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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/36831-8.txt b/36831-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..48cc14c --- /dev/null +++ b/36831-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2358 @@ +Project Gutenberg's A Tree with a Bird in it:, by Margaret Widdemer + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Tree with a Bird in it: + a symposium of contemporary american poets on being shown + a pear-tree on which sat a grackle + +Author: Margaret Widdemer + +Illustrator: William Saphier + +Release Date: July 24, 2011 [EBook #36831] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + + + + + +[Illustration: a tree with a bird in it (front cover)] + + + + + + +A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: + +A SYMPOSIUM OF CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETS ON BEING SHOWN A PEAR-TREE +ON WHICH SAT A GRACKLE + +BY MARGARET WIDDEMER + +AUTHOR OF "FACTORIES," "THE OLD ROAD TO PARADISE," "CROSS CURRENTS," ETC. + +WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM SAPHIER + +[Illustration] + + NEW YORK + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. + + PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY + THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY + RAHWAY, N. J. + + + + +THIS IS DEDICATED WITH MY FORGIVENESS IN ADVANCE TO THE POETS +PARODIED IN THIS BOOK AND THE POETS NOT PARODIED IN THIS BOOK + + + + +FOREWORD + +By the Collator + + +A little while since, I had the fortune to live in a house, outside of +whose windows there grew a pear-tree. On the branches of this tree lived +a green bird of indeterminate nature. I do not know what his real name +was, but the name, to quote our great exemplar Lewis Carroll, by which +his name was _called_ was the Grackle. He seemed perfectly willing to +be addressed thus, and accordingly was. + +Aside from watching the Pear-Tree and the Grackle, my other principal +occupation that winter was watching the Poetry Society of America now +and then at its monthly meetings. It occurred to me finally to invite +such members of it as cared to come, following many good examples, to +an outdoor symposium under the tree. The result follows. + + Margaret Widdemer. + +P.S.--The tree died. + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + + + PAGE + Foreword: By the Collator v + Jessie B. Rittenhouse _Resignation_ 3 + Edwin Markham _The Bird with the Woe_ 4 + Witter Bynner _The Unity of Oneness_ 7 + Amy Lowell _Oiseaurie_ 8 + Edgar Lee Masters _Imri Swazey_ 9 + Edwin Arlington Robinson _Rambuncto_ 10 + Robert Frost _The Bird Misunderstood_ 12 + Carl Sandburg _Chicago Memories_ 13 + Edith M. Thomas _Frost and Sandburg Tonight_ 17 + Charles Hanson Towne _The Unquiet Singer_ 18 + Sara Teasdale _At Autumn_ 20 + Ezra Pound _Rainuv_ 21 + Margaret Widdemer _The Sighing Tree_ 24 + Richard Le Gallienne _Ballade of Spring Chickens_ 27 + Angela Morgan _Oh! Bird!_ 29 + Conrad Aiken _The Charnel Bird_ 30 + Mary Carolyn Davies _A Young Girl to a Young Bird_ 34 + Marguerite Wilkinson _The Rune of the Nude_ 35 + Aline Kilmer _Admiration_ 37 + William Rose and + Stephen Vincent Benet _The Grackle of Grog_ 38 + Lola Ridge _Preenings_ 42 + Edna St. Vincent Millay _Tea o' Herbs_ 46 + John V. A. Weaver _The Weaver Bird_ 50 + David Morton _Sonnet: Trees Are Not Ships_ 52 + Elinor Wylie _The Grackle Is the Loon_ 53 + Leonora Speyer _A Landscape Gets Personal_ 54 + Corinne Roosevelt Robinson _The Symposium Leading Nowhere_ 57 + Ridgely Torrence _The Fowl of a Thousand Flights_ 59 + Henry van Dyke _The Roiling of Henry_ 61 + Cale Young Rice _Pantings_ 63 + Bliss Carman _The Wild_ 65 + Grace Hazard and + Hilda Conkling _They See the Birdie_ 67 + Theodosia Garrison _A Ballad of the Bird Dance of Pierrette_ 69 + William Griffith _Pierrette Remembers an Engagement_ 71 + Edgar Guest _Ain't Nature Wonderful!_ 72 + Don Marquis _The Meeting of the Columns_ 75 + Christopher Morley _The Mocking-Hoarse-Bird_ 80 + Franklin Pierce Adams _To a Grackle_ 83 + Thomas Augustin Daly _Carlo the Gardener_ 84 + Vachel Lindsay _The Hoboken Grackle and the Hobo_ 85 + Percy Mackaye } + Josephine Preston Peabody } _Dies Illa: A Bird of a Masque_ 89 + Isabel Fiske Conant } + Arthur Guiterman _A Tree with a Bird in It: Rhymed Review_ 101 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + + PAGE + Edwin Markham 5 + Witter Bynner 6 + Carl Sandburg 15 + Margaret Widdemer 25 + Conrad Aiken 31 + The Benets 39 + Lola Ridge 43 + Edna St. Vincent Millay 47 + Leonora Speyer 55 + Edgar Guest 73 + Don Marquis and Christopher Morley 77 + Vachel Lindsay 87 + + + + +A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT + + + + +_Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ + + (She steps brightly forward with an air of soprano introduction.) + + +RESIGNATION + + + I look from out my window, + Beloved, and I see + A bird upon a pear bough, + But what is that to me? + + Because the thought comes icy; + That bird you never knew-- + It's not your bird or pear tree, + And what is it to you? + + + + +_Edwin Markham_ + + (who, though he had to lay a cornerstone, unveil a bust of somebody, + give two lectures and write encouraging introductions to the works + of five young poets before catching the three-ten for Staten Island, + offered his reaction in a benevolent and unhurried manner.) + + +THE BIRD WITH THE WOE + + Poets to men a curious sight afford; + Still they will sing, though all around are bored; + But this wise grackle does a kinder thing; + Silent he's bored, while all around him sing! + + +[Illustration] + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Witter Bynner_ + + (Prefaced by a short baritone talk on Chinese architecture.) + + +THE UNITY OF ONENESS + + + Celia, have you been to China? + There upon a mystic tree + Sits a bird who murmurs Chinese + Of the Me in Thee. + + 'Neath