THE AUTHOR IN HIS RETREAT.

Note the string connecting with the camera outside, which captures the birds and little animals on their well-filled table.
(See pages 22 and 23.)

NEAR NATURE’S HEART

A VOLUME OF VERSE

BY
CRAWFORD JACKSON

ATLANTA, GA.
and
GUILFORD, N. C.

FOOTE & DAVIES COMPANY, PRINTERS, ATLANTA
GULBENK ENGRAVING COMPANY, ENGRAVERS, ATLANTA

COPYRIGHT 1923
BY
CRAWFORD JACKSON
(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)

DEDICATED
TO
EVERY CHILD

“Philosophy, to an attentive ear,

Clearly points out, not in one part alone,

How Imitative Nature takes her course

From the celestial mind, and from its art;

And when her laws the Stagirite[1] unfolds,

Not many leaves scann’d o’er, observing well

Thou shalt discover, that thy art on her

Obsequious follows, as the learner treads

In his instructor’s steps; so that your art

Deserves the name of second in descent

From God.”

Dante Alighieri.

FOREWORD

The great artist is one whose whole body becomes a living soul; whose eye gets glimpses into the heart of Nature, with visions of the Supernatural; whose ear hears their inner music, and whose hand produces ecstatic expression of their central force in some revelation of Beauty. And to make his art more real, more nearly perfect, Beauty more beautiful, such artist by contrast often depicts or suggests the deadly but doomed discords of life.

Any inspiring touch I have with Nature makes me less than half content with the best I can say of her. Beyond my increasing love for the rich, old Mother—yet eternally young and myriad formed—I am deeply indebted to F. Schuyler Mathews and his charming “Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music,” especially in suggestions and some illustrations for the “Birds’ Orchestra.” Other acknowledgements are made elsewhere in this little volume of verse, which chances to be my first, and therefore subject to the severer criticism.

C. J.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS

BOB-WHITE.

By F. Schuyler Matthews.

The Birds’ Orchestra

THE DAWN

“Start-right, you-hob-bright!” ’Twas fluted so clear,

It wakened the songsters and startled my ear,

As the King of the morning repelled the dark night,

And the reveille sounded, “All-right! Bob-Bob-White!”

The Mocking-bird earliest answered the call,

And gladly his echoes were welcomed by all,

As each took his place in the Nature-trained choir,

And bird after bird began tuning his lyre.

The songsters had started a sweet roundelay,

When suddenly up bounced a meddlesome Jay.

He wanted to sing,

This feathered thing;

Or brilliant colors to impress,

With spontaneous wantonness;

With spirit too to over-rule,

Like the self-important fashion fool.

In soft monotone crooned the Black-billed Cuckoo,

“Tho not much at singing, I’ll surely beat you.”

Cat Bird.
Photo by the Author.

And Flicker to Jay proclaimed,

“No-cheer from me, no-cheer!”

While the Hooded Warbler, “You-have-no-business-here”!

“I’m a blooming Jay,

I’ll have my way,

Dj-a-y! dj-a-y! dj-a-y!”

Then spoke that brave bird, the yellow-breast Chat:

“Cop! Cop! Shut-him-in-prison-and-send-for-the-cat.”

And King bird commanded with spirit irate,

“Away with you, Blue Jay—or I’ll pounce on your pate.”

And the Jay slipped away,

With a sure word of peace,

For such glad release:

“Ge-rul-lup!

Jig’s-all-up!”

YOUNG SCREECH OWL.
Photo by Rev. Wallace Rogers.

Then Wisdom’s proud bird, that old mystical fake,

While breakfasting late on a daring young snake,

Cried “Boo to y-o-u, hoot for y-o-u! Who-whoo—are-y-o-u?”

Till down in my heart I felt humbled anew.

But hope was revived by an echo of Night—

For Night has her echoes and pledges of Light—

“You can, if you will, a high mission fulfill.”

Insistently whistled the lone Whip-poor-will.

Then all grew still

O’er vale and hill

And the echo came back:

“You can, if you will.”

The sun poured forth his flood of pure gold

On Nature’s great chorister birdlings of old,

When wide circling throngs made the welkin resound

With the liveliest chatter, “Let joy go round.”

Then flashed through the air a ruby tinged light,

Like an arrow of glory soon lost to my sight.

When lo! it returned—a bird that ne’er sings,

Though his music is borne in the hum of his wings:

HUMMING BIRD.
By F. Schuyler Matthews.

