks like spring is comin' 
 An' the signs all say it's true. 
 Then I kinder see a brooklet 
 Flowing 'mong the hills o' pine, 
 An' I git a kind o' twitchin' 
 In thet right elbow o' mine. 
 
 When old March ca'ms down a leetle 
 An' the days go, one by one, 
 An' the snow's a-disappearin' 
 'Neath the warmin' o' the sun. 
 Then I take my leetle bamboo 
 From its peg upon the wall, 
 Kinder jes' look through my fly book, 
 Gnat and Midget, Montreal, 
 An' I see the dancin' ripples 
 
THE TWITCHIN' O' THE ELBOW 17 
 
 Flashin' back the sun an' shine, 
 An' I git a kinder twitchin' 
 In thet right elbow o' mine. 
 
 Yes, thet's it ! The brook off yonder 
 Over east behind the barn, 
 An' now, neighbor, you jes' listen 
 While I'm spinnin' this here yarn. 
 When ole March hez quit his howlin*, 
 An' the first o' Aprile comes, 
 Jes' as sure as you're a livin' 
 An' hez fingers, toes an' thums — 
 Wal I kinder somehow reckon, 
 Thar you'll find me, rain or shine, 
 An' thet twitchin' aggervated 
 In thet right elbow o' mine. 
 
i8 
 
 '' THE CALL OF THE WILD " 
 
 I HEARD It above the noise of the street, 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 Above the sound of hurrying feet, 
 The burden, the toil, and the noonday heat, 
 And as I listen'd it seem'd to say, 
 Give up *' the cares that infest the day," 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 I heard it above the newsboy's cry, 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 It floated in at my window high. 
 The North Wind left it in passing by, 
 And fainter and far grew the city's din 
 And only that " still small voice within," 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 Below an organ ground out its tune. 
 
 Let it play ! Let it play ! 
 But to me there came the cry of the loon 
 Far out on the lake in the wane of the moon, 
 And there on the shore where the shadows lay, 
 The call of the moose across the bay, 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
"THE CALL OF THE WILD" 19 
 
 It came afar off from the border land, 
 
 Far away ! Far away ! 
 Where the pines and the firs like sentinels stand, 
 And the deer come out on the spit of sand. 
 Where the heron wings his lumbering flight, 
 And the eagle looks down from his eyrie height, 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 And the song of the rapids came back to me. 
 
 Come away ! Come away 1 
 Of the Kennebec and the Miramichi 
 As they rush'd on their bounding way to the sea. 
 And they sang — "Our pools are wide and deep 
 Where the ' squaretails' lie and the salmon leap. 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 And I saw the trail thro"* the wilderness. 
 
 Lead away! Lead away! 
 From the worry and fret and the cares that 
 
 press. 
 To the balsam and pine that heal and bless, 
 Where the forest shall know and understand, 
 On our fever'd soul lay her cooling hand. 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 Come away to the calm of the evening light. 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 Where shadows gather and tents stand white 
 And the back log burns far into the night, 
 
20 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 While the faithful stars their vigils keep, 
 Come away to the silence and dreamless sleep, 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 And all thro' the day as I listen'd and heard. 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 The blood in my veins was strangely stirr'd. 
 And my soul reach'd out like a captive bird 
 That hears a cry from a cloudless sky, 
 The call of the free as his mates go by, 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 Then loud and yet still louder it grew. 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 On the shore is ready your old canoe. 
 And the guides with their packs are waiting for 
 
 you, 
 There's the salmon's leap and the singing reel, 
 There's the bending rod and that thrilling " feel," 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
 There's the pipe and the yarn 'round the old camp 
 
 fire, 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 There's the song as the flames leap high and 
 
 higher. 
 And then came the longing and fierce desire, 
 Like a mother's passionate cry for her child. 
 That entered my soul — 'twas the call of the 
 
 wild, 
 
 Come away ! Come away ! 
 
"THE CALL OF THE WILD" 21 
 
 And I answered as possibly you would do, 
 
 I obey! I obey! 
 And around my office I straightway flew, 
 And behaved somewhat like a madman too, 
 And then? Well! I just bang'd the window 
 
 down, 
 On the door pinn'd the legend — " Out of Town " 
 Gone away! Gone away! 
 
22 
 
 THE LITTLE RED BARN OVER EAST 
 
 T T is only a little old fashion'd red barn, 
 -*■ Of all other red barns It's the least, 
 But round it there hovers the fisherman's yarn, 
 And It stands on a hill over east. 
 
 There's a mystery hangs o'er this little red barn, 
 And it may be my feelings you'll share, 
 
 By the brook or the river, the pond, or the tarn, 
 'Tis the will-o'-the-wisp of despair. 
 
 For when to entice the sly speckled trout 
 To the side of the brook I may steal. 
 
 Go tramping all day, come home tired out, 
 With a " limited " few In my creel — , 
 
 It may happen a brother I meet on the way. 
 And together to town we may ride. 
 
 And I ask " Well, brother, what luck for the 
 day?" 
 And he lifts up the creel at his side — 
 
 And then for an answer he raises the lid, 
 Ye shade of Ike Walton ! I cry. 
 
THE LITTLE RED BARN 23 
 
 A dozen fine beauties by grasses half hid, 
 And every one caught with a fly. 
 
 Ah! I still see the twinkle that lights up his 
 eyes, 
 When I ask where he caught this rare feast, 
 And the smile, half concealed, as he slowly 
 replies, 
 " Oh, behind the red barn over east." 
 
 And I who all day the alders had fought 
 And struggled to push my way through, 
 Had sung hymns whenever my line had got 
 
 caught, 
 (As you know all good fishermen do) — 
 
 Was delighted to hear this kind brother add. 
 And I'm sure that 'twas no idle boast, 
 
 Of the beauties that lay there before me he had 
 Caught them all in an hour at the most. 
 
 But not alone trout, be it pickerel, bass, 
 And no matter what time of the year, 
 
 If I ask where they caught them, the answer, alas ! 
 Is the " little red barn " that I hear. 
 
 Then I said—" I will find it! The secret I'll 
 know, 
 There is surely a way if a will," 
 
24 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 But that my dear reader, was long, long ago, 
 And that omen I'm looking for still. 
 
 Well, I now give it up, might as well be re- 
 
 sign'd. 
 And the size of my creel's not increas'd. 
 But you bet I would give my last dollar to find 
 That " little red barn " over east. 
 
25 
 
 SUPPOSE 
 
 SUPPOSE that you were tired out, 
 And somewhat nervous state were In, 
 From all the tumult and the shout, 
 The city's roar, the endless din, 
 And when the day was sticky hot, 
 Upon your tired senses stole 
 The picture of a far off spot. 
 Like balm upon your wearied soul. 
 A spot where ne'er a care might press, 
 A longing keen as sharpest pain. 
 The blessing of the wilderness. 
 The forests deep of Maine. 
 And on its ponds and tumbling streams. 
 You saw again, with eager eyes, 
 That vision of an angler's dreams, 
 A " squaretail's " break and rise, 
 A spot that trolleys ne'er might know, 
 Where telephones might never ring, 
 And you pack'd up, resolved to go 
 And just cut loose from everything. 
 Suppose that you had come from far, 
 Had traveled leagues by night and day. 
 
26 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 At last gave up your Pullman car 
 
 To travel by the buckboard w^ay, 
 
 O'er stumps and rocks and corduroy, 
 
 Your seat far from a bed of clover, 
 
 Your every thought, and wits employ 
 
 To keep yourself from toppling over. 
 
 Again you change, the paddle's plash, 
 
 That swiftly speeds your light canoe, 
 
 On " West Branch " or the " Allagash," 
 
 Is music to your guide and you. 
 
 And then the carry and the trail, 
 
 You push along with footsteps rude, 
 
 And dare to lift the sacred veil 
 
 Of that unbroken solitude. 
 
 At last you reach your journey's end, 
 
 And then with expectation fond. 
 
 Once more your eager eyes you bend 
 
 Upon that long sought, favorite pond. 
 
 Whose solemn shore of pine and fir. 
 
 Upon its mirror'd surface lies. 
 
 And there ! Ah ! how your pulses stir ! 
 
 The widening circle of a " rise." 
 
 Impatient now with keen desire 
 
 That runs along each tingling vein, 
 
 It seems your very soul's afire. 
 
 To try your wonted luck again. 
 
 And now your rod with haste take out. 
 
 Whose guides the line runs quickly through, 
 
 Your'e sure it is a four pound trout 
 
SUPPOSE 27 
 
 That's out there waiting — just for you. 
 And then ! Oh, well — suppose you found, 
 You who a hundred leagues had come, 
 With squaretails rising all around, 
 You'd left your book of flies — at home! 
 What would you say? What would you do? 
 O, brother in your sore distress? 
 What would you say? — that's entre nous, 
 I do not know — but — I might guess. (!) 
 
28 
 
 THE YARN 
 
 WAL! it happened up at Moosehead, 
 This here yarn I'm 'bout to spin, 
 But perhaps you're incredoolus, 
 Not the kind to take it in. 
 All right, stranger, which is meanin', 
 No offense need here be took, 
 At the spinnin' of this fish yarn, 
 Written in this little book. 
 It war on the dam at Wilson's, 
 Or to make it still more plain 
 The East Outlet of Old Moosehead, 
 Which is way up North in Maine, 
 Whar the lake from out the darkness, 
 An' the mists o' airly morn, 
 Goes a shootin' through the sluices 
 An' the Kennebec is born. 
 We war on the dam at Wilson's, 
 Ole Jim Jackman, him and I, 
 And war sittin' thar a fishin', 
 Sort o' castin' of a fly 
 Towards the rock — perhaps you know it ! 
 Wal, 'bout sixty feet away 
 From the apron 'neath the sluices 
 
THE YARN 29 
 
 Whar the great big squar' tails lay, 
 I had on a Silver Doctor, 
 An' a Parmachenee Belle, 
 An' our luck 'twan't very likely, 
 I'd been castin' for a spell 
 An' war kinder leanin' over 
 When I saw a dorsal fin. 
 An' a squar' tail took my Doctor, 
 Gave one strike, an' yanked me in. 
 Down I went into the rapids. 
 And I heard one yell from Jim, 
 Jim war nachurly excited 
 Fer he knew I couldn't swim. 
 An' the place, p'raps you know it, 
 Seen the rips from the big sluice, 
 You'll agree, I'm kinder thinkin', 
 Thet for swimmin' 'tain t much use. 
 Past the rock I went a rushin', 
 In my ears a roar an' hum. 
 An' I dimly sort o' reckoned 
 My last day had shorely come. 
 Wal, it didn't, strange to tell it! 
 An' this here's the reason why, 
 That's presoomin' thar's a difference 
 'Twixt a fish yarn an' a lie. 
 Wal, you see as I went over. 
 An' went plungin' down below, 
 I held on to that air fish rod, 
 And I never let it go. 
 
so AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 So it war that on a sudden, 
 'Fore I knew what 'twar about, 
 Thet I felt that fish line tighten. 
 An' my head come bobbin' out, 
 And then — say ! will you believe it ? 
 I went up agin the stream, 
 Up agin the rips and eddies, 
 Till I thought 'twar all a dream. 
 An' thet fish he did the puUin', 
 Like a tug boat with a tow, 
 No, it warent rapid transit. 
 We war movin' mighty slow. 
 But thet rock war gettin' nearer. 
 It war 'bout six feet away. 
 In a moment I would reach it, 
 I put out my hand when — say ! 
 On a sudden thet line slackened 
 An' I felt myself go down, 
 An' agin I sort o' reckoned 
 Thet this time I'd shorely drown, 
 Fer you see I knew that squar' tail 
 'Neath the apron hed reached home. 
 An' of course the line would slacken, 
 An' my journey's end hed come. 
 Wal, I nachurly went under. 
 Out of sight from head to heel, 
 In my ears a roar like thunder. 
 When my left hand struck my reel. 
 Then a thought like light'ning hit me, 
 An' you bet I reel'd like sin. 
 
THE YARN 31 
 
 An* just when my breath was leavin*, 
 
 Wal! my head bobbed out agin. 
 
 Up I reeled agin the current 
 
 By the rips war knocked about, 
 
 Towards the rock until I reached it, 
 
 An' exhausted I clum out. 
 
 Wal, they fust shet down the sluice gates, 
 
 'Twar the only thing to do, 
 
 An' then, Jim, he cum and fetched me 
 
 Back to shore in his canoe. 
 
 An' of course I wa'nt ongrateful 
 
 To thet squar' tail for thet tow, 
 
 So I took out my old jacknife 
 
 Cut the line an' let him go. 
 
 But say, stranger, if you're thinkin' 
 
 This here yarn is rather thin. 
 
 And ain't eddicated to believin' 
 
 Thet air squaretail's dorsal fin 
 
 War a foot wide longotudal, 
 
 Though I didn't measure him, 
 
 If you think thet I'm jest lying, 
 
 Wal then, stranger, — jest ask Jim. 
 
32 
 
 MY LOVE 
 
 MY love IS not like the red, red rose, 
 Tho' roses wild hang over, 
 Woo'd by the vagrant wind that blows 
 Across the fields of clover. 
 
 My love ! w^here oft the droning bee 
 Vies with its rippling laughter, 
 
 My love that runs away from me 
 The more I follow after. 
 
 Far brighter than the tinselM feet 
 
 Of fairy dancing misses. 
 My love more lightly leaps to greet 
 
 The bending grass with kisses. 
 
 The flags, the rushes, spreading bough. 
 Fond worshippers adoring, 
 
 And there — I seem to hear him now, 
 That thrush his soul outpouring. 
 
MY LOVE 33 
 
 The little flirt before whose charms 
 
 Narcissus fair might vainly bend 
 His knee — elusive to his arms, 
 
 And drive to an untimely end. 
 