that tree of willow-pattern + Twice seven thousand scornful go + Paraphrasers and translators + Of the long-deceased Li-Po: + + Chinese feelings swift discerning + Without all this time and fuss + Let us eat that bird, thus learning + Of the Him in Us! + + + + +_Amy Lowell_ + + (Fixing her glasses firmly on the rest of the Poetry Society in a way + which makes them with difficulty refrain from writhing.) + + +OISEAURIE + + + Glunk! + I toss my heels up to my head ... + That was a bird I heard say glunk + As I walked statelily through my extensive, expensive English country + estate + In a pink brocade with silver buttons, a purple passementerie cut with + panniers, a train, and faced with watered silk: + + But it + Is dead now! + (The bird) + Probably putrescent + And green.... + + I scrabble my toes ... + Glunk! + + + + +_Edgar Lee Masters_ + + (Making a statement which you may take or leave, but convincing you + entirely.) + + +IMRI SWAZEY + + + I was a shock-headed boy bringing in the laundry; + Why did I try for that damn bird, anyway? + I suppose I had been in the habit of aiming for the pears. + But I chucked a stone, anyhow, + And it ricocheted and hit my head, + And as it hadn't any brains inside the stone busted it + And there I was, dead. + And dead with me were all the improper things + I'd got out of the servants about their employers + Bringing in the laundry; + But the grackle sings on. + Sing forever, O grackle! + I died, knowing lots of things _you_ don't know! + + + + +_Edwin Arlington Robinson_ + + (He mutters wearily in an undertone.) + + +RAMBUNCTO + + + Well, they're quite dead, Rambuncto; thoroughly dead. + It was a natural thing enough; my eyes + Stared baffled down the forest-aisles, brown and green, + Not learning what the marks were. Still, who learns? + Not I, who stooped and picked the things that day, + Scarlet and gold and smooth, friend ... smooth enough! + And she's in a vault now, old Jane Fotheringham, + My mother-in-law; and my wife's seven aunts, + And that cursed bird that used to sit and croak + Upon their pear-tree--they threw scraps to him-- + My wife, too. Lord, that was a curious thing! + Because--"I don't like mushrooms much," I said, + And they ate all I picked. And then they died. + But ... Well, who knows it isn't better that way? + It's quieter, at least.... Rambuncto--friend-- + Why, you're not going?... Well--it's a stupid year, + And the world's very useless.... Sorry.... Still + The dusk intransience that I much prefer + Leaves place for little hope and less regret. + I don't suppose he'd care, to stay to dine + Under the circumstances.... What's life for? + + + + +_Robert Frost_ + + (Rather nervously, retreating with haste in the wake of Mr. Robinson + as soon as he had finished.) + + +THE BIRD MISUNDERSTOOD + + + There was a grackle sat on our old pear tree-- + Don't ask me why--I never did really know; + But he made my wife and me feel, for really the very first time + We were out in the actual country, hindering things to grow; + + It gave us rather a queer feeling to hear the grackle grackle, + But when it got to be winter time he got up and went thence + And now we shall never know, though we watch the tree till April, + Whether his curious crying ever made song or sense. + + + + +_Carl Sandburg_ + + (Striking from time to time a few notes on a mouth-organ, with a + wonderful effect of human brotherhood which does not quite include + the East.) + + +CHICAGO MEMORIES + + + Grackles, trees-- + I been thinkin' 'bout 'em all: I been thinkin' they're all right: + Nothin' much--Gosh, nothin' much against God, even. + _God made little apples_, a hobo sang in Kankakee, + Shattered apples, I picked you up under a tree, red wormy apples, I + ate you.... + That lets God out. + There were three green birds on the tree, there were three wailing + cats against a green dawn.... + 'Gene Field sang, "The world is full of a number of things," + 'Gene Field said, "When they caught me I was living in a tree...." + 'Gene Field said everything in Chicago of the eighties. + Now he's dead, I say things, say 'em well, too.... + 'Gene Field ... back in the lost days, back in the eighties, + Singing, colyumning ... 'Gene Field ... forgotten ... + Back in Arkansaw there was a green bird, too, + I can remember how he sang, back in the lost days, back in the eighties. + Uncle Yon Swenson under the tree chewing slowly, slowly.... + Memories, memories! + There are only trees now, no 'Gene, no eighties + Gray cats, I can feel your fur in my heart ... + Green grackle, I remember now, + Back in the lost days, back in the eighties + The cat ate you. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Edith M. Thomas_ + + (She tells a friend in confidence, after she is safely out of it all.) + + +FROST AND SANDBURG TONIGHT + + + Apple green bird on a wooden bough, + And the brazen sound of a long, loud row, + And "Child, take the train, but mind what you do-- + Frost, tonight, and Sandburg too!" + + Then I sally forth, half wild, half cowed, + Till I come to the surging, impervious crowd, + The wine-filled, the temperance, the sober, the pied, + The Poets that cover the countryside! + + The Poets I never would meet till tonight! + A gleam of their eyes in the fading light, + And I took them all in--the enormous throng-- + And with one great bound I bolted along. + + * * * * * + + If the garden had merely held birds and flowers! + But I hear a voice--they have talked for hours-- + "Frost tonight--" if 'twere merely he! + Half wild, half cowed, I flee, I flee! + + + + +_Charles Hanson Towne_ + + (Who rather begrudged the time he used up in going out to the + suburbs.) + + +THE UNQUIET SINGER + + + He had been singing, but I had not heard his voice; + He had been bothering the rest with song; + But I, most comfortably far + Within the city's stimulating jar + Feeling for bus-conductors and for