“I fly, yet rest,

In swiftest quest,

Of flowers best,

With their sweetest, nectared off’rings.”

And my heart sang out with a jubilant cry,

“O for poise and feasting in tension so high.”

While the Humming bird sipped his choicest wine,

The musicians came to a sudden pause;

Each singer’s eye was a-gaze like mine—

And the wonder of bird-land received their applause.

The fun-makers followed, the gay Bobolinks,

With comical solo and musical kinks!

“You’d better think,

Flippant Chewink,

’Tis the finest of sport,”

Sang Bobolink.

And said Bob, “Be true to me, be true to me;

Kick your slipper, kick your slipper;[2]

Be true to me—old Nick’s the whipper!”

And over the pond, on bending cat-tails,

The red-shouldered Black-birds were piping their gales,

As they swung to and fro with a blithe “Con-quer-ee,”

And their mates made reply—“O’er-the-lea, come-to-me!”

From the Meadow-lark’s throat came a livelier strain,

“All hail to the bridegroom and those in his train;

“And greet the fair bride in her gay-feathered veil,

She’ll build a snug nest for the babies—all hail!”

From Oriole there, like a glad whistling boy,

Came fragments of melody thrilling with joy:

“I sing as I work—

This vantage men shirk—

And music I blend

With care of the children and house that I tend.”

Then on came the Finches in rollicking glee,

With Grosbeak and Chippy and plaintive Pewee;

And every one’s note rang as clear as a bell,

With the swing of love’s passion and deep growing spell.

“Per-chick-o-ree!

Now, don’t you see

The song in me

Is ecstasy?”

Thus jingled the Goldfinch in musical run,

As he dipped up and down in the waves of the sun;

Like golden-robed, sable winged fairy he flew

Across his wide world of cerulean blue.

WHITE THROATED SPARROWS.
Photo by the Author.

The White throated Sparrow, a provident bird,

Revealed deepest wisdom in simplest word;

“Sow wheat and sow plenty—oh yes, sow a plenty,

Though Peverly’s small he has hunger of twenty.”

“When the granary’s full, and reapers go feastin’,

I’ll cheer you ag’in, with my fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’,

The long hours through, a-fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’.”[3]

A versatile singer, an artist o’er shy,

Now uplifted his voice to his Maker on high.

No pause in the rhythm of the Song Sparrow’s lay;

And I pondered and wondered as on flew the day:

“Is this high Art’s way?”

While still rolled his “swee-e-t, swee-e-t, bitter”—[4]

The philosophy of life, from a plain, little flitter.

Pond’ring I lingered and forgot me to eat,

A captive held fast in fair Nature’s retreat.

BLUEBIRD AND FAMILY.
Photo by the Author.

The Oven-bird graceful, misnamed “the preacher,”

Proudly sang out, “I’m-a-teacher, a TEACHER;”

And Maryland Yellow-throat piped, “What a pity,

You can’t sing a sweet, old-fashioned ditty!

What a pity!”

From the wayside just then came a mocking “meow;”

“If the rest of you follow, I’ll join in the row;

“And why not now?

A fuss somehow—

Meow, meow!”

But lo! the voice softened and turned to a tune,

Repeating the bird’s notes that glad day in June.

With soft-flowing accent the good Chickadee

Said “dear me,” and added a sweet “amity.”

YOUNG MALE CARDINAL TRYING TO
LIGHT ON BOUQUET OF FLOWERS.
Snapped by the Author.

And Blue-Bird’s grave “purity,” Robin’s gay “cheer”

Were songs as delightful as lovers may hear;

While Red-headed Woodpecker, ever after his rum,

Kept beating and beating his sweet tree drum.

The Cardinal came with his bright crimson crest,

And sang for his bride as she fashioned her nest;

But Toxaway’s[5] rival gave forth the echo,

“Kid-dów, Kid-dów, Kid-dów!”

Now list to the out-flow from the topmost tree,

Coming down from the Thrasher in perfect frenzy;

The birds and I marvelled as he swept on alone,

Now high, and now low, now a thrilled overtone.

THRASHER’S ADMIRATION.
Photo by Author.

And lo! just then,

A voice—a Wren,

From a fern-lit glen,

Burst forth like a rippling fountain of life,

Rebuking old Mars with his death-dealing strife;

And it seemed that I caught for the sons of men,

The lost chord of an angel in the song of the Wren.