 So, like Apollo I pursue 
 
 This Daphne e'er anon revealing. 
 In open meadow running through, 
 
 Or leafy covert stealing. 
 
 My love, that smiles and sings to me 
 
 An ever wondrous roundelay, 
 Of all the summer's witchery, 
 
 To drive my every care away. 
 
 Ah, gladsome Is the bright refrain 
 That kindles hope within the breast. 
 
 That sings thro heart and soul and brain 
 The song of peace and rest. 
 
 And so, whate'er my fortune, lot, 
 
 Whate'er the fate my future be. 
 When friends desert and I'm forgot. 
 
 Still art thou true to me. 
 
 When age shall wither every hope 
 
 And I no longer feel thy thrill, 
 In memory by some grassy slope 
 
 I'll hear thy singing still. 
 
34 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 There by a pool in shaded nook, 
 With rod and flies again I'll dally 
 
 By thee — my love — my brimming brook, 
 My trout brook up the valley. 
 
35 
 
 AN OLD FISHING HAT 
 
 IT'S faded and puU'd out of shape, 
 The band is torn upon it, 
 With rim turn'd down, it might be call'd 
 The latest style of bonnet. 
 
 A leader with some fray'd out flies, 
 
 Is lightly strung around it, 
 With any other hat on earth 
 
 No one would e'er confound it. 
 
 My friends all guy me as I pass, 
 But could their lives begin to know 
 
 The joys together we have had, 
 They'd steal this old chapeau. 
 
 Well, let them laugh and let them chaff. 
 And tho it looks like thunder, 
 
 It isn't what's on top your hat. 
 So much as what is under. 
 
36 
 
 THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY 
 
 V^ES! you had him I know, dear brother! 
 
 •*■ And your story's familiar and old, 
 And the tale that you tell's but another 
 Of a thousand just like It retold. 
 
 But then there's a charm round about It, 
 That somehow we love to repeat, 
 
 For what " circle " could e'er do without it. 
 Or what fish yarn would e'er be complete ? 
 
 How It happened — can you ever forget It ? 
 
 And you lost him, but who dares to blame? 
 For to whom that a trout line e'er wet It, 
 
 Is the story not ever the same ? 
 
 You remember the evening was falling 
 At the close of a warm day In June, 
 
 And the birds to each other were calling. 
 You had cast through the long afternoon 
 
 And your luck — there was no need to show It, 
 Tho in truth you could do It with pride, 
 
 Why one with a half eye might know it 
 By the hang of the creel at your side. 
 
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY 37 
 
 At the alders, if human, you grumbled, 
 Like a net work so thickly they grew. 
 
 O'er the stones in the brook you had stumbl'd, 
 And had said — but that's entre nous! 
 
 When a turn in the course there reveal'd it. 
 Where the shadows lay darkening and cool, 
 
 And the arms of a spruce half conceal'd it. 
 The wide, lazy swirl of a pool. 
 
 Ah ! perchance you again stand before it, 
 And again feel your pulses that thrill'd, 
 
 As you carefully cast your flies o'er it, 
 
 With throbbings that would not be still'd. 
 
 And just where the ripples were curving, 
 In wide circles right over his lair. 
 
 Then, 'neath the deep bank they went swerving, 
 You cast — and it happened right there. 
 
 Can you ever forget it, I wonder. 
 
 The dash and the splash of that " rise," 
 
 How he came like an arrow from under. 
 And snapp'd at the last of your flies? 
 
 Do you not hear your reel still singing, 
 As it sang that June day in your ears? 
 
 Will the sound of its song lose its ringing, 
 Or the music be lost with the years? 
 
38 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 And your rod, can you not see it bending, 
 And your line going up 'gainst the stream ? 
 
 And the fight that he made, and the ending. 
 Does it not all come back like a dream ? 
 
 Yes, you had him, I know, and you play'd him 
 
 With all of a fisherman's skill, 
 Till at last, tired out, you had laid him 
 
 Full length on the top of a rill. 
 
 Then near and yet nearer you reel'd him, 
 And now you reached down with your net, 
 
 Not even an inch would you yield him. 
 
 You thought you had him play'd — and yet 
 
 Just as you placed your net under, 
 
 With a strength that was born of despair. 
 
 He plunged, and was gone, and I wonder 
 Did you cry or just stand there and — swear? 
 
 Well, at least you went home heavy hearted, 
 And you showed up your luck for the day, 
 
 And you told — I can see your hands parted, 
 Of the one that, alas! got away. 
 
 And next day with the "circle" about you. 
 While they sympathized each on his part. 
 
 Your hands — Forgive if I doubt you ! 
 Were just a bit wider apart. 
 
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY 39 
 
 Till at last In each afterward telling 
 That fish grew so large in the tale, 
 
 May I ask — pray pardon my spelling! 
 Was it trout that you lost or a whale ? 
 
 But come! pray let us not quarrel 
 
 O'er my punning or rudeness of speech, 
 
 But rather reflect on the moral, 
 Your afternoon's outing may teach. 
 
 For how oft on life's currents hope dances 
 Like our flies on a bright summer day, 
 
 And the biggest of all of our chances, 
 How often, alas! gets away! 
 
40 
 
 ONLY A QUIET POOL 
 
 ONLY a quiet pool way up in the wilds 
 of Maine, 
 Only the world forgot with its worry and fret 
 
 and pain, 
 And long lost youth come back, only a boy again. 
 
 Only the edge of the rips, only your guide and 
 
 you, 
 
 Only a " rise " out there from the bow of your 
 
 old canoe, 
 Only a thrill at the heart, only a cast or two. 
 
 Only the strike and the plunge of a gamey square- 
 tail trout. 
 
 Only the song of the reel as the line goes spinning 
 out. 
 
 Only the strain of the rod, only the fear and 
 doubt. 
 
 Only a gallant fight and a prize within your net, 
 Only a paddle home while the sunset lingers yet, 
 Only a rare " day off " it seems you will ne'er 
 forget. 
 
ONLY A QUIET POOL 41 
 
 And when on long winter nights in the fireh'ght's 
 flickering glow, 
 
 " When the wind goes woo " up the chimney flue 
 and piles high the drifting snow, 
 
 When on the wall the shadows tall like phan- 
 toms come and go 
 
 Perchance to you this scene anew, while the storm 
 
 beats 'gainst the pane, 
 In the fitful gleams of firelight dreams may all 
 
 come back again. 
 Of shadows cool and a quiet pool way up in the 
 
 wilds of Maine. 
 
42 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 IN CANADA 
 
 MY friend, do you know what It Is to feel 
 The plunge of a gamey trout? 
 To hear the sound of the whirring reel 
 As the line goes singing out? 
 To cast a fly o'er a deep, dark pool 
 Where the salmon makes his lair, 
 And draw from its shaded depths and cool 
 A silver flash in the air ? 
 What ! such joys have never come your way, 
 And you really mean it, too? 
 Well, then, my friend, all I have to say 
 Is — rm mighty sorry for you. 
 
ON GRAND LAKE STREAM 43 
 
 ON GRAND LAKE STREAM 
 
 DAR'S a salmon in dat pool 
 Yaas dar be ! 
 An' dat salmon ain' no fool 
 
 Yo heah me! 
 I done struck him wif a fly, 
 He done leap up fo foot high, 
 Shook he's haid and say'd — Goodbye! 
 Las' I see! 
 
44 
 
 A DAY OFF 
 
 T AM ten miles up the valley, I am ten miles 
 
 -■- far away 
 
 From the smoke fog of the city and the cares of 
 every day; 
 
 There is sunshine all about me from a cloudless 
 sky of blue, 
 
 There's a meadow green before me and a brook- 
 let running through, 
 
 And a rod and creel beside me on a mystic after- 
 noon, 
 
 *Mid the teeming life of summer in the glorious 
 month of June. 
 
 I'm sure I neither know nor care if " school 
 keeps up or not," 
 
 I only know I am aware of this most restful spot ; 
 
 I only know there by the woods on yonder chest- 
 nut tree 
 
 Is a squirrel, saucy rascal, and he's scolding hard 
 at me; 
 
 I only know a tiny wren the brush is darting 
 through, 
 
 The little witch, I'm sure, with me is playing 
 peek-a-boo. 
 
A DAY OFF 45 
 
 And there on yon shy wild rose clings a rascal 
 robber bee, 
 
 Was ever in broad daylight such a daring thiev- 
 ery? 
 
 The stately fir tops saw it and they told it to the 
 breeze 
 
 In whispers like the murmur of far off summer 
 seas. 
 
 And as with dripping booty he pass'd me with his 
 theft, 
 
 I forgave the rascal rover for the fragrance that 
 he left. 
 
 Oh, yes! I have some " beauties " that fell vic- 
 tims to my fly, 
 
 And there's a pool that's tempting — I shall try 
 it by and by. 
 
 But it isn't all in fishing for some wary, sly old 
 trout, 
 
 And heavy creels flll'd to the top you hear them 
 tell about 
 
 That the charm is altogether, for fishing's but a 
 part 
 
 Of a meaning, richer, deeper, that is hid in 
 nature's heart. 
 
 For there comes a feeling o*er us that in vain we 
 
 would control, 
 That sets the blood to leaping and grips hard 
 
 upon the soul. 
 
46 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 A brook, a bit of sunshine, and a woodsy path 
 
 that led 
 To open fields and meadows with a bobolink o'er- 
 
 head, 
 'Tis the witchery of the open that in vain we 
 
 would define, 
 May it enter into your soul as it entered into 
 
 mine. 
 
 I've been ten miles up the valley, I've been ten 
 
 miles far away, 
 I am back now in the city at the close of one rare 
 
 day, 
 But I've felt the pulse of nature, and I've heard 
 
 her heart throbs beat 
 And a wild rose from the brook side still sends out 
 
 its fragrance sweet. 
 And I drink its draughts of nectar as I put away 
 
 my rod, 
 I've been ten miles up the valley, I've been ten 
 
 miles nearer God. 
 
47 
 
 A MEDITATION 
 
 WHY IS It, when vacation ends, 
 And I come home and tell my friends 
 Where I have been the while; 
 How In the woods I've knock'd about 
 And salmon caught and square tail trout, 
 They smile? 
 
 No matter what I do or say, 
 
 That same old smile! Now tell me, pray! 
 
 Is every fish yarn full of guile ? 
 I tell how many fish I've caught. 
 They say, '* Oh, yes ! Where were they bought ?' 
 
 And smile. 
 
 I show a salmon, and they scoflF, 
 
 Or four pound trout I have mark'd off 
 
 On paper — all In proper style, 
 I even show the blood and slime, 
 " Oh! What an artist!" then they chime. 
 
 And smile. 
 
48 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 They smile as though my only wish 
 To have them think I caught a fish 
 A little less than half a mile 
 Salveolinus fontanalis, 
 Two pounds, they take cum grano salis, 
 And smile. 
 
 I shouldn't wonder even though 
 I took a Notary with me so 
 
 An affidavit I might file, 
 To show my friends, they still w^ould laugh, 
 Give me a look and idle chaff. 
 
 And smile. 
 
 Well, let them laugh, but he laughs best 
 Who laugheth after all the rest, 
 
 So I my fancy do beguile, 
 When I recall a day and when 
 I see that salmon leap again, 
 
 / smile. 
 
49 
 
 THE END OF THE TROUT SEASON 
 
 IT IS over now, the season, 
 And we hang the empty creel, 
 For the law is now the reason 
 For the silence of the reel. 
 
 We put away our " four ounce " 
 For our wandering steps have ceas'd 
 
 To follow that rare brooklet 
 By the red barn over east. 
 
 There's the pathway thro the clover 
 On the banks so worn and trod, 
 
 There're the buttercups and daisies 
 With their ever friendly nod, 
 
 And the wild rose with Its fragrance 
 
 On the desert air now spent. 
 Are they waiting for our coming. 
 
 Do they look In wonderment? 
 
 There's the squirrel with his quarrel 
 
 On yonder chestnut high, 
 And shy Daphne In the laurel 
 
 That blush'd as we pass'd by. 
 
50 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 There's the brook we follow'd after 
 With its flashing waters cool, 
 
 There's the ripple of its laughter, 
 There's the ever tempting pool. 
 
 But — it's over now — and the reason 
 Why we put away our flies, 
 
 And the only thing now in season 
 Is to sit and — swap our lies. 
 
51 
 
 TO A WILD ROSE 
 (On the Way to the Brook.) 
 
 WILD ROSE by the dusty way, 
 I would linger, I would stay. 
 For in vain could I pass by 
 Such rare beauty, sweet and shy. 
 I, too, would my homage pay 
 Like my ancient rival, he 
 Dallying Mr. Bumble Bee 
 In his coat of black and yellow. 
 Busy, bustling, burly fellow. 
 Flirt he is as I can prove him, 
 Tho' I half suspect you love him, 
 When you to your heart receive him, 
 Tho' he lulls you, don't believe him. 
 He's a rover, come to trifle, 
 Pretext for your sweets to rifle 
 All your golden petals sipping, 
 Hies he then with booty dripping. 
 See him now in yon field over 
 Humming love songs to the clover, 
 Fie ! on such a fickle lover. 
 