flats, + And shop-girls buying too expensive hats, + And silver-serviced dinners, + And various kinds of pleasant urban sinners, + And riding on the subway and the L, + Had much beside his song to hear and tell. + + But one day (it was Spring, when poets ride + Afield to wild poetic festivals) + I, innocently making calls + Was snatched by a swift motor toward his tree + (Alas, but lady poets will do this to thee + If thou art decorative, witty or a Man) + And heard him sing, and on the grass did bide. + But my whole day was sadder for his words, + And I was thinner + Because, in spite of my most careful plan + I missed a very pleasant little dinner.... + In short, unless well-cooked, I don't like Birds. + + + + +_Sara Teasdale_ + + (Who got Miss Rittenhouse to read it for her.) + + +AT AUTUMN + + I bend and watch the grackles billing, + And fight with tears as I float by; + O be a fowl for my heart's filling! + O be a bird, yet never fly! + + + + +_Ezra Pound_ + + (Mailed disdainfully by him from anywhere but America, and read + prayerfully by a committee from Chicago.) + + +RAINUV: A ROMANTIC BALLAD FROM THE EARLY BASQUE + + + ... so then naturally + This Count Rainuv I speak of + (Certainly I did not expect you would ever have heard of him; + You are American poets, aren't you? + That's rather awful ... I am the only American poet + I could ever tolerate ... well, sniff and pass....) + Therefore ... well, I knew Rainuv. + (My P. G. course at Penn, you'll remember; + A little Anglo-Saxon and Basuto, + But Provencal, mostly. Most don't go in for that.... + You haven't, of course ... What, no Provencal? + Well, of course, I know + Rather more than you do. That's my specialty. + But then--_Omnis Gallia est divisa_--but no matter. + Not fit, perhaps you'd say, that, to be quoted + Before ladies.... That's your rather amusing prudishness....) + Well, this Rainuv, then, + A person with a squint like a flash + Of square fishes ... being rather worse than most + Of the usual _literati_ + Said, being carried off by desire of boasting + That he knew all the mid-Victorians + _Et ab lor bos amics:_ + (He thought it was something to boast of.) + + We'll say he said he smoked with Tennyson, + And--deeper pit--_pax vobiscum_--went to vespers + With Adelaide Anne Procter; helped Bob Browning elope + With Elizabeth and her lapdog (said it bit him) + Said he was the first man Blake told + All about the angels in a pear-tree at Peckham Rye + Blake drew them for him, he said; they were grackles, not angels-- + (Blake's not a mid-Victorian, but you don't know better) + So ... we come, being slightly irritated, to facing him down. + "... And George Eliot?" we ask lightly. + "_Roomed with him_," nodded Rainuv confidently, + "_At college!_"... Ah, _bos amic! bos amic!_ + Rainuv is a king to you.... + Three centuries from now (you dead and messy) men whispering insolently + (Eeni meeni mini mo...) will boast that their great-grand-uncles + Were kicked by me in passing.... + + + + +_Margaret Widdemer_ + + (Clutching a non-existent portičre with one hand.) + + +THE SIGHING TREE + + The folk of the wood called me-- + "There sits a golden bird + Upon your mother's pear-tree--" + But I never said a word. + + The Sleepy People whispered-- + "The bird is singing now." + But I felt not then like leaving bed + Nor listening beneath the bough. + + But the wronged world beat my portals-- + "Come out or be sore oppressed!" + So I threw a stone at the grackle + And my throbbing heart had rest. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Richard Le Gallienne_ + + (Advancing with a dreamy air of there still being a Yellow Book.) + + +BALLADE OF SPRING CHICKENS + + + Spring comes--yet where the dream that glows? + There only waves upon the lea + A lonely pear-bough where doth doze + A bird of green, and merely he: + Why weave of him our poetry? + Why of a Grackle need we sing? + Ah, far another fowl for me-- + I seek Spring Chickens in the Spring. + + Though May returns, and frisking shows + Her ankles through this white clad tree, + Alas, old Spring's gone with the rose, + Gone is all old romance and glee-- + Yet still a joy remains to me-- + Softly our lyric lutes unstring, + Far from this Grackle we shall flee + And seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! + + Too soon Youth's _mss_ must close, + (_Omar_) its rose be pot-pourri; + What of this bird and all his woes! + Catulla, I would fly to thee-- + Bright bird of luring lingerie, + Of bushy bob, of knees aswing, + This golden task be mine in fee, + To seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! + +_Envoi_ + + Prince, let us leave this grove, pardie, + A flapper is a fairer thing: + Let us fare fast where such there be, + And seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! + + + + +_Angela Morgan_ + + (Carefully lifting her Greek robe off the wet grass, and patting her + fillet with one white glove, recites passionately.) + + +OH! BIRD! + + + I heard a flaming noise that screamed-- + "Man, panting, crushed, must be redeemed! + Man! All the crowd of him! + Quiet or loud of him! + Men! Raging souls of them! + Heaps of them, shoals of them! + Hurtling impassioned through fiery-tongued rapture! + Leaping for glories all avid to capture + Bounteous ćons of star-beating bliss!" + I heard a voice cry, and I'm sure it said this: + Though the cook said the noise was a tree and a bird ... + _But I heard! Gods, I heard!