Discord now from birds as black as night:

“Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Screamed a full score,

Or even more,

Till stones by me hurled put them all to flight.

Again was felt a pause, a silence deep,

When four of the feathered friends who copy song,

Were planning fain their secret, potent word,

Worthy of the wisest of mankind;

The proud quartette then took the airy stage:

Cardinal

By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and P. Schuyler Matthews, Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.”

“They call us imitators evermore,

And this forever be our life and joy,

For master angels whispered unto us,

‘Follow song and God, and rise to life,

Aye, ever, ever more.’”

HIGH NOON

The sun had climbed high and as birdlings should feast,

My morsel I finished and fell fast asleep;

And dreamed a sweet dream, so rich and so deep,

Till arches of gold reached the rose-portaled east,

Aye! West wedded East and their glories increased—

A dream so sweet,

And marvelous meet;

My soul took wings,

Though captive my feet,

And uplifted high midst eternal springs,

My heart again heard an old, new word:

“Prophetic and incomplete

All earthly things.”

In bright, celestial realm they sweeter sang,

The happy birds that blessed my spell-bound soul,

Upraised to that high world, without a pang.

I saw a shining One with mystic scroll,

The which He, smiling, waved, in full control

Of birds and beings, translated from the earth,

From every land to a great, inviting Goal.

Enthralled by the mighty throng in sacred mirth—

Ah now, me-thought, has come with joy my highest birth!

Angels were rising, many and swift and sheen;

While others, likewise moving with rhythmic grace,

Descending in sweetest song, were heard and seen—

All clothed in the beauteous light of the Father’s face.

Those downward-going bore, in charming case,

The melodies which men and birds might make.

The rising throng made perfect the chords apace

Produced below, ecstatic in their wide wake;

I longed to tarry ever there, without a break.

TWILIGHT

But ho! Presto-“Bob-White! Bob, Bob-White!”

“I announced the morn and now the night.”

Bestirred in the gloaming by Bob-White’s last call,

I awakened to music the sweetest of all.

The flutelike peals of the Thrush of the wood

Still bound me to the world of angelhood.

But the depths of my soul had the holiest hush,

As the organ note rose of the Hermit Thrush.

He climbed to the heights where I too would arise,

But no one may soar with that pride of the skies.

I then asked my heart, “Pray, what is all this?

Why experience birds such wonderful bliss?”

My soul was on fire,

From Nature’s great choir,

As the glad mounting symphony

Climbed higher and higher.

“Is it all of this world, or is it of Heaven?

To birds and to me is this paradise given?”

I longed to understand,

If ’twas place or state,

For all so harmonious and elate;

When responded a three-fold, wondrous band:

The birds replied,

“Life, Life be our earth-celestial theme;”

The angels cried,

“Love and Beauty make any place a-gleam;”

The great who’d died,

“In every state, our song and service to redeem.”

Lo, the shining One waved high his mystic scroll,

And many joined in a sweet but thunderous whole:

“Music flows from a vaster, purer Stream—

Know now, O longing soul,

The vital, eternal scheme

Of Heaven and earth,

From their far off birth,

Is to reach on after the deeper, perfect Goal.”

And, like the voice of ten thousand trumpeters,

“Alleluia to Him Supreme,

The all-embracing, all-out giving Soul!”

To this from creatures numberless rang out a great “Amen”

And again from every heart that sings

In creation’s vast domain:

“On, forever on, in Heaven’s aureole,

Let praise and power roll—

Alleluia, Amen!”

MY PRAYER TO TRUTH

Take thou my soul, O Truth, and make me whole,

And gently lead me on eternally.

My eager fancy flies from pole to pole,

To singing star and the ever surging sea—

O stay thou me!

Thru ages past the search has been for thee;

The sage and prophet, vacillating King

And statesmen call aloud for liberty

And light and all beneath thy gracious wing;

To thee the poets sing.

Yet of inquirers many, whoso finds?

Where hidest thou? Point me thy high abode.

Art thou in books? Ah, no! In these there winds

The dusty road of men. Sing me thy ode,

Thy perfect code.

Thou art I know; and sweet and pure thy balm,

Which solaced oft my sorrow-burdened soul;

But leavest not the biding, crowning palm,

Nor faultless portion, pointing to thy goal;

While troubles roll.

Why, when a-thirst and hungry, should I wander,

Some while in want; anon, a feast most fine?