52 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Wild rose, coyish little maiden, 
 By the wayside fragrant laden. 
 Whom the minstrel thrush adoring 
 All his soul to thee outpouring; 
 Whom the South Wind o'er the rushes 
 Kiss'd thy cheeks to pinkest blushes, 
 And the firefly from the meadow- 
 Stealing on the evening shadow, 
 Softly to thy quiet sleeping, 
 With his lantern comes a-peeping 
 Wild rose, lo ! I bend the knee, 
 I, too, would thy lover be, 
 I would worship at thy shrine, 
 Favorite little flower of mine. 
 I would know the mystery. 
 What the secret of thy birth, 
 How from out this dull brown earth. 
 Which I trample 'neath my feet. 
 Came such fragrance, rare and sweet 
 Chalice which I fondly hold. 
 Fairer than the cups of gold, 
 Fill'd with sweetest nectar rare. 
 Poured by Hebe's hand most fair, 
 As I drink my soul is thrill'd 
 By thy perfume there distill'd, 
 And reluctant leave thy side, 
 Calm'd, refresh'd, and satisfied. 
 But thy secret could I know 
 How such beauty e'er could grow 
 
TO A WILD ROSE 53 
 
 Out of earth's dull somber clod, 
 I should go my way a God. 
 Yet this lesson have I galn'd 
 Through thy secret unattain'd, 
 Wild rose, if like thee, could I 
 To some weary passerby 
 On life's hard and dreary road, 
 Cheer his heart and lift his load 
 By some kindly word or deed, 
 Fragrant in the hour of need, 
 I am sure my life like thine, 
 Flow'ret, would be more divine. 
 
54 
 
 JES' A DREAMIN' 
 
 JES' a kinder, sorter dreamin' 
 When the work o' day is done. 
 Jes' a lookin' up the valley 
 In the settin' o' the sun, 
 Whar a clump o' tall, dark fir trees 
 Stand against the evening sky, 
 Jes' a dreamin' o* the spring time 
 Thet am comin' by and by. 
 Jes' a dreamin' ! 
 
 Jes* a sorter, kinder dreamin' 
 Of a brook behind the hill, 
 In the sunlight flashin', gleamin' 
 Thro the quiet medders still. 
 Jes' a lookin' o'er a fly book, 
 Jes' a fingerin' a rod, 
 Jes' a dreamin' o' a pathvi^ay 
 Whar the clover used to nod, 
 Jes' a dreamin' ! 
 
 Jes' a kinder, sorter dreamin 
 Of the spring time come again, 
 
JES' A DREAMIN' 55 
 
 When the trees are all a buddfn' 
 And the frogs are cheepin' — then 
 Jes' a scootin' up the valley 
 On an airly morning car 
 To thet brook behind " the red barn," 
 Wal! I reckon I'll be thar, 
 Thet ain't dreamin' ! 
 
56 
 
 REGRETS 
 
 HANG up the rod, wind up the reel ! 
 Throw out the bit of faded clover 
 That clings yet to the empty creel, 
 For trouting days are over. 
 
 The merry, tumbling, laughing brook, 
 Whose course I follow'd after, 
 
 Where every care I straight forsook, 
 Still calls in rippling laughter. 
 
 I've follow'd it through field and wood 
 In every form and stress of weather, 
 
 How well I know its every mood, 
 So oft we've chumm'd together. 
 
 And where it spread out In a pool 
 The mirror'd trees and skies revealing, 
 
 Within Its shadow'd depths and cool 
 The wary trout concealing — 
 
REGRETS 57 
 
 There, where the ripples made a swerve 
 And sank beneath the surface smiling, 
 
 Beyond the larger, outer curve 
 I cast my flies beguiling. 
 
 The dash, the splash, the bending rod. 
 That "feel" — whoever can forget it? 
 
 That e'er a trout brook ever trod 
 Or line, whoever wet it ? 
 
 The homeward tramp, the fir tipp'd hill, 
 
 A full moon rising grandly o'er it, 
 The lone cry of the whippoorwill, 
 
 A creel — none happier load e'er bore It? 
 
 The brook, the ripples, pools, ah me! 
 
 That left In tears the bending rushes, 
 The wild rose, that the ardent bee 
 
 Its cheeks had kiss'd to pinkest blushes 
 
 Are there, all there, they call — and yet — 
 Why I can't go you may discover; 
 
 The law Is on — hence my regret 
 That trouting days are over. 
 
58 
 
 THE LAST CAST 
 
 I KNEW he lived beneath the spruce, 
 Indeed, I knew it all along, 
 Or if I really did not know, 
 
 I had, at least suspicion strong. 
 Because in such a deep, dark pool, 
 
 A lusty trout, if anj^where, 
 I felt, within its shadows cool 
 
 Would make his hiding place and lair. 
 And so it was I made my cast 
 
 With hope and fear alternate blended, 
 What chance I had would be my last, 
 
 For with the day the season ended. 
 Out flew my flies across the swirl. 
 
 Above the ripples' rise and fall. 
 Out where the eddies curve and curl 
 
 Beneath the bank overhanging all. 
 But no response my efforts met. 
 
 What ! Could it be he was not " in " ? 
 Must hope give way to keen regret 
 
 And expectation to chagrin? 
 Another cast close by some foam 
 
 O'er which my flies I gently drew, 
 A flash! Ah, yes! He was '' at home," 
 
 He struck at last and — I struck, too. 
 
THE LAST CAST 59 
 
 The fight was on, against my skill 
 
 He pitted all his lusty strength; 
 My bending rod, I feel it still, 
 
 A-quiver throughout all its length. 
 With lunge and plunge beneath the rips, 
 
 Ah! 'twas a gallant fight he made, 
 I felt it in my finger tips. 
 
 Against the skill that I display'd. 
 Ah! brothers of the rod and creel, 
 
 I'm sure you will not read amiss! 
 I ask — you who have known that " feel," 
 
 What moment so supreme as this ? 
 But all things end, I had him " play'd," 
 
 At thought of which my hopes increas'd, 
 A fight like that — I'm sure he weigh'd — 
 
 Well, I should say a pound at least. 
 A royal prize, no fingerling, 
 
 Compell'd by law to throw him back, 
 Ah! long his praises would I sing. 
 
 When — suddenly my line grew slack. 
 How may my feelings best be term'd? 
 
 To cry or swear ? But — what's the use ? 
 Suspicion was at least confirmed; 
 
 / know — he lives beneath the spruce. 
 
60 
 
 A QUERY 
 
 WHY is it when I go up the street, 
 And every friend I chance to meet, 
 No matter what the time of day, 
 His greeting always puts this way: 
 " Been fishing yet?" 
 
 No sooner do I venture out 
 Upon the street and go about 
 My business than I straightway hear 
 That same old grind smite on my ear: 
 "Well! how are the trout biting?" 
 
 That same old question o'er and o'er, 
 I've heard it forty times or more 
 Since the first day of April came, 
 Varied in form, but all the same, 
 'Bout fishing. 
 
 " Great Caesar dead and turn'd to clay " ! 
 Ye friends and Romans, tell me, pray! 
 Am I Ike Walton's shade or spook, 
 To spend my life along a brook 
 In fishing? 
 
A QUERY 6i 
 
 ril bet four cents; — you needn't laugh ! — 
 I can foretell my epitaph 
 Upon my tomb when I am dead; 
 This simple line will there be read : 
 " Here lies a fisherman." 
 
 Somewhat ambiguous, I admit, 
 Depends on whether said or writ, 
 So your hie jacet I'll forgive 
 If you don't say it — while I live. 
 Thanks, awfully! 
 
 Well, yes! my friend, I have been out, 
 Just twice and caught two fair-sized trout, 
 Alas! my club dues thus far teach 
 They cost 'bout fifteen dollars each, 
 My fishing. 
 
62 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 A FABLE 
 
 IN a dank green tarn a frog one day 
 Sat basking in the sun, 
 When a man with a rod came along that way 
 And that frog he look'd upon. 
 And he dangled a rod and some worsted red 
 O'er the frog who saw with a grin, 
 " Why, what a beautiful, strange new fly," he 
 
 said, 
 
 And — " Methinks I will take you in." 
 And this frog did just what he thought he should 
 
 do, 
 And that, you may know, is the reason why 
 His legs on this plate are now served to you 
 In a delicate well done fry. 
 And tho his companions may sadly miss 
 This frog from the dank green tarn, 
 His fate may but teach that the moral is this, 
 Don't swallow, we pray, every yarn. 
 
63 
 
 « HE NEVER TOOK A VACATION " 
 
 HE never took a vacation, he hadn't the time, 
 he said, 
 It was off to the " grind " In the morning, 
 It was home, and the papers and bed, 
 'Twas the desk, or the office, or counter, 
 Where he fought out his battles with men, 
 He would work just a few years longer. 
 Then quit, ** take It easy," and then — ? 
 
 So he tolled and he moiled and struggl'd. 
 Nor knew that the gods of gain 
 Drank deep of the wine he proffer'd, 
 The blood of his heart and brain; 
 Nor knew while he piled up his millions, 
 And gathered his bags of gold, 
 His friends said at forty " he's ageing,'* 
 At fifty they said " he is old." 
 
 He never took a vacation, and at sixty they read 
 
 his will, 
 His day for " retiring from business " 
 Death wrote in a codicil; 
 And pinn'd on the door of his office 
 Was a notice which grimly read, 
 " Out of town — on a long vacation! Indefinite " 
 
 it said. 
 
OTHER VERSE 
 
 Just Around the Corner 
 
67 
 
 THE EXILE 
 
 With permission from Scribners Magazine 
 
 T AM down in Arizona, 
 
 -*• On its cactus cover'd plains, 
 
 The white plague on my hollow cheeks, 
 
 Its fever in my veins. 
 
 They sent me from a far land 
 
 To this arid, vast expanse, 
 
 Where they said the air was drier 
 
 And a fellow had a chance, 
 
 Whe?€ your upper lip grows shorter, 
 
 And you cough and catch your breath, 
 
 Where you ride a bucking broncho 
 
 'Gainst a swift, pale horse and Death. 
 
 I am down upon the desert, 
 'Tis a God forsaken land, 
 Where you fight with odds against you. 
 When you've taken your last stand. 
 Where you live out in the open, 
 'Mong the sage brush and mesquite, 
 With a rattler for a neighbor, 
 Not the friendliest to meet. 
 
68 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Where you fling yourself upon a bunk 
 
 To rest your weary head, 
 
 And you shake the blooming scorpions 
 
 From the covers of your bed, 
 
 And It strikes you that It's rather tough 
 
 To live in such a spot, 
 
 Exiled from home and friendships 
 
 In a land that God forgot. 
 
 They say this country, way down here, 
 
 Is full of precious gold. 
 
 Its mountains filled with silver, 
 
 And with countless wealth untold. 
 
 But I know another country. 
 
 And my heart with longing fills. 
 
 Where the gold is In the sunset 
 
 Upon its purple hills. 
 
 Where the silver's In a brooklet, 
 
 And it's set with emerald too, 
 
 As It flashes in the sunlight 
 
 Of the meadow stealing through. 
 
 A country — God's own country. 
 
 And my own to sacrifice, 
 
 Some call it fair New England, 
 
 But I call it — Paradise. 
 
 'TIs Thanksgiving in New England, 
 'TIs the dear old homeland feast, 
 And like a Moslem way down here, 
 My prayers are toward the East. 
 
THE EXILE 69 
 
 The neighbors that I knew so well, 
 
 I seem to see them still, 
 
 Are winding in procession 
 
 To the white church on the hill. 
 
 There's the greeting at the doorway, 
 
 There's the dear old family pew, 
 
 And the dearest faces in it, 
 
 That a lonely man e'er knew. 
 
 And a sweet face in the choir, 
 
 And a hand I long to press, 
 
 Oh God ! to hold her close again, 
 
 As when she whispered — " Yes." 
 
 Thanksgiving Day! how it comes back 
 
 While memory's fancies weave, 
 
 And — I wonder how that wet spot 
 
 Got there upon my sleeve! 
 
 Oh, I look out o'er the sage brush, 
 
 As I stretch my yearning hands 
 
 O'er the long, unbroken reaches, 
 
 Of the desert's burning sands 
 
 To a land where brooks are honest 
 
 When your lips are parched and dry, 
 
 Not the canyon's clear, deceptive streams 
 
 Of tasteless alkali, 
 
 New England has no mountains 
 
 Full of wealth and mines and drills, 
 
 But I'd give this whole damn'd country 
 
 For one sight of its green hills. 
 
70 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 I am down in Arizona, 
 
 And I'm told I've got to stay 
 
 Till the Angel Gabriel blows his trump 
 
 Out on the Judgment Day. 
 
 I've been here three years already, 
 
 And the white plague's held in check. 
 
 And my broncho and the pale horse 
 
 Are going neck by neck. 
 
 And this country with its dry air, 
 
 May after all be right, 
 
 Where the stars are brilliant candles 
 
 On the altars of the night — 
 
 But, oh God ! for Old New England, 
 
 As the lonely years go by, 
 
 Let the pale horse beat my broncho, 
 
 Take me home and — let me die. 
 
71 
 
 EVENING ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE 
 
 ACROSS the lake, far down the west, 
 Behind the forest's dark'ning spires, 
 Like flambeaus of resplendent fires 
 Held high aloft — day sinks to rest. 
 Down the wide reaches of the sky 
 That stretch away in amber seas 
 The clouds like golden argosies 
 Full sail'd at quiet anchor lie. 
 Now o'er the waters' gilded wake 
 A heron, with low lumbering flight, 
 To some lone shore of fading light, 
 Wings to his rest within the brake. 
 The twilight falls and fades the sight, 
 Save a low, lingering yellow bar 
 Of light where hangs one lambent star, 
 Swung o'er the gateway of the night. 
 Silence and deepening solitude, 
 And darkness over wold and wild, 
 As sleep falls on a tired child, 
 When suddenly as if in mockery rude 
 From yonder spectral mists beneath the moon 
 A cry as if from out the underworld, 
 Upon the quiet of the night is hurl'd, 
 The wild, weird hollow laughter of the loon. 
 
72 
 
 THE COMING OF WINTER 
 
 ACROSS the Northern hills he came, 
 O'er frozen marsh and leafless wood, 
 Where yesterday bright Autumn stood 
 With high uplifted torch aflame. 
 
 But yesterday these bare, brown trees. 
 While yet his shrilling winds were hush'd — 
 Felt his lean fingers touch — and blush'd 
 To drop their golden draperies. 
 