_ + + + + +_Conrad Aiken_ + + (Creeping mysteriously out of the twilight, draped in a complex.) + + +THE CHARNEL BIRD + + + Forslin murmurs a melodious impropriety + Musing on birds and women dead ćons ago.... + Was he not, once, this fowl, a gay bird in society? + Can any one tell? ... After an evening out, who can know? + Perhaps Cleopatra, lush in her inadequate wrappings, + Lifted him once to her tatbebs.... Perhaps Helen of Troy + Found him more live than her Paris ... a bird among dead ones.... + Perhaps Semiramis ... once ... in a pink unnamable joy * * * + +[Illustration] + + I tie my shoes politely, a salute to this bird in his pear-tree; + ... What is a pear-tree, after all.... What is a bird? + What is a shoe, or a Forslin, or even a Senlin? + What is ... a what? ... Is there any one who has heard? ... + What is it crawls from the kiss-thickened, Freudian darkness, + Amorous, catlike ... Ah, can it be a cat? + I would so much rather it had been a scarlet harlot, + There is so much more genuine poetry in that.... + + + (Note by the Collator: It was, in fact, Fluffums, the Angora cat + belonging to the Jenkinses on the corner; and the disappointment + was too much for Mr. Aiken, who fainted away, and had to be taken + back to Boston before completing his poem, which he had intended + to fill an entire book.) + + + + +_Mary Carolyn Davies_ + + (Impetuously, with a floppy hat.) + + +A YOUNG GIRL TO A YOUNG BIRD + + + When one is young, you know, then one can sing + Of anything: + One is so young--so pleasurably so-- + How can one know + If God made little apples, or yet pears, + Or ... if God cares? + + You are young, maybe, Grackle; that is why + I want to cry + Seeing you watch the poems that I say + To-night, to-day ... + + This little boy-bird seems to nod to me + With sympathy: + He is so young: it must be that is why ... + _As young as I!_ + + + + +_Marguerite Wilkinson_ + + (Advancing with sedate courtesy in a long-sleeved, high-necked + lecture costume.) + + +THE RUNE OF THE NUDE + + + I will set my slim strong soul on this tree with no leaves upon it, + I will lift up my undressed dreams to the nude and ethical sky: + This bird has his feathers upon him: he shall not have even a sonnet: + Until he is stripped of his last pin-plume I will sing of my mate + and I! + + My ancestors rise from their graves to be shocked at my soul's wild + climbing + (They were strong, they were righteous, my ancestors, but they + always kept on their clothes) + My mate is the best of all mates alive: his voice is a raptured + rhyming: + He chants "Come Down!" but it cannot come, either for him or those! + + My ancestors pound from their ouija-board: my mate leaps in swift indignation: + I must tell the world of their wonders, but I must be strong and free-- + Though all sires and all mates cry out in a runic incantation, + My soul shall be stripped and buttonless--it shall dwell in a naked tree! + + + + +_Aline Kilmer_ + + (With a certain aloofness.) + + +ADMIRATION + + + Kenton's arrogant eyes watch the Widdemer pear-tree, + His thistle-down-footed sister puts out her tongue at him.... + Kenton, what do you see? That yonder is only a bare tree; + Come, carry Deborah home; she is gossamer-light and slim. + + "Aw, mother, but I don't want to!" Kenton replies with devotion, + "I've gathered you stones for the bird; come on, don't you want to throw 'em?" + Ah, Kenton, Kenton, my child, who but you would have such an emotion? + But in spite of it I admire you, as you'll see when you read this poem. + + + + +_The Benet Brothers_ + + (They sing arm in arm, Stephen Vincent having rather more to do with + the verse and William Rose with the chorus. Their sister Laura is + too busy looking for a fairy under the tree to add to the family + contribution.) + + +THE GRACKLE OF GROG + + + It was old Yale College + Made me what I am-- + You oughto heard my mother + When I first said damn! + I put a pin in sister's chair, + She jumped sky-high ... + I don't know what'll happen + When I come to die! + + _But oh, the stars burst wild in a glorious crimson whangle,_ + _There was foam on the beer mile-deep, mile-high, and the pickles were + piled like seas,_ + _Noeara's hair was a flapper's bob that turned to a ten-mile tangle,_ + _And the forests were crowded with unicorns, and gold elephants + charged up trees!_ + +[Illustration] + + Forceps in the dentist's chair, + Razors in the lather ... + Lord, the black experience + I've had time to gather ... + But I've thought of one thing + That may pull me through-- + I'm a reg'lar devil + But the Devil was, too! + + _There were thousands of trees with knotholed knees that kicked in + a league-long rapture,_ + _Birds green as a seasick emerald in a million-mile shrieking row--_ + _It was sixty dollars or sixty days when the cop had made his + capture...._ + _But God! the bun was a gorgeous one, and the Faculty did not know!_ + + + + +_Lola Ridge_ + + (Who apparently did not care for the suburbs.) + + +PREENINGS + + + I preen myself.... + I ... + Always do ... + My ego expanding encompasses ... + Everything, naturally.... + + This bird preens himself ... + It is our only likeness.... + + Ah, God, I want a Ghetto + And a Freud and an alley and some Immigrants calling names ... + God, you know + How awful it is.... + Here are trees and birds and clouds + And picturesquely neat children across the way on the grass + Not doing anything + Improper ... + (Poor little fools, I mustn't blame them for that + Perhaps they never + Knew How....) + +[Illustration] + + But oh, God, take me to the nearest trolley line! + This is a country landscape-- + I can't stand it! + + God, take me away-- + There is no Sex here + And no Smell! + + + + +_Edna St. Vincent Millay_ + + (Recites in a flippant voice which occasionally chokes up with + irrepressible emotion, and clenching her hands tensely as she + notices that the Grackle has hopped twice.) + + +TEA O' HERBS + + + O I have brought in now + Bergamot, + A packet o' brown senna + And an iron pot; + In my scarlet gown + I make all hot. + + And other men and girls + Write like me + Setting herbs a-plenty + In their poetry + (_Bergamot for hair-oil,_ + _Bergamot for tea!