Songs Out of Doors | Page 7

god 'ill meet our eyes;
For why? There isn't any! They're
jest a pack o' lies!
Oh, wot's the use o' "red gods," 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.
THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING

TO OLIVE WHEELER
Winter on Mount Shasta,
April down below;
Golden hours of
glowing sun
Sudden showers of snow!
Under leafless thickets

Early wild-flowers cling;
But, oh, my dear, I'm fain to hear
The first
bird o' Spring!
Alders are in tassel,
Maples are in bud;
Waters of the blue McCloud

Shout in joyful flood;
Through the giant pine-trees
Flutters many
a wing;
But, oh, my dear, I long to hear
The first bird o' Spring!
Candle-light and fire-light
Mingle at "the Bend";
'Neath the roof of
Bo-hai-pan
Light and shadow blend.
Sweeter than a wood-thrush

A maid begins to sing;
And, oh, my dear, I'm glad to hear
The first
bird o' Spring!
The Bend, California, April 29, 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 Dickey'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,
Splashing 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-fishing
I'll be with him in well-wishing.
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 grass
While the lazy hours pass,
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.
A NOON-SONG
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
For sunrise
and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the
fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;

When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With his face to the
way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength!
How slowly he crept
as the morning wore by!
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at
length
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the

sun looks down from his journey's crown,
To the wonderful way of
the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
The wings of the wind
in the forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all still,

The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
The hour that calms the breast!

Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where it follows the turn
to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to
an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
To
sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
Oh, the deep noon, the full
noon,
Of all the day the best!
When the blue sky burns, and the
great sun turns
To his home by the way of the west!
1906.
TURN O' THE TIDE
The tide flows in to the harbour,--
The bold tide, the gold tide, the
flood o' the sunlit sea,-- And the little ships riding at anchor,
Are
swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting To lift their
wings to the wide wild air,
And venture a voyage they know not
where,--
To fly away and be free!
The tide runs out of the harbour,--
The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb
o' the moonlit bay,-- And the little ships rocking at anchor,
Are
rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning To breathe
the breath of the sun-warmed strand,
To rest in the lee of the high hill
land,--
To hold their haven and stay!
My heart goes round with the vessels,--
My wild heart, my child heart,
in love