 Yet strangely where the wild rose gave 
 Her life upon a fragrant sigh, 
 His herald winds had piled high 
 The brooding leaves upon her grave. 
 
 With icy breath upon the morn, 
 A frosty mantle white he weaves. 
 O'er stubble of the gather'd sheaves, 
 And silver'd tassels of the corn. 
 
 His dirges by the river's edge. 
 He plays on broken pipes of Pan, 
 The shivering ripples heard and ran 
 To hide affrighted 'mid the sedge. 
 
THE COMING OF WINTER 73 
 
 The rabbit too prick'd up his ears 
 Within the swamp grass where he lay, 
 And woke to make his trembling way 
 Among a million frosted spears. 
 
 Within her home the meadow mouse, 
 Upon the North wind heard his shriek 
 Above her own affrighted squeak, 
 Nor dared to look from out her house. 
 
 For me — I smiled, for well I knew 
 His reign at most could not be long, 
 Again shall lift the lark's sweet song, 
 From meadows where his coursers flew. 
 
 Again a shy, sweet living thing, 
 A Dryad 'neath the leaves asleep. 
 From out some violet shall peep, 
 And earth shall wake and call it — Spring. 
 
 What wonder then I smiled, although 
 He swiftly charged adown the hills, 
 Across the frozen marsh and rills. 
 And gave my cheek a stinging blow? 
 
 For after him come daffodils, 
 And plaintive strain of bluebird trills. 
 The gladness in the air that thrills 
 The robin's warbling note — and so 
 
74 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 I watch'd with unaffrighted eye, 
 His shrilling steeds go flying by 
 From out a chilling, leaden sky, 
 His flying, vanguard flakes of snow. 
 
THE STORM 
 
 A SHRIEK! a roar! 
 Fierce snarling winds that bore 
 Thick mists of drifting snow, 
 A Nor' East winter blow 
 On sea and shore. 
 
 Wild day and wilder night, 
 A fisher's feeble light, 
 A sleeping babe at rest. 
 And 'gainst the window press'd 
 A woman's face all white. 
 
 Wide stretch of beach and lone, 
 The sea's deep undertone, 
 The morning clear. 
 Wreckage and broken mast, 
 A frozen thing lash'd fast, 
 A life guard near. 
 
 Bright room and laughing child. 
 Fair skies and breezes mild, 
 Departed storm; 
 Behind — a bowed head. 
 And clasped arms o'erspread 
 A silent form. 
 
76 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 THE PASSING OF AUTUMN 
 
 AS if some priestess fair had stolen 'mong 
 The forest's templ'd arches high and wide 
 And there her outer robes had cast aside, 
 O'er bush and tree her scarlet mantle flung 
 From branch to branch her yellow girdle strung, 
 Then 'mid the asters went her silent way 
 Up to the altars of the hills to pray. 
 And o'er the drowsy vale her censer swung. 
 When lo! one morn the wanton breeze, 
 While thus at her devotions lost she stood. 
 With frosty fingers stole her draperies. 
 But in the deeper hollows of the wood, 
 With guilty haste the thieving wind 
 Her golden sandals left behind. 
 
77 
 
 THE SONG OF THE KENNEBEC 
 
 CHILD of a Northern lake am I, Moosehead 
 the mother that bore, 
 Cradled 'mong pines that pierce the sky, fring'd 
 
 with a wilderness shore. 
 Christen'd in arms of the evening mists, altar 
 
 " Old Squaw " at Marrs, 
 Censer the moon, chorister loon, candles just 
 God's own stars. 
 
 Child of the Outlet wide am I in the land of the 
 
 pine and the spruce. 
 While my mother slept then nearer I crept to the 
 
 open gates of the sluice, 
 Down the long boom on to my doom, there from 
 
 her fair breast torn. 
 Child of the mild, child of the wild, Kennebec 
 
 was I born. 
 
 I am off and away at the break of day, I am off 
 
 in the noonday heat, 
 And no one shall stop me, and no one shall stay, 
 
 or follow my flying feet. 
 
78 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 My brother the wind I leave far behind. Ah! 
 
 vainly he catcheth me, 
 And my rapids sing and their w^hite arms fling — 
 
 we are free! we are free! we are free! 
 
 I bound along with a laugh and a song and 
 
 never a care have I, 
 I steal through the dawn with a face that is wan, 
 
 I blush 'neath the sunset sky^ 
 When the night winds croon 'neath the crescent 
 
 moon I sink to my quiet rest. 
 Where the pool is deep I go to my sleep and I 
 
 fold the stars on my breast. 
 
 I dance and sing where the wild fowl wing 
 
 their flight 'long the silent shore, 
 Thro the rock bound gorge I toss and I forge, I 
 
 plunge in the cataract's roar, 
 On my bosom wide I bear on my tide my brothers 
 
 to cloud and rain, 
 The spruce and the pine, tall brothers of mine, 
 
 my brothers whom men have slain. 
 
 Ah ! well for their need and well for their greed, 
 
 but hearken ye sons of men ! 
 Ye have struck your blow but in time ye shall 
 
 know a blow shall be given again. 
 For this is the law and it holdeth no flaw, the 
 
 law of the forest to learn, 
 
THE SONG OF THE KENNEBEC 79 
 
 Who the forest shall smite, be it wrong, be it 
 right, the forest small smite in return. 
 
 So I bring ye my woe on my lethal flow, the 
 
 forms my wet lips have kiss'd. 
 In the spectral gleams of the moon's cold beams 
 
 and the shroud of the evening mist, 
 Like a wraith of their doom it steals o'er the boom 
 
 to cover the martyrs of gain. 
 But my free spirit still and my unconquer'd will 
 
 ye shall shackle and harness in vain. 
 
 For ever and aye, by night and by day, comes a 
 
 voice that is calling for me. 
 When the storm winds wail it floats on the gale, 
 
 'tis the voice of my father — the sea. 
 On the wide, lone beach his white arms reach, 
 
 ah ! who shall us longer sever, 
 I go out on the wave to the father that gave, I 
 
 am lost In the great Forever. 
 
8o 
 
 MARCH IN APRIL 
 
 LOOK yeah, Mars Mawch, peahs lak to me 
 Yo's jes' as jealous ez kin be, 
 Kase, when I done wek up one mawn, 
 I see a chile out on de lawn, — 
 A faih-halhd Missy frum the Souf, 
 Wif sweet, wahm bref an' tremlin' mouf, 
 An' in her half-wet, teary eyes 
 De blue dat drapt frum April skies, 
 Her hyar done lit wif sunlight beams 
 Er jes' er flashin' gol'en gleams. 
 An' ez I wondah who she be 
 A voice cum out de cherry tree, 
 Whar Mistah Robin up an' sing, 
 "Good Mawnin' ! Howdy! Missy Spring!" 
 I rush'd down stahs an' open'd wide 
 De do' an' den I laff'd an' cried, 
 *' Lawd bress yo. Honey sweet ma chile! 
 Cum to dese ahms an' res erwhile. 
 De Missy Spring done cum at las', 
 Deah Honey, let me hoi' yo fas' ! " 
 An' den Mars Mawch he cum erlong, 
 Kase he am jealous an' so strong. 
 
MARCH IN APRIL 8i 
 
 An' den he roah'd fo' all he's wurf 
 
 An' tried to blow her off de yearf. 
 
 He blew so hyard, to tell de truf, 
 
 He shook de house to lif de roof. 
 
 He howl'd and shrlek'd wif all his might 
 
 An' done raise Cain fru all de night. 
 
 An' when I done wek up nex mawn 
 
 De lir Missy she wah gawn. 
 
 De win ! he whistle roun' de do' ! 
 
 "She's gawn! She ain' cum back no' mo' ! " 
 
 De win', he's nuffin but er bluff, 
 
 But she wah done gawn, sho' nufE! 
 
 Done scah'd by old Mars Mawch's blow, 
 
 De lil' Missy— hidin' low. 
 
 I ax'd de crocus by de wall 
 
 Whah bright an' wahm de sunbeams fall, 
 
 '* Did lil' chile pass by dat way?" 
 
 De crocus, she look up an' say: 
 
 " De lil' Missy Spring — oh! she? 
 
 Yo 'clar you doan' know whah she be ? 
 
 Look down into ma heart an' see, 
 
 Look up into dat cherry tree. 
 
 Yo heah dat Mistah Robin sing? 
 
 Yo see dat blue byaird on de wing? 
 
 Yo see de mil'ness in dat sky? 
 
 I reckon she cum bime by 
 
 De lil' chile, de Missy Spring! 
 
 Ertrudgin' o'er dat windy hill 
 
82 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Wif violet an' de daffydil, 
 
 An' mek 'em in a nice bokay 
 
 An' ban' 'em to Mars Mawcb an say, 
 
 ' Please, deab Mars Mawcb, please let me stay.' 
 
 An' ef Mars Mawcb, wif wintab href, 
 
 Don' try to scab dat cbile to def , 
 
 No mattab wbat Brer Woodcbuck sayd, 
 
 I'll up an' bit 'um on de baid, 
 
 " Fo' sbame, Mars Mawcb ! Ob, go to baid ! 
 
83 
 
 A WINTER SUNRISE 
 
 ACROSS the snow clad fields, like some pale 
 nun, 
 Soft to the couch of Night, with features wan, 
 And icy fingers steals the pallid Dawn 
 To snuff her paling candles, one by one. 
 Now with far streamers that outrun 
 His gilded chariot, 'neath yon kindling slopes 
 With golden key, Aurora, blushing, " opes 
 The gates," while Helius, the Imperial Sun, 
 Bursts through, enamour'd of the sleeping night. 
 With flaming lance across the shimmering sea 
 Pursues the veiled goddess In her flight, 
 And dares to pierce her misty canopy. 
 But finds, on frosty hill and vale and plain. 
 The " draperies of her couch " alone remain . 
 
84 
 
 BELGRADE 
 
 A SUMMER day, a sky of blue, 
 A stretch of Belgrade water, 
 An idly drifting light canoe, 
 And in it fishing — just we two, 
 She was the Major's daughter. 
 
 The day was warm and rather bright. 
 Our lines were idly dangling, 
 Nor flies, nor minnow, helgramite 
 Could tempt the lordly bass to bite. 
 The day was poor for angling. 
 
 I look'd at my fair vis-a-vis. 
 You will not blame me I am sure, 
 Because I could not help but see 
 She was so shy and sweet, ah me! 
 With downcast eyes demure. 
 
 Then to myself, I softly said 
 
 If I, alas, catch not a bass 
 
 Why not try something else instead? 
 
 Ah, what a shapely little head! 
 
 Why not — a lass ? 
 
BELGRADE 85 
 
 Some one will win her, why not I? 
 I questioned, halfway doubting, 
 Well, at the least, I could but try. 
 Perchance to catch her " on the fly," 
 In this fair summer outing. 
 
 She came of family proud and fine, 
 What prize was ever grander? 
 She ended her ancestral line. 
 My heart was on the end of mine. 
 With which I hop'd to land her. 
 
 The skies were blue and fair above. 
 Ideal day for wooing! 
 But no ! I did not tell my love, 
 When she took off a little glove 
 Alas ! 'twas my undoing. 
 
 Like ripples flashing in the sun. 
 Where oft I lov'd to linger. 
 My suit was lost ere half begun, 
 I saw a diamond upon 
 A little telltale finger. 
 
 " 'Twas ever thus," I softly said. 
 She saw my looks accusing, 
 And turn'd aside her pretty head, 
 And answer'd, " I'm engaged to Fred," 
 And then a blush her cheeks o'erspread 
 Like roses wild suffusing. 
 
86 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 A rumbling coach, a farewell view, 
 A stretch of Belgrade water ! 
 An idly drifting light canoe. 
 And in it fishing — well, just two, 
 Fred and the Major's daughter. 
 
87 
 
 BASH BISH FALLS 
 
 AS If above the limpid pool, 
 Across the rock which there o'erhung. 
 Shy Daphne from the waters cool 
 Her snowy veil had flung. 
 Who when Apollo dared obtrude 
 Upon the still secluded spot, 
 Fled startl'd thro the silent wood 
 And left it there — forgot. 
 
88 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 DUCK SHOOTING IN OCTOBER 
 
 WHILE yet the day was pale and wan, 
 We crept, with expectations fond, 
 Down thro the gray and pallid dawn, 
 Where o'er a small secluded pond 
 The morn her misty veil had flung, 
 While dimly through the spectral light 
 Aurora's rosy fingers clung 
 Fast to the fleeting robes of night. 
 We stole as if thro dim lit hall 
 Of scarlet bush and gilded trees 
 And crept behind a crumbling wall 
 Where Autumn hung her tapestries, 
 Then rose amid the hush profound, 
 Off went the ducks, not so our gun, 
 Destruction did not lay around, 
 Alas ! we had the " safety " on. 
 We turn'd away with feelings crush'd. 
 The morn peep'd o'er the hills and — blush'd. 
 
89 
 
 MARS MAWCH 
 
 WHAT am de mattah wif Mars Mawch, 
 Ole Mars I ustuh know? 
 Dat howl'd an' roah'd fo all he's wurf, 
 An' fill'd de aih wif sno? 
 De wins dat shriek aroun' de house, 
 An' down de chimbly flue 
 Until dey done lif up de roof 
 An' raise de Debbil too. 
 Whah is dat bangin' o' de do', 
 An' whah de shuttahs slam? 
 Am Mawch a roahin' li'n no mo. 
 But jes' er peaceful lamb? 
 De byards am singin' all aroun', 
 De robin an' de blue, 
 De crocus peepin' out de groun* 
 Am sayin' — " Howdy do!" 
 De sun am brightly shinin', 
 Dar's a mileness in de sky, 
 An' der's no one dat's erpinin* 
 Fo' de wintah done gone by. 
 