_) + + And they may do ill now + Or they may do well, + (Little should I care now + What they have to sell--) + But what bergamot and rue are + None of them can tell. + +[Illustration] + + All above my bitter tea + I have set a lid + (As my bitter heart + By its red gown hid) + They write of bergamot + Because I did.... + + (From its padded hangers + They've snatched my red gown, + Men as well as girls + And gone down town, + Flaunting my vocabulary, + Every verb and noun!) + + And the grackle moans + High above the pot, + He is sick with herbs ... + _And am I not,_ + _Who have brought in_ + _Bergamot?_ + + + + +_John V. A. Weaver_ + + (With a strong note of infant brutality.) + + +THE WEAVER BIRD + + + Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree + All green an' cocky--why, it might be me + Singin' to you.... Wisht I was just a bird + Bringin' you worms--aw, you know, things I've heard + 'Bout me--an' flowers, maybe.... Like as not + Somebody'd get me with an old slingshot + An' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up! + Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet, + Knowin' my grave was out there in the wet + And we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid, + It makes me weep, same as it always did, + To think how bad you'd feel.... + + I got a thought, + An awful funny one I sorta caught-- + Nobody never thought that way, I guess-- + When I get blue, an' things is in a mess + I map out all my funeral, the hearses + An' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses + Sayin' how great I was, an' all like that, + An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat + Tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke, + An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak.... + + I can't stand that bird, somehow--makes me cry.... + _The world'll be darn sorry when I die!_ + + + + +_David Morton_ + + (Who, being very polite, only thought it.) + + +SONNET: TREES ARE NOT SHIPS + + + There is no magic in a living tree, + And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds: + My soul is seasick, and its only words + Murmur desire for things more like a sea. + In this dry landscape here there seems to be + No water, merely persons in large herds, + Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds, + Come from the Poetry Society. + + What could be drier, where all things are dry? + What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide? + Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie, + Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships, + Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside, + That I may have great sonnets on my lips! + + + + +_Elinor Wylie_ + + (With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.) + + +THE GRACKLE IS THE LOON + + + Never believe this bird connotes + Jade whorls of carven commonness: + Nor as from ordinary throats + Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress. + + He is the cold and scornful Loon, + Who, hoping that the sun shall fail, + Steeps in the silver of the moon + His burnished claws, his chiseled tail. + + + + +_Leonora Speyer_ + + (Speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.) + + +A LANDSCAPE GETS PERSONAL + + + Beloved.... + I cannot bear that Bird + + He is green + With envy of My Songs: + "_Cheep! Cheep!_" + + This Tree + Has a furtive look + And the Brook + Says, "Oh ... Splash...." + + And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ... + It waves at me.... + It is too flirtatious! + + Beloved, + Let us leave swiftly ... + + _I fear this Landscape!_ + _It would vamp me!_ + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ + + (Who, having engagements to speak at ten unveilings, and nine public + schools and twelve other symposiums, stayed away, but sent this + handsome tribute by wire.) + + +THE SYMPOSIUM LEADING NOWHERE + + + I sing of the joy of the Small Paths + The paths that lead nowhere at all, + (Though I never have gone on them nevertheless + They are admirable, and so small!) + I go out at midnight in motors + But, being a Roosevelt, I drive + Straight ahead on the neatly paved highway, + For I wish with much speed to arrive. + + Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small Paths + Surrounded with Birds and with Trees + I would love to go down on a Small Path + And sit in communion with these! + Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you, + For poetic communion I yearn + But I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbs + And alas, I've no time to return. + + _Oh alas, the undone moments,_ + _Oh, the myriad hours bereft_ + _Trying to be twenty people_ + _And to do things right and left._ + _I would sit down by a Small Path_ + _And would make me a Large Rhyme_ + _I should love to find my soul there_ + _But I haven't got the time!_ + + + + +_Ridgely Torrence_ + + (Who felt that the Bird did not sufficiently uphold Art.) + + +THE FOWL OF A THOUSAND FLIGHTS + + + Grackle, Grackle on your tree, + There's something wrong to-day, + In the moonlight, in the quiet evening, + You will rise and croak and fly away; + Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight + (And that's all right) + But you have never criticised a single song + (And that's all wrong) + Lo, would you add despair unto despair? + Do you not care + That all these lesser children of the Muse + Shall sing to you exactly as they choose? + + You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem, + Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'em + That you should not + Be shot: + What saw I then, what heard? + Multitudes--multitudes, under the tree they stirred, + And with too many a broken note and wheeze + They sang what each did please.... + + And Thou, + O bird of emeraldine beak and brow, + Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle, + Grackle! + + + + +_Henry van Dyke_ + + (Who, although for different reasons, did not care for the Grackle + either.) + + +THE ROILING OF HENRY + +(A Song of the Grating Outdoors) + + Bird, thou art not a Veery, + Nor yet a Yellowthroat, + Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song, + Long, long e'er I could vote; + Thou art not a Blue Flower, + Nor e'en a real Blue Bird; + Yet there's a moral high and pure + In all thy likings heard: + "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ + _Go on and ne'er look back!