Yet never full; some pressing, ravenous pander

Prepared to steal from me earth’s passing wine;

Pray give me thine.

Some secrets sweet are mine, but oh how few,

Compared to richest bounty which must be

In thy pure heart and home—why not my due?

Will I some day find hid thy mystic key?

Lead on thou me.

My youthful joys and heights of yester-year,

Were bright and buoyant, satisfying then;

But they have gone for aye. More calls I hear;

They charm me onward to some larger ken;

But, O Truth, when?

If all I may not know, then serve will I,

Submissive to each load and yoke thou givest,

Like the plaintless, faithful ox, without a sigh;

But soon I plead: “I poorly live; thou richly livest,

And oft receivest

“Me for some higher service still—but where?

For whom? Why serve and not be satisfied?

Why toil on land and sea, and burdens bear,

Without thy joy? O be my willing bride!”

My poor heart cried.

And lo, I saw encaged a joy-filled bird,

And one a-wing in song, as blithe as free;

A cooing babe I caught, in love preferred—

Knowledge, service, song, O Truth, found me;

And I found Thee.

A SCENE IN WASHINGTON, N. C.

A modern coach and four,

A kitchen and a store,

With wieners evermore,

In Washington.

The billies have no speed,

But much of grit and greed,

And goats show grace indeed,

In Washington.

They pull and butt for Jim,

And else they do for him,

From heart to outer rim,

Of Washington.

The goats have feet and horns,

And Jim no painful corns;

’Tis peace and no forlorns,

In Washington.

No man can get Jim’s “goat,”

For bonds he’ll buy and float—

A scheme not far remote,

In Washington.

LITTLE NAPLES BY THE SEA

In little Naples by the sea

The birds join in their jubilee,

Where long-leaved pine and royal palm

Exhale the breath of their fragrant balm,

In little Naples by the sea.

The sea responds by day and night,

With a stately choral of life and might;

And when his storms arise and rage,

He spares the hamlet of winsome age,

The modest Naples by the sea.

And many an eve the sun will make

His matchless glories till men awake

To find the sea, the land, the sky

Reset with gems for the artist’s eye;

In lovely Naples by the sea.

And so there come to this favored spot

The young and old to cast their lot,

Near Nature’s healing heart, and rest,

Like a child on his loving mother’s breast—

In quiet Naples by the sea.

Here roamed the happy Seminole,

And peacefully here possessed his soul,

Till thrust away by men of skill,

The conquering whites, with greedy will—

In unborn Naples by the sea.

E’er Indian came, the troglodyte

Reigned in his cave by a primal right;

And ages and ages remoter still,

Flew monsters of hideous claw and bill

O’er charming Naples yet to be.

A long ascent from warring snakes,

From reptilian waters and slimy lakes,

To singing birds and mirthful men,

To smiling mothers and sportive children,

In balmy Naples by the sea.

But higher still to the coming man,

To great sons of Art in her perfect plan;

To the glorious day when hulking clods,

Transmuted to men, are ranked with gods,

In little Naples by the sea!

THE FAMILY OF MY FRIEND JONES

The seven[6] children of my friend Jones,

Have each of them a lot of bones,

To grow and strengthen, or else to break

Beneath life’s burdens or sudden quake,

Mid the wide and varied warring zones,

Of the seven children of my friend Jones.

But seven, you know, is the perfect plan;

It stands for all that’s the best in man—

In his youthful days and ripest years,

In his joys and sorrows, high hopes and fears;

’Tis God’s own number—away with groans!

For seven times blessed is my friend Jones.

In logical order the eighth arrived,

And, take it from me, they all revived;

With one accord and high hearted aim,

They gave to the eighth the greatest name;

They all prepared with love’s sweet loans,

To make him the most famous of my friend Jones.

But youth is still his, and his good wife’s too,

His only sweetheart forever true;

And the Father’ll be pleased their quiver to fill,

For a heritage large is his manifest will,

If here and hereafter no dullards and drones,

But all active and cheerful like my friend Jones.

ONE OF THE NINE AMBITIONS TO RISE.

On the fifteenth month, and one August morn

The ninth leaps to life, another boy is born.

What the Lord commanded, my friend hath willed,

“Increase” is the law, and the law’s fulfilled;

Yet not ceaseless order, with nine vying tones

In the growing family of my friend Jones.