90 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 An' de worl seems all de gladdah 
 
 Fo' de wahm days dat am hyahr, 
 
 But — Brer Woodchuck seed he's shaddah 
 
 An' am actin' mighty quyahr. 
 
 " What am de mattah wif Mars Mawch ?" 
 
 I ax'd a chile one mawn, 
 
 A faih haih'd Missy by my do, 
 
 Done playin' on de lawn, 
 
 A faih haih'd Missy frum de Sout 
 
 While Mistah Robin sing, 
 
 An' drapt a wum frum out he's mouf 
 
 To call her — Missy Spring. 
 
 " I reckon he ain' los'," I sayd, 
 
 " He's sho clar out o' season. 
 
 Mars Mawch — or mebbe sick in baid," 
 
 " Oh, no ! dat ain' de reason," 
 
 Done spoke the faih haih'd lil chile, 
 
 " Why he am tame as pigeon. 
 
 So quiet, peaceful, an' so mile 
 
 Hit's kase he's done got 'ligion.'* 
 
 " Who done got 'ligion ?" den I say, 
 ''Mars Mawch — yo's foolin', — chile? 
 Not ole Mars Mawch, Oh, go away! 
 Mars Mawch! Dat meks me smile. 
 Yo sho, chile, dat it ain' no bluff, 
 Mars Mawch dat howls like sin, 
 Sho he done chase de Debbil out 
 An' let de 'ligion in?" 
 
MARS MAWCH 91 
 
 " Yas, sah," de lil' Missy sayd, 
 
 " Ise sho it ain' no bluff, 
 
 No playin' possum eeder, sah, 
 
 He's got it sho enuff. 
 
 De thundah shook um up one night 
 
 Er rollin' like er drum, 
 
 De light'nin' flash'd, he thot dat sho 
 
 De Jedgment day had cum. 
 
 De thundah he done wek him up, 
 
 De rain done melt he's soul, 
 
 De Souf win' he done brek him up. 
 
 An' drive out all de cole. 
 
 An' den he pray'd — ' Foglve me, Lawd, 
 
 Fo' holing Missy Spring,' 
 
 An' den he let me go — I's hyar, 
 
 Dat's why de robins sing. 
 
 Dat's why de glory roun' about 
 
 Am shinin' fru de Ian', 
 
 Yo heah dat halleloyah shout, 
 
 Cum out an' jine de ban'. 
 
 The blue byards singin' praises, 
 
 Mistah Robin pass de hat 
 
 Fo' a fool's cap fo Brer Woodchuck 
 
 Dat we all am laffin' at, 
 
 Laffin at dat old Brer Woodchuck, 
 
 Seed he's shaddah an' he sayed, 
 
 * Six weeks mo' o' dis cole weddah, 
 
 Reckon I'll gwine back to baid.' 
 
 Den we come erlong an' fool um, 
 
 Ole Brer Woodchuck — He! He! He! 
 
92 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 At he's do' er shoutin' — * Wek up ! 
 
 Robin, blue byard, chickadee.' 
 
 But Brer Woodchuck in de meddah, 
 
 He say nuffin, he lay low, 
 
 He done think o' Missy April 
 
 'Bout a yahr or two ago, 
 
 How Mars Mawch sit down beside her 
 
 Laid he's haid wiffin her lap 
 
 While upon dis ole backsliddah 
 
 Her wahm tears done sofly drap, 
 
 How he done git up in fury. 
 
 How he's cole win's 'gin to blow, 
 
 An' de teahs o' Missy April 
 
 How he changed 'em inter sno'. 
 
 Doan' yo laff at Ole Brer Woodchuck, 
 
 Stan' aroun' he's do' an grin, 
 
 'Brer Woodchuck knows Ole Mars's 'ligion, 
 
 An' it's sometimes mighty thin. 
 
 As fo me — Ole Mars's 'ligion! 
 
 Well, I hope dat hit'll las. 
 
 But — de win am growin' shapah, 
 
 An' dat do — jes' mek it fas'. 
 
93 
 
 THE OPEN 
 
 JUST perchance a breezy hill top, 
 With a far off stretch of view, 
 Meads and woods and river sedges, 
 Mountain range far on the edges, 
 Where the earth line meets the blue, 
 Just a day in June — and you. 
 
 Just perchance the waving marshes, 
 Sweeping o'er the lowland leas. 
 Far out yonder to the seaward. 
 Just a rag off to the leeward, 
 'Fore an off shore spanking breeze, 
 Swung 'twixt two eternities. 
 
 Just a tramp across the meadows. 
 Just the glory of the shine. 
 Round about you, in and out you, 
 Just a brook wherein a trout you 
 Took while casting fly and line; 
 Just a bobolink upspringing. 
 Singing, soaring, ever singing. 
 With a melody divine. 
 
94 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Just a wild rose In the byways, 
 With Its shy and friendly nod, 
 Shunning the more stately highways, 
 Where the march of commerce trod, 
 Just the very joy of living! 
 With a deep and longdrawn breath. 
 Like the snapping of your fingers 
 In the very face of death. 
 While you look out on the open. 
 Fling yourself upon the sod, 
 Just a living, breathing dust speck 
 In the great workshop of God. 
 
95 
 
 THE WRECK 
 
 OUT on the edge of the reef she rides, 
 Where the billows play and the seagulls 
 cry, 
 And the seaweed clings to her mold'ring sides, 
 And fray'd from her mast her halyards fly. 
 
 Oh, the day is fair, and the breeze offshore ! 
 'Tis a summer sky and a summer sea, 
 And idly a rag Still flaps at her fore, 
 And the tide rolls over her lazily. 
 
 But what of a day when the Storm King woke 
 And a Specter stood dark 'gainst the drifting fog? 
 And what of his fury that o'er her broke / 
 
 And a Death's hand that wrote out the log? 
 
 When the storm was o'er, on the lone beach wide, 
 What was it lay there — that silent thing ? 
 That the seagulls saw washed up by the tide, 
 And flew away wondering? 
 
9^ AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Ah, well for the day that the skies are clear 
 
 And yonder the sails go idly by ! 
 
 But somewhere? — there's a woman's sigh and 
 
 tear, 
 And a child looks up and wonders why. 
 
97 
 
 TO A WILD ROSE BY THE SEA 
 
 FLOW'RET by the summer sea, 
 Woo'd by ardent lovers three 
 Wind and mist and bandit bee, 
 Jealous of them all, I too. 
 Linger at thy side to woo, 
 Join the lists of rivalry. 
 Fickle are they in their love. 
 As I here shall straightway prove, 
 For the wind is but a vagrant. 
 Telling all thy secrets fragrant. 
 Whispering of thy shy sweet blushes 
 To the jealous bending rushes, 
 Telltale to the flags and grasses 
 Of thy presence as he passes. 
 Vainly might the mist conceal thee, 
 'Twas this tattler first reveal'd thee. 
 When his breath with perfume laden, 
 Told thy nearness, pretty maiden. 
 Which no sooner I espy 
 Vainly may I pass me by, 
 Such rare beauty, sweet and shy. 
 And the mist, the brooding mist, 
 
9^ AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Second on thy lover's list, 
 Specter of the pallid dawn, 
 Steals this rival pale and vv^an 
 From the sea to keep his tryst. 
 Cold and chilling is his breath, 
 Mantl'd in the shroud of Death, 
 Comes this spirit of the tide. 
 Seeking thee to be his bride, 
 From all others he would hide 
 Thy sweet presence and enfold 
 In embraces damp and cold. 
 But when yon bright, flaming lance 
 Swift proclaims the day's advance. 
 Clad in gold and amethyst, 
 Lo! this lover breaks his tryst, 
 Leaves thy cheeks which he hath kiss'd 
 Base deserts and leaves them wet all 
 With a tear drop on each petal. 
 Last of all thy lovers three 
 Cometh now the bandit bee, 
 Noted for inconstancy. 
 See the rascal drawing near, 
 Humming love songs in your ear, 
 Lulling by his minstrelsy; 
 He's a roving buccaneer 
 Passing on from flower to flower, 
 He demands a fragrant dower, 
 Sweet confession from each heart. 
 From a bosom torn apart. 
 
TO A WILD ROSE BY THE SEA 99 
 
 Could you love him, pretty miss, 
 
 Such a thieving rogue as this? 
 
 Ah ! I half suspect you do, 
 
 Come now, tell me! Is it true? 
 
 But, alas, you'll soon discover 
 
 He's a very fickle lover, 
 
 Even now your heart deserting, 
 
 See him with the clover flirting. 
 
 Careless of your feelings hurting. 
 
 So my pretty little maid, 
 
 Hither where my steps have stray'd, 
 
 I, too, my devotion bring, 
 
 Come I not for dallying. 
 
 Like my fickle rivals three, 
 
 Wind and mist and bandit bee. 
 
 Bolder am I, too, by far, 
 
 And like that young Lochlnvar, 
 
 He who rode from out the West, 
 
 Snatch'd his bride close to his breast, 
 
 So! lest thou shouldst droop and pine, 
 
 Lo ! I take thee to be mine, 
 
 On my breast to fondly cling 
 
 Bride of my bold pilfering. 
 
100 
 
 A CHURCH 
 
 I KNOW a church I would not miss, 
 And thither oft my footsteps wend, 
 'Tis not some costly edifice, 
 This quiet church that I attend. 
 
 Far from the city's roar and din, 
 Among eternal hills it stands. 
 And strangely I'm without when in 
 This temple never made with hands. 
 
 A woodsy pathway is my pew, 
 That's lined with tangl'd underbrush, 
 While here no noisy avenue 
 Disturbs my chorister — the thrush. 
 
 Far deeper thoughts by him are stirr'd 
 Than other choirs I might confess. 
 Where I can't understand a word. 
 And at its meaning only guess. 
 
 My preacher is a squirrel, he 
 A Quaker as his habit proves, 
 His pulpit yonder chestnut tree, 
 Among whose leaves *' The spirit moves 
 
A CHURCH loi 
 
 Thro' lofty arches overhead, 
 The breezes that so gently stir, 
 And whisper o'er my bowed head, 
 A lone and silent worshipper. 
 
 Across the aisle a tiny wren, 
 While I, in silent rapture list, 
 Lifts up a cheery bright Amen, 
 I'm sure she is a Methodist, 
 
 O'er sunlit meadows green and fair, 
 The windows of my church look out, 
 The text — God's love is everywhere, 
 Ah! who can read and who can doubt? 
 
 'Tis seen upon the rose's blush, 
 That bends before the ardent bee, 
 'Tis heard upon the noonday's hush 
 That mantles every hill and lea. 
 
 The evening breeze, the cooling balm, 
 Day's flambeaus kindling in the west, 
 The lengthening shade, the twilight calm, 
 The peace, the quiet and — the rest. 
 
 The sermon ends, I turn away, 
 With laggard footsteps while I hear 
 A lark sing to the closing day 
 His nunc dimittis sweet and clear. 
 
I02 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 SPRING SONG 
 
 T^IS mawn de byards war singin' 
 
 ^-^ An' de crocuses war sprlngin' 
 
 An' de folks dey say dat wintah cum no mo; 
 
 An' to-nfght de win' am howlln', 
 
 An' ershriekin' an' ergrowlln', 
 
 An' fo de lan's sake, honey, shet dat do ' ! 
 
103 
 
 THE ROBBER 
 
 T SAW him bear down on the wind 
 
 ■*- This robber that I have in mind, 
 
 A roving, royster rascal he, 
 
 A busy, burly bumble bee. 
 
 From underneath the apple trees 
 
 I watch'd him on the vagrant breeze. 
 
 Upon the drowsy afternoon 
 
 I heard him sing his lulling tune 
 
 With all his well known sorceries, 
 
 Above the rose's bowed head, 
 
 I saw the faint blush that o'erspread. 
 
 At the caresses of this lover 
 
 Who all her secrets would discover. 
 
 From rarest nectars that distil 
 
 I saw him boldly take his fill, 
 
 Then up and off this pirate bold 
 
 Swung down upon the marigold. 
 
 And sailing o'er the fragrant seas 
 
 I saw him filch with daring ease 
 
 The poppies and the peonies. 
 
 I watched from out my shaded spot 
 
 The wild rose and forget-me-not, 
 
104 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 To all of his demands so dear, 
 
 Pay tribute to this buccaneer. 
 
 But in my breast for him there throbs 
 
 No horror keen while thus he robs, 
 
 Apparently with no regret, 
 
 The larkspur and the mignonette, 
 
 For fairer than the rose is she. 
 
 And if like this bold bandit bee, 
 
 Her heart if — well — if say, from her, 
 
 If I could steal away from her. 
 
 From her sweet lips could I but wring 
 
 Confession by such pilfering, 
 
 Then let me whisper, entre nous. 
 
 You bet I'd be a robber toOo 
 
I05 
 
 THE FOREST 
 
 A S tho It were some quiet interlude 
 -* "*' That came into your busy life, 
 Or cooling hand upon the fever'd strife, 
 That calm'd you into reverent mood, 
 While thus you stood within the solitude, 
 Stript to your soul amid the hush profound, 
 Where only sound is silence, silence sound, 
 And your own heartbeats only dared intrude. 
 
 Or if a door were shut and far behind 
 You left the noisy world without, 
 And heard no more the tumult and the shout, 
 But the still voice of some far Larger Mind, 
 Within this temple with its aisles untrod, 
 And here you found yourself — and God. 
 
io6 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 MT. BIGELOW IN MAINE 
 
 (From a neighboring hill top) 
 
 ^nr^HERE Bigelow with majestic prow 
 •*• Immovable at anchor rides. 
 Proud Dreadnaught of the forest sea, 
 Against whose mighty rock ribb'd sides 
 Sweep pine and spruce and balsam tides, 
 In silent, stately majesty. 
 What tho'the mists her bow enshrouds 
 Her ensign flies among the clouds. 
 