_" + + The noble tow'rs of Princeton + Hear high thy pensive trill, + And eke my ear has heard thee + The while I fished the rill; + Thy note rings out at daybreak + Before I rise to toil; + Thou counselest Persistence; + Thy song no stone can spoil; + "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ + _Go on and ne'er look back!_" + + Yet, Bird, there is a limit + To all I've undergone; + From five o'clock till five o'clock + Thou'st chanted o'er my lawn; + I cannot get my work done ... + I give thee, Bird, advice; + If thou wouldst save thy skin alive, + Let me not warn thee twice, + "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ + _Go on and ne'er look back!_" + + + + +_Cale Young Rice_ + + (Who came out rather tired from trying to choose a new suit, and + could not get it off his mind.) + + +PANTINGS + + + Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! + Gents' immanent furnishings! + On a mystic tide I ride, I ride, + Of the clothes of a million springs! + I take the train for the suburbs + Or I sweep from Pole to Pole, + But where is the window that holds them not, + Gents' furnishings of my soul! + + Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! + Shirtings and coatings too! + How can I think of mere birds, nor blink + In the Cosmic Hullaballoo? + The hot world throbs with Immenseness, + The Voidness plunks in the Void, + And all of it doubtless has something to do + With Employer and Unemployed! + + Pantings! Pantings! Pantings! + Trousers through all the town! + And the tailors' dummies with iron for tummies + Smirk in their blue and brown; + I float in a slithering simoon + Of fevered and surging tints, + And my ears are dulled with the mighty throb + Of the Male Best Dressers' Hints: + + _Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!_ + _My wardrobe, they send it fleet...._ + _Ah, the Is and the Was and the Never Does...._ + _And the Cosmos at last complete!_ + + + + +_Bliss Carman_ + + (Who, incidentally, happened to be correct.) + + +THE WILD + + + Ho, Spring calls clear a message.... + The Grackle is not green.... + The Mighty Mother Nature + She knows just what I mean. + + The lilac and the willow + The grass and violet + They are my wild companions + Where I was raised a pet. + + The secrets of great nature + From childhood I have heard; + Oh, I can tell a wild flower + Swiftly from a wild bird; + + And Gwendolen and Marna + And Myrtle (dead all three ... + Among my wildwood sweethearts + Was much mortality). + + If they my loves returning + Might gather 'neath these boughs + (Oh, they would sniff at pear-trees + Who loved the Northern Sloughs). + + Their wild eternal whisper + Would back me up, I ween: + "This bird is not a Grackle: + A Grackle is not green." + + + + +_Grace Hazard and Hilda Conkling_ + + +THEY SEE THE BIRDIE + + +(Mrs. Conkling points maternally.) + + Oh, Hilda! see the little Bird! + If you will watch, upon my word + He will come out; a Veery[1] he + As like an Oboe as can be: + He shall be wingčd, with a tail, + Mayhap a Beak him shall not fail! + And I will tell him, "Birdie, oh, + This is my Hilda, you must know-- + And oh, what joy, if you but knew-- + She shall make poetry on you!" + +(The Birdie obliges, whereupon Hilda recites obediently, while her +mother, concealing herself completely behind the bird, takes +dictation.) + + Oh, my lovely Mother, + That is a Bird: + Sitting on a Tree. + I am a Little Girl + Standing on the Ground. + I see the Bird, + The Bird sees me. + + _Bird!_ + _Color of Grass!_ + + _I love my Mother_ + _More than I do You!_ + + +[Footnote 1: Note by the Collator: I do not pretend to explain the +veery-complex of American poets. They all seemed possessed to rub it +into the poor bird that he wasn't one.] + + + + +_Theodosia Garrison_ + + (Who began cheerfully, but reduced her audience to tears, which she + surveyed with complacence, by the third line.) + + +A BALLAD OF THE BIRD DANCE OF PIERRETTE + + +_Pierrette's mother speaks:_ + + "Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other? + (Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same--) + Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish mother + That named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name! + Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars, + With yer hair that docked an' frizzed--if Father Pat shud see! + Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers, + Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!" + + _But it was Bridget Sullivan,_ + _Her locks flour-sprent,_ + _That danced beneath the flowering tree_ + _Leaping as she went._ + + "If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation + (Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard), + Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,' + Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd! + Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin' + (Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,) + Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin', + Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!" + + _But it was Bridget Sullivan,_ + _Her head down-bent,_ + _Went back on the three-thirteen,_ + _Coughing as she went._ + + + + +_William Griffith_ + + (Who felt for her.) + + +PIERRETTE REMEMBERS AN ENGAGEMENT + + + Pierrette has gone--but it was not + Exactly that she lied; + She said she had to catch a train; + "I have a date," she cried. + + To keep a sudden rendezvous + It came into her mind + As quite the quickest way to flee + From parties of this kind; + + She