Such a happy man, for to all a friend;

Not a Hottentot would Jones offend;

And chiming in church or turning the sod,

My friend is ever the friend of God.

May the buoyant family all mount thrones—

Then eternally blessed, my friend Jones.

My mind sweeps on to a Kingdom vast,

To numberless children who’ll come at last,

As sons of the Highest on a shining shore,

There to play and sing forever more—

In the temple of God great living stones,

And some from the family of my friend Jones.

Veery celebrating the King’s Marriage.

The original, with male and female Veery, furnished by courtesy National Association Audubon Societies, with changes by the Author’s Artist.

THE KING’S MARRIAGE

Look, look, look!

My soul,

At that high favored Sun;

With smiling face,

And matchless grace,

The King hath Beauty won.

Look, look, look!

My longing soul,

My hungry, ravished heart—

Most gorgeous role

In Nature’s whole,

Surpassing man’s high art!

Look, look, look!

Every open eye and mind,

Every yearning soul of mortal—

The Master’s acme for mankind;

Ye stars, look down and glory find.

Look!

Beauty glides toward the portal.

With parting day,

I watch the twain as they go;

I watched and sighed,

As heaven and sorrowing earth below,

And hosts of both were heard to say,

“O why may Beauty not abide?

The King and Queen made one at eventide,

And then in secret chambers hide!”

“Stay, stay, stay!”

My soul out-cries,

“For Beauty fleeth fast,

Nor nuptials last,

And darkening skies”—

And lo, the royal pair had passed;

But left their image in my eyes,

And in my living soul.

THE HERMIT THRUSH[7]

(Published in the Methodist Review, July, 1919).

O little artist, of rarest modesty,

Why hide thyself and sing?

Thy music fills my soul with ecstasy,

And makes the woodland ring.

Draw near, draw near, thou shy, yet happy one;

I plead with thee—draw near;

I’d share thy rapture; ’twould be heaven begun;

O Hermit sweet, appear.

Still thou wilt not, and while I long and dream

Of all that’s best for us—

The King, His primal ministers—what gleam

Of highest genius?

Sing on, elusive bird, in thy retreat,

Songs to my waiting soul;

Some day inviting rounds will be complete,

Some day, the promised goal.

And then some disappearing portion high,

Some joy just out of reach;

The more immortals yield to devotion’s tie,

The more must they beseech.

Sing on, blest bird, beyond my poor purview,

But near my home and heart:

“I love, I love, I LOVE; yes I love YOU!”[8]

This, thy crescendo art.

I find myself quite charmed, yet almost lost,

At the modern opera grand;

What stirs my soul so deep, what I love most,

Thy song—and I understand.

But O that I could see thy beaming eye—

Mine eye on thee, all song!

Why so secretive, yet seductive—why?

My suit, renewed, so strong.

That tree, those leaves around thee—if they knew

Their day and honored hour,

Each leaf and branch would homage pay, thy due,

Aflame with joy that bower.

Such rich and rounded notes proceed from thee,

Enchanting naiveté:

From sleep thou wakest me with highborn glee,

When comes the King of day.

At eventide thou callest me to prayer,

More clear than churchly chime,

In wood and sky, in pure, perfumed air—

His temple, thine and mine.

No passing wonder, sing Nightingales

In Russ or Tuscan clime;

No hope have they in these Columbic vales

To match thy tones and time.

THE HERMIT THRUSH.

Like cooling streams in a parched, desert land,

To thirsting souls and worn;

Like evening’s changing charms, no artist’s hand

Can set in painted bourn;

Like sweetest dreams to troubled hearts in slumbers,

Uplift to heaven’s heights—

Just so thy symphonies, heard in rolling numbers,

Thy high and holy flights.

O anchoret, near Nature’s heart, again

I pray, come forth and sing.

Ah, there—O joy! I glimpsed thee, Hermit fain—

Now gone on gentle wing.

My eye too piercing, and my quest too keen,

Unfathomable bird.

Once more contented I—remain unseen,

And yet thy harmony heard.

This I have found, as fast thou holdeth me:

Thou startest full, and risest;

And all doth thrill—sweet, moving melody,

Climbing to the highest.

No pipe, no flute, organ or organist,

Can reach thine allegro,

And thy cadenza, thou transcendentalist—

’Tis music with naught of woe.

Whence come from singers proud their hard-won notes?

In truth from the music master,

By repetition oft and untrained throats—

To hearers, near disaster.

