Songs Out of Doors | Page 6

with you;?And in the lingering pressure of your kiss?My dreams come true;?And in the promise of your generous eyes?I read the mystic sign?Of joy more perfect made?Because so long delayed,?And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
Ah, think not early love alone is strong;?He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait:?Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,?You're doubly dear because you come so late.
SPRING IN THE SOUTH
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,?Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings;?Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling;?Every little pine-wood grows alive with wings;?Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying,?Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass,?Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,--?Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass?
Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing,?Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn,?Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing,?Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn.?Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning;?Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest;?Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining?Jove's golden shower into Dan?e's breast!
Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted,?Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose,?Far o'er the hills a tender haze is drifted,?Full to the brim the yellow river flows.?Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten,?Greener than emeralds shining in the sun.?Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen!?The mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun.
Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!?All of his heart he pours into his lay,--?"Love, love, love, and pure delight of living:?Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!"?Fair in your face I read the flowery presage,?Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth:?Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,--?Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!
1904.
HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM
I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure";?But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure;?An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks,?To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.
It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring,?But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing;?The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high,?But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.
It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes,?Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!?Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign;?But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.
She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow; Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,-- A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail--?But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.
She's loopin' down the hillside,--the driffs is fadin' out. She's runnin' down the river,--d'ye see them risin' trout??She's loafin' down the canyon,--the squaw-bed's growin' blue, An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.
A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between,?Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green;?With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick, An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candlestick!
The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around,?Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground;?A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink;?So saddle up, my sonny,--it's time to ride, I think!
We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge;?We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge;?We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire,?An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.
We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear; An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer; But nary a heathen goddess or 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