went most softly and most soon, + But still she made a stir, + For, going, she took all the men + To town along with her. + + + + +_Edgar Guest_ + + (Who has an air of absolute belief in the True, the Optimistic, and + the Checkbook. He seems yet a little ill at ease among the others, + and to be looking about restlessly for Ella Wheeler Wilcox.) + + +AIN'T NATURE WONDERFUL! + + + How dear to me are home and wife, + The dear old Tree I used to Love, + The Pear it shed on starting life + And God's Outdoors so bright above! + + For Virtue gets a high reward, + Noble is all good Scenery, + So I will root for Virtue hard, + For God, for Nature, and for Me! + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Don Marquis_ + + (Who, it appears, refers to departments which he and certain of his + friends run in New York papers. He swings a theoretical barrel of + hootch above his head, and chants:) + + +THE MEETING OF THE COLUMNS + + Chris and Frank and I + Each had a column; + Chris and I were plump and gay, + But not so F.P.A.: + F.P.A. was solemn-- + Not so his Column; + That was full of wit, + As good as My Column + Nearly every bit! + We sat on each an office chair + And all snapped our scissors; + Their things were pretty fair + But all of mine were Whizzers! + + Frank wrote of Cyril, + An ungrammatic sinner, + But I wrote of Drink + And Chris wrote of Dinner; + And Frank kept getting thinner + And we kept getting plump-- + Frank sat like a Bump + Translating from the Latin, + Chris wrote of Happy Homes + I wrote of Alcoholic Foams, + And we still seemed to fatten; + Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been, + I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin! + But we both got fatter, + So the parties didn't matter, + Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her.... + + F.P.A. went calling + And sang about it sorely ... + "_Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!_ + F.P.A. played tennis + And told the World he did.... + _I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!_ + Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry, + _But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!_ + + And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me, + To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree: + +[Illustration] + + But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle-- + "Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle! + A Grackle with a Hackle, + A ticklish one to tackle + A tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...." + And we both began to giggle + And woggle, and wiggle, + And we giggled and we gurgled + And we gargled and were gay ... + _For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!_ + + + + +_Christopher Morley_ + + (Acting, in spite of himself, as if the Bird were his long-lost + brother, and locating the Grackle, for poetic purposes, in his own + home.) + + +THE MOCKING-HOARSE BIRD + + + Good fowl, though I would speak to thee + With wonted geniality, + And Oxford charm in my address, + It's not quite easy, I confess: + _Suaviter in modo's_ hard + When poets trample one's front yard, + And this is such an enormous crew + That you've got trailing after you! + I'd washed my youngest child but four, + Put the milk-bottles out the door, + Paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh + (Ah, happy wife! Ah, happy I!) + Tossed down (see essays) then my pen + To be a private citizen, + Written about that in the Post, + When lo, upon the lawn a host + Of Poets, sprung upon my sight + Each eager for a Poem to write! + + To a less placid bard you'd be + A flat domestic tragedy,-- + Bird--grackle--nay, I'd scarcely call + You bird--a mere egg you, that's all-- + Only a bad egg has the nerve + To poach (a pun!) on my preserve! + To P.Q.S. and X.Y.D. + (Both columnists whom you should see) + And L.M.N (a man who never + Columns a word that isn't clever,) + And B.C.D. (who scintillates + Much more than most who get his rates) + A thing like this would be a trial.... + It is to me, there's no denial. + + Why, Bird, if they would sing of you, + Or Sin, or Broken Hearts, or Rue, + Or what Young Devils they all are, + Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star, + Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing, + It would be quite another thing: + But, Bird, here they come mousing round + On my suburban, sacred ground, + And see my happiness--it's flat, + You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that! + They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and later + The joys of my Refrigerator, + Burst into song about the points + Of Babies, Married Peace, Hot Joints, + The Jimmy-Pipe I often carol, + My Commutation, my Rain-Barrel, + And each Uncontroverted Fact + With which my poetry is packed ... + In short, base Bird, they'll sing like me, + _And then, where will my living be?_ + + + + +_Franklin P. Adams_ + + (Coldly ignoring the roistering of his friends, addresses the Grackle + with bitterness:) + + +TO A GRACKLE + +(Horace, Ode XVIXXV, p. 23) + + + Bird, if you think I do not care + To gaze upon your feathered form + Rather than converse with some fair + Or make my brow with tennis warm; + + If you should think I'd liefer far + Hear your sweet song than fast be driving + Within my costly motor car + And in my handsome home arriving, + + If you should think I would be gone + Far sooner than you might expect + From off this uncolumnar lawn; + Bird, you'd be utterly correct! + + + + +_Tom Daly_ + + (Showing the Italian's love of the Beautiful, which he makes his own + more than the Anglo-Saxon dreams of doing.) + + +CARLO THE GARDENER + + + De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree, + Dey gotta da arta, da birda--but me, + I lova da arta, I lova da flower, + (Ah, _bella fioretta_!) I waita da hour: + I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf-- + I brava young Carlo--Maria! fine t'ief! + I waita + Till later. + + Da poets go homa, go finda da sup', + I creep by dis tree and I digga her up, + (Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love, + _Per Dio!