The master’s whence, the singing pioneer,

Great Haydn or Beethoven?

Sing on, my thrilling thrush, but wilt thou hear?

From thee, and thou from Heaven!

Long hours I’ve listened lone, in deep delight,

To thy glad musicals;

And when I breathe my last, O anchorite,

Sing soft angelicals.

Turtle Dove and Bluebirds.

Chipmunk—Note his pockets
well-filled with grain to be
carried to his granary.

“Brownie,” a young pet Thrasher, raised by Artena.

At Lunch—Snapped at the Memphis Zoo.

Pet Macaw. See p. 84.

His Majesty,
The Swan.

Photos by the Author.

MY RETREAT

Young Green Heron.

To my retreat now come with me,

And love the place that’s wild and free,

Where Chipmunks play and Wood Thrush sings;

Where a lucid lake invites and brings

The proud offspring of Liberty.

The Wren is there, the Chickadee,

And many more that come in glee,

On nimble feet or shining wings,

To my retreat—

The birds of sky and fish of the sea,

The cunning things that charming be;

And there the Cardinal often rings

His notes of joy to songster-lings—

All these and I have bidden thee

To my retreat.

Photos by the author.

THE MOCKING-BIRD

Hilarious bird, hast thou a soul,

Now here, now there

In tree and air,

So free and fair?

Thy tones rush forth a rounded whole,

Inviting the heart to some sweet goal,

Like poet rare,

Beyond compare.

Hast thou a mind, a musical mind?

Who answers “nay”?

Or night or day,

Thy tuneful lay

Brings joy and grief; myself I find

In my inmost soul left far behind;

Yet I essay

The wondrous way.

“Borrowed notes” they dub thy variation;

Nor is that all

In thy charmed call;

I rise, though small,

To laud thy rhythmic re-creation,

Thy prompt and hearty liberation

Of life notes new which me enthrall,

Without man’s pride, and fall.

I hear thee sing as Lark and Nightingale,[9]

Thy kindred sweet;

Palm Warbler meet

Thou dost repeat,

And modest, tawny Veery of the vale;

Thy music upward leads, and I inhale

Incense replete,

In thy retreat.

As in a dream I hear all tones combine

In Love’s embrace;

And there I see thy topmost place,

O Psyche of thy race!

Mocking-bird

By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and F. Schuyler Matthews, Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.”
Sketched originally for this volume.

Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine;

For this my soul must alway pine,

With upturned face,

For lyric grace.

Quintessence of event is thine and life;

What soul hath more

On sea or shore,

Now or afore?

Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife

With music, as no magic flute or fife—

Tis varied lore,

Forever more.

Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man,

Brave bird and bright;

Harmonic flight

Is thy delight.

Whenever was it thou did’st plan

Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can?

Without foresight

Thy runic rite.

Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour,

Produce thy chart,

Feel thrills of heart

Of thine, nor part

With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower,

Returning quick, possessing all thy power,

With no life mart

But music art;

Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken,

And glad bestow

Rich magic flow

On all below.

Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen?

But daring flight, until the poet pen

With thee shall glow

Like a sun-lit bow.

More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine,

As thou dost give,

As I love and live,

Is mine; thy nature is forever thine,

But by mutation mystic, yet benign,

As I with joy receive

Thy varied amative,

Is also mine,

In God’s own shrine.

THE JAY AND I—A DIALOGUE

“What’s that you say, you funny Jay?

I like your beauty, but not your way,

Though fond of all the winged tribe.

Is it hoo-ray,

Or some hey-day?”

Then Jay began his varied gibe:

“I’m a Blue Jay;

That’s what I say;

Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

(How will he myself describe,

With naught from me that he’ll imbibe?)

“I’ve more display,

More in my yea,

More in my nay,

Than you convey;

Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“’Tis true, Blue Jay, but too much pride;

You shout and rouse the country side;

Nor can I see

The fun or glee,

For birds or me

In your vanity.

Whoever is it such can bide?

You dashing Jay, you want my hide?”

“Never a day;

I’m a Blue-ming Jay

With top-knot gay,

And mine to stay—

Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“More pomp you have than all your fellows;

All who see you,

All who hear you—

‘I’m the Jay Blue

With a top-knot too—’

All wonder why you strain your bellows.”

“Hoo-ray! hoo-ray!—back to the wall!

When I’m stirred up, I always squall,

Retreat, I say,

You bunch of clay,

Away; away!