107 
 
 A MARCH SUNSET 
 
 BEYOND the city's roofs and spires, 
 Defiant still tho sore opprest, 
 Day seeks his gilded couch of rest 
 Mid bivouac of resplendent fires. 
 
 Now o'er the brilliant, wide expanse 
 His challenge to the night Is sent, 
 Behind each fire rimm'd battlement 
 With high uplifted flaming lance. 
 
 Far to encroaching shadows Hung 
 His banners stream, transparent, pale, 
 As tho he filch'd Aurora's veil 
 And o'er those purple ramparts hung. 
 
 Down the wide reaches of the sky 
 His burnish'd golden argosies. 
 Freighted from fair Hesperides 
 On soundless, surfless, sapphire seas 
 Full sail'd at quiet anchor lie. 
 
io8 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Oh, wondrous changing color scene 
 Which, I, enraptured, watch the while, 
 Of crimson peak and glittering isle 
 And Dian's sickle hung between. 
 
 Anon around my window high, 
 Untamed winds by Aeolus driven 
 Across the stormy face of heaven 
 Like snapping, snarling wolves go by. 
 
 The shadows deepen, the day is done, 
 Now, jealous twilight steals away 
 To hide within her mantle gray 
 My fading pictures, one by one. 
 
 Save where pale Venus hangs her light 
 Far down an emerald sea o'erblown 
 To guide one gilded shallop lone 
 Across the dusky bar of night. 
 
1 09 
 
 SUNSET AND NIGHT 
 
 LITTLE " tar pot " on the fence 
 Black as ace of spades, 
 Eating watermelon, down 
 By the everglades. 
 
 Big and crescent shaped the piece, 
 See him now begin it, 
 Shining face all wreath'd in smiles 
 Deeply buried in it. 
 
 Colors of the parting day 
 Red and yellow, white and green, 
 'Mid the ever wid'ning rifts 
 Peep two stars between. 
 
 Corner of the melon slice 
 Flirting with an ear, 
 Sunset surely on the wane, 
 Darkness creeping near. 
 
 Deeper goes the dusky face, 
 Nearer creeps the night. 
 
no AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Colors fading one by one 
 Going out of sight. 
 
 Little " tar pot " fast asleep, 
 Face that knows no frown, 
 Eyes fast closed, mouth shut up, 
 Watermelon down. 
 
HI 
 
 KATAMA 
 
 The name of a hotel for many years deserted, 
 standing on Katama beach, a lone spot on the south 
 shore of Martha's Vineyard. The writer has never 
 visited the place, and the following is written merely 
 from hearsay with the legend thrown in as a bit of 
 imagination. 
 
 B 
 
 LEAK and dreary is the spot, 
 Long deserted, half forgot, 
 Where the billows break upon a barren shore. 
 Lone and desolate it stands, 
 And the ever shifting sands, 
 Pile in drifts against its weather beaten door. 
 
 Shutters swinging with a bang. 
 
 On the rusty hinges hang. 
 Sport of summer winds and wild Nor' Easter 
 blow ; 
 
 Thro each broken window pane 
 
 Beats the sun, the mist, the rain, 
 Where fair faces look'd out in the long ago. 
 
112 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Dark Its casements where no light 
 
 Streams its welcome on the night, 
 And its portals open not to warmth and 
 cheer ; 
 
 Damp and clammy are its walls, 
 
 Moans the wind along its halls, 
 Long deserted halls for many a year. 
 
 Where the music and the dance ? 
 
 Where the laughter and bright glance ? 
 And the merry throng upon the winding stair? 
 
 On the mouldering balustrade 
 
 Dust of many years is laid, 
 And the hollow echoes weirdly answer — where? 
 
 Yet in that far long ago. 
 
 When it thrill'd with life and glow. 
 
 And its halls were fill'd with laughter, mirth and 
 song, 
 Came a strong youth in his pride, 
 Came he with his fair young bride, 
 
 Fairest she 'mid all the merry throng. 
 
 There's a legend how one day 
 
 Pleasure bent he sail'd away. 
 Far away to where the blue line meets the sky. 
 
 Why within her heart a fear? 
 
 Why suspicion of a tear? 
 As he lightly kiss'd her lips in fond goodbye? 
 
KATAMA 113 
 
 Ah ! methlnks I see her there, 
 
 With her wind toss'd golden hair, 
 Watching the faint white speck till it faded out 
 of sight. 
 
 Gone but for a day and then 
 
 He would come to her again, 
 Come again before the falling of the night. 
 
 But the fisher folk still tell 
 How a sudden darkness fell, 
 How the storm king rode that night over all the 
 sea and land. 
 From his lips the thunders spoke, 
 From his eyes the lightning's stroke. 
 That reveal'd the group of watchers gathered on 
 the storm beat strand. 
 
 And among their number there 
 
 Was a pallid face and fair, 
 Looking out into the darkness while all night the 
 fires burn'd, 
 
 Listening, if above the gale 
 
 Came some friendly shout or hail, 
 Some glad cry to tell her lover had return'd. 
 
 But with coming of the dawn. 
 Paler grew her face and wan. 
 Paler still as day by day the summer sped. 
 And they say that ere she died 
 Whispered low the fair young bride, 
 
114 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 " Let me rest here, I would meet him when the 
 sea gives up its dead." 
 
 That was many a year ago, 
 And the tides still ebb and flow, 
 Storm and sunshine still alternate sweep across 
 the restless main, 
 But its bosom ne'er to tell 
 Guards a secret, guards it well, 
 Why a fair and girlish figure, broken hearted, 
 watch'd in vain. 
 
 Somewhere on Katama's beach. 
 
 Just beyond the billow's reach. 
 Is a lonely grave unmark'd by carved stone, 
 
 Vainly may the passerby. 
 
 Cast a roving, searching eye. 
 Silent are the drifted sands of many years o'er- 
 blown. 
 
 And the mariners at sea, 
 
 Tell with awestruck mystery, 
 When they pass Katama on a wild and stormy 
 night, 
 
 From a broken casement high, 
 
 Like a star against the sky, 
 Burns a solitary, strange, mysterious light. 
 
 And they say as they draw near, 
 By Katama dark and drear, 
 
KATAMA 115 
 
 Standing grimly 'gainst the sky line on the 
 desolated shore, 
 There upon a barren dune 
 Sits a specter in the moon, 
 Of a woman looking seaward, watching, waiting 
 — evermore. 
 
ii6 
 
 THE CONODOQUINET 
 
 ' ^~|~^IS not some mighty river flowing stately in 
 
 -*- its pride, 
 
 No laden ships from foreign shores go upwards on 
 
 its tide, 
 'Tis not the child of pond or lake where forests 
 
 line the shore, 
 There is no sound of rapids, no cataracts that 
 
 roar, 
 But like a thread of silver it steals 'mid sun and 
 
 shade, 
 Thro a vale of milk and honey, the fairest God 
 
 e'er made, 
 With a face that's full of sunshine and a voice 
 
 that's low and still, 
 It is just the creek of boyhood days, the creek 
 
 behind the hill. 
 
 It's just the old creek flowing in a drowsy sort of 
 way. 
 
 Like the dawn across the meadows at the break- 
 ing of the day, 
 
THE CONODOQUINET ii7 
 
 But the tip-up seem'd to love It as it tilted on Its 
 
 brink, 
 And a song burst forth above It from a lilting 
 
 bobolink. 
 The robins and the bluebirds, too, and in the 
 
 evening light 
 The swallows skimm'd Its surface low and kiss'd It 
 
 In their flight. 
 Anon the vagrant evening breeze Its mirror'd 
 
 bosom mars 
 Where night's fair crescent shallop sails with 
 
 wake of splendid stars. 
 
 'Twas here In boyhood days agone its gentle peace 
 
 I knew, 
 When to its banks so green and fair my truant 
 
 footsteps drew. 
 Then my heart was fill'd with laughter and all 
 
 the world was mine, 
 With an alder for a fish pole and a three cent 
 
 cotton line. 
 Will I e'er forget, I wonder, the boyish, keen 
 
 delight 
 When the cork kept bobbing under and then went 
 
 out of sight. 
 And I landed, 'mong the tree tops, with force 
 
 If not with skill. 
 The yellow bellied sunfish from the creek be- 
 hind the hill? 
 
ii8 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 I wonder if the skies it holds are just as full of 
 
 blue, 
 Or thirsty cattle wade knee deep just as they used 
 
 to do, 
 I wonder if the new mown hay breathes on the 
 
 air as sweet. 
 Or trailing vines are just as thick that tangl'd up 
 
 my feet. 
 I wonder if in later years these days that once 
 
 were mine 
 Must live in memory only when the tang has left 
 
 the wine. 
 O'er yet the bridge below the dam again my feet 
 
 shall bear 
 To join the creek beneath it and an old friend 
 
 fishing there. 
 
 So I muse before the firelight in the quiet of my 
 
 room, 
 While the twilight turns to darkness in the chill 
 
 November gloom, 
 And I seem to see the old creek's flow, its ripples 
 
 and its gleam 
 Come stealing out the Long Ago across my 
 
 vagrant dream. 
 Again it twines around my heart in its old familiar 
 
 way, 
 And bears upon its bosom fair a ne'er forgotten 
 
 day. 
 
THE CONODOQUINET 119 
 
 Which like a golden anchor deep into my soul is 
 
 cast 
 To hold the living Present to the never dying 
 
 Past. 
 
 For there comes at times in each one's life, in 
 yours as well as mine, 
 
 Some truant thought of other days across the rain 
 and shine. 
 
 The days of old, the friends of gold, some mem- 
 ory that endears, 
 
 As gently as the thistle dovrn it floats across the 
 years. 
 
 It may be some dear vanished face from out the 
 dusk of time, 
 
 It may be but an air or song like mellow'd bells 
 achime. 
 
 It may be youth come back again, a voice that 
 long was still, 
 
 It may be home, it may be just — the creek be- 
 hind the hill. 
 
I20 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 TO THE SEA 
 
 BECAUSE upon thy storm beat shore, my soul 
 Looks out upon eternity, 
 Awestruck and impotent, boast not thyself, O, 
 
 Sea! 
 While at my feet thy billows roll, 
 And in my ears thy dirges toll. 
 If I look on thy face in stress or shine 
 With thoughts that reach beyond thy border line 
 In vain I would express or yet control. 
 
 For far beyond thy widest range and sweep, 
 Upon that Power that first created thee 
 In thy tempestuous strength — O Mighty Deep ! 
 Awed into silence look thou too with mel 
 I, but an atom on thy thundering strand, 
 And thou a drop within His hoUow'd hand. 
 
121 
 
 THE FIRST ROBIN 
 
 LOOK a yeah, yo Mistah Robin, , 
 What done wek me up dis mawn? 
 What yo mean by such erfooHn', 
 Foolin' sho ez yo is bawn? 
 Kase de day am wahm an brightah 
 Yo cum chuppin at ma do 
 *' Wek up! Wek up!" Spring am comin' 
 An' de wintah cum no mo." 
 Doan you know dat ole Brer Woodchuck 
 Seed he's shaddah an he sayd 
 " Six weeks mo ob dis cole weddah 
 Reckon I'll gwine back to baid." 
 Now yo cum aroun yeah singin' 
 Dat de wintah cole am fru, 
 What you mean by such erfoolin', 
 Go way, Mistah Robin! Shoo! 
 
122 
 
 WINTER IN THE LAP OF SPRING 
 
 T^ EY say dat dis cole weddah 
 
 -*— ^ What so long am lingering, 
 
 Am jes de ole Mars Wintah 
 
 "Res'in' in de lap o' spring." 
 
 Jes ole Mars, de white haihd sinnah 
 
 Res'in' he's ole weary haid 
 
 In de lap o' Missy Springtime, 
 
 Lak he thinks he's gwine to baid. 
 
 But the folkses round about yeah 
 
 Dey all wish dat res' wah fru, 
 
 Ole Mars may be powful tiahd. 
 
 But dey all am tiah'd too. 
 
 Now if I wah Missy Springtime 
 
 An' dat lap o' hers wah mine, 
 
 Wif Mars Wintah keepin' frum me 
 
 All de glory an' de shine, 
 
 Does yo know what I'd do. Honey? 
 
 Does yo rahly wan to know? 
 
 Well, den draw you chah up closah 
 
 An' I done will tell you, sho! 
 
 Well, while Mars wah done er res'in', 
 
 Soht o' dozin' in ma lap, 
 
 Den frum out ma April bonnet. 
 
IN THE LAP OF SPRING 123 
 
 Kase o' snow dat he done drap 
 
 On de crocusses upon it, 
 
 Well, while Mars wah sof ly sleepin' 
 
 Frum dat hat I'd draw a pin 
 
 Two foot long. Lawd bress yo, Honey, 
 
 How I'd up an' jab it in! 
 
 Jab it in he's laig — you heah me! 
 
 Stick it in an' inch o' two, 
 
 Yas, chile, dat's de way I fix um, 
 
 Sho's yo bawn, dat's what I do ! 
 
 Reckon dat would wek Mars Wintah, 
 
 Reckon when he feel dat prick 
 
 He git pow'ful tiah'd o' res'in', 
 
 Reckon he done git up quick! 
 
 Ole Mars Wintah, de ole sinnah, 
 
 Wif he's win an' cole an' snow. 
 
 When he feels dat pin erstickin', 
 
 Reckon he light out an' go, 
 
 In a way dat's mighty s'prisin', 
 
 Jes lak all po sinnahs do, 
 
 Lak de Debbil he wah aftah 
 
 An' he feah'd he kotch um too. 
 
