Part 63 (1/2)

Oh, wot's the use o' ”red G.o.ds,” an' ”Pan,” an' all that stuff?

The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff!

An' if there's Someone made 'em, I guess He understood, To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.

California, 1913.

A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES

For Archie Rutledge

Here's a half-a-dozen flies, Just about the proper size For the trout of d.i.c.key's Run,-- Luck go with them every one!

Dainty little feathered beauties, Listen now, and learn your duties: Not to tangle in the box; Not to catch on logs or rocks, Boughs that wave or weeds that float, Nor in the angler's ”pants” or coat!

Not to lure the glutton frog From his banquet in the bog; Nor the lazy chub to fool, Splas.h.i.+ng idly round the pool; Nor the sullen horned pout From the mud to hustle out!

None of this vulgarian crew, Dainty flies, is game for you.

Darting swiftly through the air Guided by the angler's care, Light upon the flowing stream Like a winged fairy dream; Float upon the water dancing, Through the lights and shadows glancing, Till the rippling current brings you, And with quiet motion swings you, Where a speckled beauty lies Watching you with hungry eyes.

Here's your game and here's your prize!

Hover near him, lure him, tease him, Do your very best to please him, Dancing on the water foamy, Like the frail and fair Salome, Till the monarch yields at last; Rises, and you have him fast!

Then remember well your duty,-- Do not lose, but land, your booty; For the finest fish of all is _Salvelinus Fontinalis._

So, you plumed illusions, go, Let my comrade Archie know Every day he goes a-fis.h.i.+ng I'll be with him in well-wis.h.i.+ng.

Most of all when lunch is laid In the dappled orchard shade, With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too, Sitting as we used to do Round the white cloth on the gra.s.s While the lazy hours pa.s.s, And the brook's contented tune Lulls the sleepy afternoon,-- Then's the time my heart will be With that pleasant company!

June 17, 1913.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A deeper crimson in the rose, A fir-tree standeth lonely A flawless cup: how delicate and fine A little fir grew in the midst of the wood A mocking question! Britain's answer came A silent world,--yet full of vital joy A silken curtain veils the skies, A tear that trembles for a little while Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, Afterthought of summer's bloom!

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, All along the Brazos River, All day long in the city's canyon-street, All hail, ye famous Farmers!

All night long, by a distant bell All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, At sunset, when the rosy light was dying

Children of the elemental mother, ”Clam O! Fres' Clam!” How strange it sounds and sweet, Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death!

Come home, my love, come home!

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, Count not the cost of honour to the dead!

Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, _Deeds not Words_: I say so too!