I’m King Blue Jay,

A monarch here and lord of all;

Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“But listen, Jay, just stop a spell—

On Friday, luckless day, they tell,

That you will dare to visit hell;

’Tis only Friday,

But always Friday—

If there you stray.

Then why I pray?”

“It’s not your business, know you well,

Why I on Friday go to hell.[10]

Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“My final word you may forestall;

But I tell you plainly pride must fall;

Old Pride is evil, born of the devil.”

While flouncing so free

In a white oak tree,

Quite noisily,

He answered me,

With piercing eye, and look of evil:

“Hoo-ray! hoo-ray!

I’m a blooming Jay—

The devil, you say?

It’s all my way—

Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

NATURE’S HEART

I search for Nature’s heart beneath her dome,

All free from jarring sounds;

Out there my hungry spirit seeks a home,

Out there, my feasting grounds.

I love the giant oak, the poplar and the pine,

Aye, balmful to my soul;

I greet my feathered friends, and they combine

To make me captive whole.

I find no ghoul-like demon of the wood,

Nor siren from the sea;

A spirit high begets my ardent mood,

But yields not me the key.

And dreaming in the vale, or on a mountain height,

Awed by the great abyss,

My soul doth plead an everlasting right,

“The secret of all this?”

Both wild and winning are Mother Nature’s ways,

Many, varied, one;

In all she sings my soul her mystic lays,

From flower to rolling sun.

But oh to understand the purpose of her heart,

Her princely, hidden life;

Just what or who unfolds the vital part,

Despite dark death and strife.

O Faunus tell—return to earth and speak

The word that satisfies;

Or haughty mountain give, or valley meek,

The answer to my cries.

The gods are silent all! But drink may I

Of Nature’s founts o’er flowing;

I feel her throbs of heart in earth and sky,

And loving leads to knowing.

Henceforth, of all the wines of gods and men,

To me give Nature’s nectar;

Of all the feeble songs of tongue and pen

From every dull director—

Oh give me Nature’s rich and ripest lore,

Her palaces and poses;

Her peaceful ways and rest, her fullest store

Of pure Pierian roses.

Ah, this I know—’tis all I need to know—

The great Mother has her plan;

With God she labors long, at last to show

Her perfect child and man.

A NIGGER AND A MULE

I’ve lived in the city, I’ve sailed the wide sea;

I’ve studied in many and many a school;

I’ve sat at the feet of the bond and free,

And a lot has come to a fellow like me,

Since a new ground I plowed with a balky mule,

But I’ve lived to see balky and a nigger fool.

No deep-seated scorn of the African fool—

There’s plenty like him from the hills to the sea;

’Tis the union of nigger and a stubborn mule,

That surpasses the sport of an all-round school,

If not for professor for fun-loving me,

And as long as I’m playful, my play shall be free.

Aye friend, ’tis a wonderful thing to be free,

Though many a free man I’d call a fool,

And no doubt some of them would thus entitle me,

Though tutored in the city, the college and the sea

Yet the nigger and hybrid, I’d take for a school;

For ’tis hard to beat a pure nigger and a mule.

But a “coon” in new ground, with a kicking mule!

Just so I am far from his heels and am free

To look, and to listen like a pupil in school;

Though frankly I admit, I at times played the fool,

Till the lessons of life had widened my sea,

And harder experience had deepened me.

Ye fates, do not bring the worst unto me,

That of trying to handle a nondescript mule,

In a rooty new ground—O the depths of the sea

I’d choose, in the hope with the fish to be free;

However, such choosing would prove me a fool—

No applicant I for a sea-bottom school.

Since I’ve come to think, ’twas a German-tried school;

And a submarine ship was never for me;

And the proudest old Hun thus out-reached the fool.

But behold, you elect, a nigger and a mule,

In new ground in August—thank God I am free!

I’m only a witness on a smoother sea.

God bless his wide sea, and the nigger in school;

And all men make free—’twould be heaven for me—

And God bless the poor mule, and the mule-headed fool.

By L. Gregg

VIRGINIA’S NATURAL BRIDGE

Photo by The Author.

How pleasing the wonders of Nature—how varied and how vast,

And the mystery of all the unknown doth hold me firm and fast;

For so the Creator ordained that men should seek and know;

That the heart of man may ever rise and forever flow,

From pebble small in singing brook to yonder neighboring star;

From star to a wider system and on to worlds afar.