 When he's gwine I'd riz up smilin', 
 
 Shek de snow frum out ma lap 
 
 Dat Mars Wintah he done drap dar 
 
 Fo a pillow fo he's nap, 
 
 An' I'd tek ma Eastah bonnet 
 
 An' put on my new green gown 
 
 An' go, outen in de gyarden 
 
 Lak Ise jes' pradin' roun', 
 
124 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Whar de crocusses am peepin' 
 
 Soht o' scaht frum out de groun'. 
 
 An' I call out to ma chillun, 
 
 To de byards aroun' de do, 
 
 Chillun! Chillun! Stop yo shiverin', 
 
 Ole Mars gwine, he cum no mo, 
 
 Den I sofly blow ma Souf bref 
 
 O'er de holler, on de hill, 
 
 Bime by I wek de violet, 
 
 Bime by de daffydill, 
 
 An' I puts 'em in ma bonnet 
 
 An' I puts 'em in ma hyar, 
 
 An' I goes to de chuch meeting 
 
 To de folkses dat am dar, 
 
 An' I peeks in at de window 
 
 Whiles de preachah he expoun' 
 
 How dey all am mighty sinnahs, 
 
 An' dey all am groanin' roun', 
 
 Till dey all cum out de meetin* 
 
 In de glory an' de shine. 
 
 An' dey see me all ersmilin* 
 
 Wif my hyer done up so fine, 
 
 Den de sistern an' de breddern 
 
 Kinder all jine ban' in ban', 
 
 An' dey all go whorlin' roun me 
 
 Shoutin' — " cum an' jine de ban,' " 
 
 Den de robins an' de bluebyards, 
 
 An' de folkses dey all sing 
 
 Glory ! Glory ! Halleluyahr, 
 
 Howdy! Welcum, Missy Spring. 
 
125 
 
 c 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 lOY and dusky little maid, 
 
 " Stolen," maybe, " Lost " or '' Stray'd '' 
 From the parted summer tide, 
 Lingering daily at our side. 
 Scarlet clad and russet shod, 
 Golden where your footsteps trod, 
 With your wild coquettish ways, 
 Peeping through the purple haze 
 From the wood and misty hill, 
 Challenging the bluebird's trill 
 Through the drowsy afternoon, 
 On your lips the breath of June. 
 Ah, you rogue — incognito. 
 Just as if we didn't know, 
 Truant of the golden days, 
 'Long the old familiar ways. 
 Laughing at the drowsy bee 
 Waken'd by your sorcery. 
 With his love song humming over 
 Yon late bit of faded clover. 
 Mean of you to treat him so, 
 Just as if we didn't know 
 
126 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 You are Summer come again, 
 Over field and wood and fen, 
 Come into the hearts of men, 
 Who despite those half veiled eyes 
 Quickly pierce the thin disguise, 
 And enrapt by such rare charms^ 
 Welcome thee vv^ith open arms. 
 Little v^^itch with face all smiling, 
 Captive to your soft beguiling. 
 Song of bird its soul outpouring. 
 At thy feet the world adoring, 
 Rover from the summer tide 
 Linger with us — long abide ! 
 Prove it false, that warning cry 
 From yon travelers flying high, 
 Trailing down the southward sky, 
 We would hold thee, would detain, 
 But, alas! 'tis all in vain. 
 Down yon western fiery slope 
 Vanishes our fondest hope. 
 When with golden finger tips 
 From your roguish, ruddy lips, 
 Coy and fickle little miss. 
 Fling you then a saucy kiss 
 From a windy, evening sky, 
 Bidding all the world — Goodbye! 
 
127 
 
 BEFORE THE TOY WINDOW 
 
 "A little child shall lead them.'* 
 
 THEY stood before it, hand in hand, 
 Out in the cold while the keen wind fann'd 
 His pale cheek and her dark hair — 
 Two little waifs in the wintry air. 
 A tatter'd coat and a ravell'd dress 
 And hungry eyes full of wistfuiness, 
 And a sigh in each heart that you may guess, 
 Two little Arabs, hand in hand. 
 Looking into the Wonderland. 
 
 Looking Into the Wonderland, where 
 
 They saw a doll with flaxen hair, 
 
 And eyes of blue that open'd wide, 
 
 With a big, white, woolly dog at her side. 
 
 There were automobiles and a train of cars, 
 
 There were wagons and horses and spangles and 
 
 stars. 
 There were trumpets and drums and birds that 
 
 flew. 
 And lions and tigers and elephants, too, 
 That bow'd their heads with a howdy do! 
 
128 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 And brownies and elfins as if fairies had plann'd 
 The wonderful things in this Wonderland. 
 
 The day was closing, 'twas time to leave; 
 The window was lighted, 'twas Christmas eve. 
 But still they linger'd with look intent, 
 And forgot their home in a tenement 
 Down on the East Side, cheerless and cold, 
 In this wonderful scene of glitter and gold. 
 So they warm'd their cold little finger tips 
 With the breath from their chill'd and blue little 
 
 lips 
 That quiver'd and trembl'd as when on one 
 
 night 
 They look'd on their mother, so still and so 
 
 white. 
 In a box that was long and was cover'd with 
 
 black, 
 When they took her away and — she never came 
 
 back. 
 But instead a strange woman that took her place, 
 Who was ugly and cross with a scar on her face, 
 They forgot their home with its rough, wooden 
 
 stairs, 
 The cold, cheerless room with its rickety chairs 
 And a table so broken it could hardly stand. 
 They saw only before them the Wonderland. 
 
 Outside by the curb in her limousine. 
 
 That shone like a jewel with polish and sheen, 
 
BEFORE THE TOY WINDOW 129 
 
 Sat a lady of wealth with a face that was fair, 
 But I noted that traces of sadness were there. 
 And the shouts of the merrymakers seem'd 
 
 drown'd 
 At the thought of a little wind-swept mound 
 On a hill far away, 'neath the whirling snow 
 Where her life went out in the long ago, 
 When suddenly she saw in the window's glare 
 These two little waifs that were standing there, 
 And a strange, new feeling tugg'd and stirr'd 
 At her heartstrings till it seem'd she heard, 
 As she sat in her sables and comfort and ease. 
 These words, " Unto one of the least of these," 
 And before she knew it she had each little hand 
 And she led them into the Wonderland. 
 
 Then, oh! what a wonderful time they had — 
 This little maid and this little lad. 
 With this fairy godmother so rich and so grand, 
 She bought trumpet and drum, she bought the 
 
 whole band, 
 And the nice big doll with its eyes so blue 
 And the elephant that bow'd with a howdy do! 
 And a sled and some candies and other things, 
 
 too. 
 Then with pockets that bulg'd and little hands 
 
 fiU'd, 
 Somehow the heart hunger, that cried was still'd, 
 And when she look'd down on each little child 
 A wan little face look'd upward and — smiled. 
 
I30 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 And somehow to her, when the presents were 
 
 given, 
 It seemed that each smile held a wee bit of 
 
 Heaven. 
 And that night, when later she went to her 
 
 bed. 
 Her sadness had vanished, there was peace there 
 
 instead. 
 As she thought of a little tin soldier grand 
 Held tight in a dirty, bare little hand. 
 
 Oh, we beggars with pride and power and pelf, 
 Who look for our happiness centered in self. 
 Who follow it far through pleasure or pain, 
 And seek it in wealth, so often in vain, — 
 We who are poor and hungry and weary and 
 
 blind 
 And give up in despair, at last we may find. 
 Like the prodigal son from a far away land, 
 That happiness oft dwells quite close to our 
 
 hand ; 
 That in hungering hearts and wistful eyes 
 To cheer and relieve the pathway lies, 
 A pathway not flower'd with dogmas and creeds, 
 'Tis the pathway of love and daily it leads 
 Through a world of suffering, a world of needs, 
 In a wonderful way we can't understand 
 Till It seems as if Heaven itself were spann'd. 
 
 Oh, we thirsters for greed who struggle and 
 hoard 
 
BEFORE THE TOY WINDOW 131 
 
 On the altars of gain where our life blood is 
 
 pour'd, 
 Who faint as we run, though still we pursue 
 The phantom of happiness, if only we knew 
 Far brighter than glitter of bauble or gem 
 In the scepter of king or his diadem 
 It may shine in the eyes of a friendless child, 
 From a wan little face that look'd upward and 
 
 smil'd. 
 It may cost but a doll with eyes that are blue, 
 Or the elephant that bows with a howdy do! 
 And here's wishing a Merry Christmas to you. 
 And then — who knows? — we, too, by and by, 
 With our hearts ahunger and wistful eye, 
 May see far away on a golden strand 
 The Christ child to greet us and take our cold 
 
 hand 
 And lead us — into the Wonderland. 
 
132 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 DUCK SHOOTING AT SAYBROOK 
 
 T OW tide and storm and closing day, 
 -■— ' And sea gulls white against the gray 
 Of sullen cloud o'erhung the rim 
 Of the horizon. Gaunt specters dim 
 And rising fog from swamp and sedge 
 The incense of the river's edge, 
 A stranded boat with larboard list 
 And — only the rain and the mist. 
 
 A reed bound cove, a soggy " blind " 
 Chill'd through and wet but it not mmd 
 When you hear the sound of whistling wings 
 As out of the fog come rushing things, 
 Broad bill and black and whistler and teal, 
 Then a grip on the trigger, a glance long the 
 
 steel, 
 And a growing pile of empty shells 
 While the Du Pont powder surplus swells. 
 Oh ! the showers of shot that hurtl'd and hiss'd, 
 And — only the rain and the miss'd. 
 
i33 
 
 THE SONG OF THE WIND 
 
 SPIRIT am I of the boundless sky, 
 Restless, untamed and driven, 
 Mariner free on a chartless sea. 
 Sailing the wastes of heaven. 
 
 I rove 'mong the spheres, I ride down the years. 
 
 And on thro' the ages I swing, 
 
 With a universe sweep I cover the deep, 
 
 I fold a world 'neath my wing. 
 
 From the frozen North I sally forth 
 
 O'er the starlit crests a-dream. 
 
 Where they plight their troth at the altar cloth 
 
 Of the glacier's moonlit gleam. 
 
 I sing 'mong the peaks where the lightning 
 
 streaks 
 And the thunders are set a-chime, 
 Where their peans roll to the boreal pole 
 'Long the upturn'd edge of time 
 
134 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Then off into space, ah, who shall trace 
 Or follow my flying track, 
 Or who shall bind or who shall find 
 My step in the wave or the wrack? 
 
 Forever to roam from my cavern home 
 I sweep over land and sea, 
 A Bedouin I of the desert sky, 
 Who knoweth my destiny? 
 
 I pipe the morn on the Golden Horn 
 And off on the Zuyder Zee, 
 I belly the sails to my sweeping gales, 
 I range over Araby. 
 
 I steal o'er the land with a flower in hand, 
 I shriek 'bove the breakers' boom. 
 The tears I dry from a violet's eye, 
 I send a ship to its doom. 
 
 With shapeless form I ride the storm 
 Out, out where the black waves are, 
 I stifle the cry 'neath a moonless sky 
 Of a voice from a drifting spar. 
 
 In my mad wild glee no laws decree 
 Shall fetter my flying wing, 
 I flip the flap of a peasant's cap, 
 I doff the hat of a king. 
 
THE SONG OF THE WIND 
 
 For I am the wind, the untamed wind, 
 Unconquered, unconquerable driven, 
 I am here, I am there, I am everywhere, 
 The vagabond wraith of heaven. 
 
 35 
 
136 
 
 A COWBOY'S WOOING 
 
 I WANT you, little woman, and I'm coming 
 like a man 
 To ask that little hand of yours and win it If T 
 
 can, 
 I'm standing right before you and I'm looking In 
 
 your eyes 
 That are deeper than the canyon, that are bluer 
 
 than the skies. 
 There ain't no style about me, and I know I'm 
 
 rather rough, 
 And I reckon for a girl like you I'm hardly 
 
 good enough, 
 I ain't like them there city chaps way off there 
 
 In the East, 
 My shirt ain't blled and pleated, my trousers 
 
 aren't creased, 
 But I've got a heart within me with a beat that's 
 
 strong and true. 
 It's as big as all creation and It's branded deep 
 
 with you. 
 
A COWBOY'S WOOING 137 
 
 I want you, little woman, and I know it isn't 
 
 fair, 
 I tried to stave the feeling off, I tried it on the 
 
 square, 
 I fought it out the whole night long, beneath 
 
 the starlit sky, 
 Ask Pete, my broncho standing there, now Pete 
 
 he wouldn't lie, 
 But when I hear your laughter, the air with 
 
 music fills 
 Like the murmur of a brooklet 'mong the old 
 
 New Hampshire hills. 
 Those dear old hills of childhood that once I 
 
 used to know. 
 And I said, "Well, Pete, I'll try it, if she'll 
 
 give me half a show." 
 
 So I'm asking, little lassie, with a feeling that is 
 
 strange 
 For a rough and reckless cowboy who has knock'd 
 
 about the range. 
 Who has heard the song of bullets when the 
 
 boys came into town 
 And the demons rose and tore them as the fiery 
 
 stuff went down, 
 When the flickering, half dead lights went out 
 
 against the smoky wall, 
 And the guns flash'd 'cross the blackness, who has 
 
 heard the heavy fall 
 
138 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Where a Colt's holds law and order in a way no 
 one disputes, 
 
 And at its sharp decisions men lie right down in 
 their boots. 
 
 Yes, I've killed my man, my lassie, he was mad 
 with drink and thirst. 
 
 He tried to get the drop on me, but — my lead it 
 reached him first, 
 
 Now my hands are up, my lassie, and I'm trem- 
 bling all clean through 
 
 While I'm waiting for an answer from those 
 down-cast eyes of blue. 
 
139 
 
 A RAINY MAY 
 
 Look; a yeah, yo Missy May, 
 Wif yo Quakah bonnet gray, 
 Cryln', cryin all de while, 
 What's de mattah, lil' chile? 
 Ain' yo nebber gwine to smile? 
 Kyant yo wipe dem teahs away? 
 What's de mattah, Missy May? 
 
 Yo jes' goes ertrapesin' roun' 
 O'er de wet an' soggy groun', 
 Lak as ef yo diden' kyar, 
 Wif de Souf win' in you hyar, 
 An' de cloud mist in yo eyes, 
 Yo jes' cries an' cries an' cries, 
 Wif you forehead in a frown 
 Yo jes' goes ertrapesin' roun'. 
 
 All de folkses dey complain 
 'Bout dis eberlasin' rain, 
 Violet, she done drap hyr haid ; 
 Woodchuck he done gwine to baid, 
 Tain't no fishin', brooks too high. 
 
140 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Fish all drown'd, dat ain no lie ! 
 No use plantin', things won't grow, 
 Folkses dey all wan' to know 
 Why yo axts in dis strange way, 
 What's de mattah, Missy May? 
 
 Doan' yo know, po honey chile, 
 
 Dat gray bonnet out o' style? 
 
 Peahs lak hits too ole fo you, 
 
 Whar's dat uddah one o' blue 
 
 Wif de sun beams fo de strings, 
 
 Trimm'd wif flashin' blue byrd wings, 
 
 Violets an' tulips on it ? 
 
 Honey chile! whar am dat bonnet 
 
 Fill'd wif glory an' de shine? 
 
 My! dat meks yo look so fine! 
 
 Put it on, sweet honey chile, 
 
 Put it on an' stay erwhile, 
 
 Look from outen it an' smile. 
 
 Den de folkses dey all say 
 
 Ain' she lubly — Missy May! 
 
141 
 
 TO A WOOD THRUSH 
 
 I HEARD thee from the drowsy glade 
 Ere fell the twilight's tender gloom, 
 Across the apple blossom's bloom, 
 I heard thee and my steps were stay'd. 
 
 Far up on yonder elm high 
 An Israfel, the thrasher, sings, 
 Full throated as he proudly flings 
 His florid arias 'cross the sky. 
 
 Within the tangled copse below 
 The catbird mock'd him as he swung 
 Where gold and sapphire banners hung, 
 And flambeaus kindled to a glow. 
 
 But when his brilliant tones were mute 
 Then to the grosbeak's barcarolle, 
 Out from the leafy covert stole 
 The obligate of thy flute. 
 
 Oh! wine of song! Oh, purple wine! 
 Held in the sunset's burnish'd gold, 
 
142 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Did e'er the gods such chalice hold 
 
 Vain may I leave or vainly stir, 
 While from the tuneful underbrush, 
 Thy low, rich voice — Oh ! minstrel thrush ! 
 Holds me a spellbound w^orshipper. 
 
 Oh, evening shade! Oh, w^oodland balml 
 Oh, singer to the closing day! 
 With laggard steps I turn away 
 Thrill'd by the magic of thy lay, 
 Thy nunc dimittis o'er the calm. 
 
143 
 
 TO A CRICKET 
 
 MINSTREL of the silent night 
 Somewhere 'neath my window height, 
 In the grasses, out of sight! 
 To my restless bed of pain 
 Comes to me your shrill refrain, 
 One note — o'er and o'er again. 
 Funny little tune it is, 
 Rather shy of harmonies, 
 Quite staccato is its measure, 
 Yet it rather gives me pleasure, 
 Helps the weary hours to pass, 
 Little fiddler in the grass. 
 Brighter days it seems to bring 
 As I lie here listening. 
 And I wonder what you're for. 
 Unseen little troubador! 
 Serenader, 'neath the moon 
 On these stilly nights in June, 
 What the part that you rehearse 
 In this great big universe? 
 Think of worlds and then a cricket 
 
144 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Rasping In the grassy thicket! 
 
 Is your mission but to play 
 
 These still summer nights away? 
 
 All too shortly do they last, 
 
 All too quickly are they pass'd, 
 
 Wonder! could I guess the riddle 
 
 Minstrel with the rasping fiddle. 
 
 At a venture, I should say, 
 
 As you blithely play away, 
 
 You're musician both to kings 
 
 And to Insect life and things 
 
 That the passing summer brings. 
 
 This Is how it came to me 
 
 What your purpose here might be. 
 
 As I heard you yesternight 
 
 Somewhere 'neath my window height, 
 
 There's a concert on, I said, 
 
 Down there in the flower bed, 
 
 And tho I was not invited 
 
 I felt not the least bit slighted, 
 
 But in fancy saw it all. 
 
 Artists, audience, concert hall. 
 
 Stage — a bit of garden walk 
 
 Edg'd with pinks and poppy stalk. 
 
 There a bit of four leaf'd clover 
 
 With a rose bush hanging over, 
 
 Footlights of the firefly's glow, 
 
 Rang'd before it In a row, 
 
 And for parquet chairs around 
 
TO A CRICKET ^45 
 
 Rose leaves scatter'd o'er the ground. 
 Frescoed canopy o'erspread 
 Of the rose bush overhead, 
 And for light o'er all the scene, 
 Moonlit dewdrops sown between, 
 Little arc lights 'mid the green. 
 Spared was not the least expense, 
 Fashionable the audience, 
 The occasion somewhat rare, 
 All society was there. 
 Near a primrose half way hid 
 Sat the fair Miss Katy Did, 
 Manners stately as a queen, 
 In a gown of palish green. 
 To describe it were in vain, 
 I should say 'twas cut en train. 
 She's a player, too, of note 
 Only one — that someone wrote. 
 Next to her with ogling stare 
 Mr. June Bug — Millionaire! 
 Coat of black and vest of yellow, 
 Much I do dislike the fellow, 
 Cinch he is, yet not a " cinch '* 
 When he gets you in a " pinch ** 
 He will squeeze you then for fair, 
 Trust him not and so — beware! 
 Over there Miss Moth, until her 
 Name was changed to Mrs. Miller, 
 Her gown white as purest snow. 
 
146 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Too bad that she powders so! 
 
 If you doubt it or would scoff 
 
 Touch it and it will come off 
 
 On your fingers thickly laid 
 
 Star dust of the finest grade. 
 
 Mrs. Beetle all in black, 
 
 How it shimmer'd down her back! 
 
 But 'mong all so richly dress'd 
 
 This the gown I liked the best. 
 
 Mistress Lady Bug in red, 
 
 And altho it must be said 
 
 On the back that it was spotted, 
 
 'Twas the fashion — polka dotted. 
 
 She's the pet of all the garden 
 
 Is this little Dolly Varden, 
 
 If you doubt it or deny 
 
 Go and ask young Fire Fly, 
 
 At her side a slyly larking, 
 
 Can't you see him do his *' sparking "? 
 
 'Neath the grape vine is their tryst, 
 
 But — here comes the soloist ! 
 
 Tenor, Signor Mus Quito, 
 
 Bowing to the parquet row. 
 
 Who, despite his foreign name. 
 
 Is familiar — just the same. 
 
 Yes! too well I know the fellow. 
 
 With his high C's soft and mellow 
 
 Stealing round my restless pillow, 
 
 And tho not condoned his stealing. 
 
TO A CRICKET 147 
 
 I admit he sings with feeling; 
 But his song, oft heard before 
 Never yet drew forth encore, 
 Rather left me hot and irate 
 At this bold intruding pirate 
 Who all strangely, by digression, 
 Is a doctor by profession. 
 When on nights so close and thermic 
 Comes he with his hypodermic, 
 Lights on cheek, or nose, or ear. 
 This bloodthirsty buccaneer. 
 Calmly then he straight inserts you 
 Quite regardless tho he hurts you. 
 And his bill, tho you resent it. 
 Just as oft he will present it. 
 And his fee, tho you reject it. 
 Be assured he will collect it. 
 But the hum and buzzing ceases, 
 Now expectancy increases 
 Silence falls upon the throng. 
 Let us listen to his song. 
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Song of the Mus Quito 
 
 I come from the swamp and dank lagoon. 
 To my lady's boudoir winging, 
 In the silvery light of the waning moon. 
 To her lattice I come singing, 
 
148 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 And softly I sing my serenade 
 In the pinkest ear that e'er was made, 
 As I steal in on the cool night shade 
 To the side of my fair one sleeping. 
 
 Sleep, my pretty one, sleep! 
 
 And I thy vigil will keep. 
 
 May you never hear your lover draw near ! 
 
 Your caresses I'll gladly excuse, my dear! 
 
 So sleep my pretty one, sleep! 
 
 The night is silent and still, my dear ! 
 
 And the stars they are deeply burning. 
 
 As I, thy lover, am drawing near. 
 
 With a heart that is fill'd with yearning, 
 
 As I steal a kiss from a ruddy lip, 
 
 Or light on a rosy finger tip, 
 
 And drink wine rarer than kings may sip, 
 
 From my love so softly sleeping. 
 
 Sleep, my pretty one, sleep! 
 
 And I thy vigil will keep, 
 
 May you never hear your lover draw near. 
 
 Your caresses I'll gladly excuse, my dear! 
 
 So sleep, my pretty one sleep, ! 
 
 Her fair young cheek with a rose's blush, 
 Is full exposed from cover. 
 
TO A CRICKET 149 
 
 The moon's asleep and the wind's ahush 
 
 As I sing my love song over. 
 
 And when at last my fill I take, 
 
 I fly away to the misty brake, 
 
 Ere the dawn comes up and the birds awake, 
 
 From the side of my fair one sleeping. 
 
 Sleep, my pretty one, sleep! 
 And the ruby I stole, I'll keep 
 Excuse the theft and forgive the pain, 
 And some other night I will call again, 
 So sleep, my, pretty one, sleep! 
 
 He has finished and has bow'd 
 To the plaudits of the crowd. 
 Such an ending — so to speak. 
 Seems to me a bit of cheek. 
 Which of course he'd rightly own, 
 O'er so many he has flown; 
 But his singing, if confest, 
 Show'd his voice was at its best, 
 And the first time, seems to me, 
 I enjoy'd his concert free. 
 Up here in my balcony. 
 But ere all my praise be spent. 
 Splendid your accompaniment, 
 Little fiddler of the night 
 
I50 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 Playing truly — " out of sight." 
 But, however well you play'd 
 Ne'er the record that you made 
 On a certain well known hearth 
 Playing there for all you're worth, 
 Fiddled into fame and glory, 
 And imperishable story, 
 Something I can never do.. 
 Therefore do I envy you. 
 Well, my tuneful little friend, 
 Comes my guessing to an end ! 
 Only this thing do I know, 
 Little minstrel down below, 
 That whate'er the purpose be 
 Of this great life mystery, 
 'Tis the great Creator's will, 
 You've some mission here to fill, 
 Tho 'twere but to still my pain 
 By your one high key'd refrain 
 Were that mission not in vain. 
 So my comrade of the night, 
 Fiddling 'neath my window height, 
 Near, and yet bej^ond my reach. 
 This the lesson thou dost teach, 
 Tho 'we may not know or see 
 Through Life's meaning — mystery. 
 Through its vast complexity; 
 Tho' my life comes not into thine, 
 Nor thy life enters into mine, 
 
TO A CRICKET 151 
 
 Still — we're in this world together 
 Thro its every stress of weather, 
 You to your lot, I to mine, 
 Thro the rain, the storm, the shine, 
 And tho fiddling on one string 
 Seems a very little thing, 
 I am sure my life would tell 
 Play'd I my part half as well. 
 
152 
 
 AN ALASKAN CATHEDRAL 
 (With permission from Scribner's.) 
 
 Its walls are bound by the ages round, 
 
 Its font is an ice rimm'd sea, 
 
 Its nave is the gorge where the ice packs forge, 
 
 Its dome is Eternity. 
 
 The white drifts swirl 'round its shafts of pearl 
 
 Far up long the shining pass. 
 
 The sunset's glow o'er its crests of snow 
 
 Is its windows of stained glass. 
 
 Oh, man of sin, wouldst thou enter in, 
 Wouldst thou kneel at its glittering shrine, 
 Where the ice bound trail is the chancel rail 
 Far above the last, lone pine? 
 
 Where the twilight falls on its opal walls. 
 And the lights of the night are hung, 
 Where its altar gleams in the starlight beams 
 And its censer, the moon, is swung? 
 
AN ALASKAN CATHEDRAL 153 
 
 Where the silence speaks and the snow clad peaks 
 With their glow of splendid stars, 
 Are the candlesticks and its crucifix 
 Is the North Light's shimmering bars? 
 
 Whose altar cloth nor time nor moth 
 
 Shall tarnish its frost lit sheen, 
 
 'Tis the glacier wide and the needles that plied 
 
 Are icicles, long and lean ? 
 
 Where far on yon heights its acolytes 
 The mists are drawing near, 
 And a surplice falls from its crystal walls. 
 Where the sides are bleak and sheer ? 
 
 Oh, man of sin, wouldst thou enter in, 
 
 Canst thou up to that altar climb, 
 
 Where the snows are driven wouldst thou be 
 
 shriven. 
 Where the moon-lit crystals chime? 
 
 Oh! its crags are bold and the stars are cold, 
 Hast thy spirit then no qualms? 
 When hunger and want like the gray wolf gaunt 
 At its door shall ask of thee alms? 
 
 Far down in its crypt by the ice pack gript. 
 Are forms that are silent and cold. 
 And stifi in its bands are the vandal hands 
 That would rob its coffers of gold. 
 
154 AN OLD FLY BOOK 
 
 In the canyon grim with an avalanche rim 
 Their shroud the storm winds shall hem, 
 From the forest's cowl the gray wolf's howl 
 Shall wail their requiem. 
 
 Oh! man, beware, of those altars fair, 
 
 Of that '* holy of holies " untrod, 
 
 Where the ice crags ring and the planets swing, 
 
 And the only priest is God.