’Tis only infinite mind can bridge the space between,

Our planet and greater sun and constellations seen,

Beyond which are stars yet farther, the living and the dead,

And they tell us there are millions larger in the boundless spread.

Imagination wearies of so vast an evolution,

But glories in the love of Him who planned such contribution.

The spider doth weave and swing his tiny, fragile bridge,

And man in his nobler work doth span from ridge to ridge;

But when men become as gods, and angels as such men,

With dominion of Jehovah and his transcendent ken,

Ah many a mansion shall we visit in our Father’s home,

As we fly beneath his banner, with ages and ages to roam.

’Tis a fathomless universe, but the plan eternal is one,

On which good men and angels may forever run,

O’er many a threatening torrent here, chasm, wide and great;

And ever man and gods shall their new links create—

Some for service and for song, and some for wonder and delight;

And some time, somewhere the Bridge—to everlasting light.

THE MIGHT OF MATUTINAL MUSIC

When awaking from dreams completely refresht,

My body reclining still;

With a soul alive and a heart at rest,

And master too of my will—

When the sun doth cast ambitious rays,

Foretelling afar his race;

And my heart is clothed with the garment of praise

By an all pervading grace—

When I hear the psalm of the gifted Thrush,

With a song of a mountain stream,

And a child’s sweet laugh, while the morn’s a-flush,

When Nature is all a-gleam—

Ah, then my soul is thrilled with delight

And my mind sweeps every sea,

’Tis then I possess my musical might,

And the angels visit me.

Photos by the Author.

A PERPETUAL KING

In a King on a throne and a King there to stay,

You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright.

There are blessings for you and the men far away,

In a King on a throne and a King there to stay.

His robe is pure white, but the proud make it gay;

Ah, what mercy, what power and amazing foresight

In a King on a throne and a King there to stay—

You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright!

THE COTTON GIN

At a cotton gin the King’s made thin,

Yet never shows the least chagrin,

In his sunny home in Dixie’s land,

That rich and poor may live and win.

He’s trifled with, but will not sin

Amongst his subjects, nor his kin,

Although he feels the iron band

At a cotton gin.

More just the King than a mandarin,

And I often think the cherubin

Would like themselves to understand

His long, rich round, and then command

At a cotton gin.

THE COTTON MILL

In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill

Weave many a spindle and loom;

And lake and lawn, with art’s own skill,

In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill;

Yes, church and school and much to fill

The mind with hope and buoyant bloom—

In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill,

Weave many a spindle and loom.

MY OWN LITTLE GIRL

I’ve covered many and many a mile;

I’ve seen the setting of many a sun;

I have oft been charmed by the infant’s smile,

Pondering gladly life’s journey begun.

I’ve met with the great and small not a few;

I’ve sat at the feet of the learned knight,

I’ve stood on the stage with Gentile and Jew,

Addressing the throng by day and by night.

I’ve witnessed the way of the meek and wise,

Ah, the vanishing joy of the greedy;

And more has come under my eager eyes,

Seeing the re-filled cup of the needy.

But never a joy I’ve felt was my own—

Which bachelor old and maiden know not—

Is equal to that when I return home,

My humble home, yet delectable spot,

And take to my heart my own little girl,

All laughter and love—the joy of my life.

Right here let me rest, far away the mad whirl,

And feast on pure love, free from all strife.

My own little girl,

My priceless pearl,

With dance of delight,

A musical sprite—

My Artena.

With hair of pure gold,

With heart never cold,

Who learns with a zest,

And strives for the best—

My Artena.

Ten years old today—

And never to decay—

May she aye be sweet,

And at length complete,

My Artena.

MY BUTTERFLY[11]

My Butterfly, my wondrous Butterfly,

Forsaking temple great, thou choosest me,

When form and burnished wings arrive—I see

With joy, as ne’er before, thy glory nigh.

We journey through the city, thou and I,

In store and street with joined hearts and free,

While men admire thy trust and amity,

But wonder not in thee, nor question why.

At length thy wings bedecked with Heaven’s art,

Begin to wave, as Nature planned, and east

Thou farest forth with grace, but to my heart

Thou ever clingest still. Fly on and feast

On nectar such as men have never wrought;

In thee is trust and love and, why not, thought?

Was That Somebody I?

O child of hope, why left to go astray,

And rend this heart of mine?

Some one knew not, nor cared what ruthless way

You wend—once babe benign—