_ and da art!) So I giva da shove, + I catcha da birda, I getta da tree, + I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she-- + She gotta + In potta! + + + + +_Vachel Lindsay_ + + (Bounding on toward the end of the proceedings with a bundle over + his shoulder, and making the rest join in at the high spots.) + + +THE HOBOKEN GRACKLE AND THE HOBO + +(An Explanation) + + + As I went marching, torn-socked, free, [_Steadily_] + With my red heart marching all agog in front of me + And my throbbing heels + And my throbbing feet + Making an impression on the Hoboken street [_With energy_] + Then I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird, + And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard! [_With surprise_] + Banks--of--poets--round--that--tree-- + _All_ of the Poetry Society but _me_! + All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackle [_Chatteringly + Showed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly) like parrots_] + Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, [_Cooingly, yet + Gosh, what a packed street! with impatience_] + The Secretary, _President_ and TREASURER went by! + "That's not a grackle," said I to all of him, + Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim, + "_That's an English sparrow on that limb!_" + And they all went home + No more to roam. + And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam [_Intemperately_] + And I took my bandanna again on my stick [_With calm majesty_] + And I walked to the grocery and took my pick + And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn, [_With domesticity + Codfish like flakes of snow at morn, for the moment_] + Buns for breakfast and a fountain-pen + Laid down change and marched out again + And I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free, + _With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!_ + + +[Illustration] + + + + +DIES ILLA: A BIRD OF A MASQUE + + Being a Collaboration by Percy Mackaye, Isabel + Fiske Conant and Josephine Preston Peabody. + + +DRAMATIS PERSONĆ + + +THE GRACKLE (who does not appear at all) + +THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP + +THE SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY + +CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY + +CHORUS OF CORRESPONDENCE, KINDERGARTEN, GRAMMAR, HIGH-SCHOOL AND COLLEGE + CLASSES IN VERSE-WRITING + +CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN RUNNING POETRY MAGAZINES + +CHORUS OF POETRY CRITICS + +CHORUS OF ASSORTED CULTURE-HOUNDS + +THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR THE POETIC RENAISSANCE IN AMERICA + +THE NON-POETRY WRITING PUBLIC (COMPOSED OF TWO CITIZENS WHO HAVE NEVER + LEARNED TO READ OR WRITE) + +SEMI-CHORUSES OF MAGAZINE EDITORS AND BOOK-PUBLISHERS + +ATÉ, GODDESS OF DISCORD + +THE MUSE + + +TIME: _Next year._ PLACE: _Everywhere._ SCENE: _A level stretch of +monotony._ + + + +THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_Entering despairingly_) + + Alas--in vain! Yet I have barred the way + As best I might, that this great horror fall + Not on the world. _Returned with many thanks_ + _And not because of lack of merit,_ I + Have said to twenty million poets ... nay ... + Profane it not, that word ... to twenty million + Persons who wasted stamps and typewriting + And midnight oil, to add unto the world + More Bunk.... In vain--in vain! + (_She sinks down sobbing._) + + +(_From right and left of stage enter Semi-Choruses Magazine Editors and +Book Publishers, tearing their hair rhythmically._) + +SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS + + We have mailed their poems back + To every man and woman-jack + Who weigh the postman down + From country and from town; + But all in vain, in vain, + They mail them in again! + +SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS + + Though we've sent them flying, + We are nearly dying, + From the books of poetry + Sent by people unto we; + In vain we keep them off our shelves, + They go and publish them themselves! + +SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIPS + + All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye, + And I've toiled with you.... All in vain, in vain-- + + +(_Enter, with a proud consciousness of duty well done, the Chorus of +Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes +for Writing Verse. They sing Joyously_) + + The Day has come that we adore, + The Day we've all been working for, + Now babies in their bassinets + And military school cadets, + And chambermaids in each hotel + And folks in slums who cannot spell, + Professors, butchers, clergymen, + And every one, have grabbed a pen: + The Day has come--tra la, tra lee-- + _Everybody_ writes poetry! + + +(_They do a Symbolic Dance with Typewriters, during which enters the +Chorus of Young Men who Run Poetry Magazines. These put on horn-rimmed +spectacles and chant earnestly as follows_) + +CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN WHO RUN POETRY MAGAZINES + + We're very careful what we put in; + This magazine is of highest grade; + If it doesn't appeal to our personal taste + There's no use sending it, we're afraid; + We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats, + We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead; + If you write like us there will be no fuss-- + That's the best of verse, when the last word's said.... (_Bursting + irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn + spectacles to the ground_) + + Yale! Yale! Yale! + Our Poetry! + Fine Poetry! + Nobody Else's Poetry! + Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw! + + +(_Enter, modestly, the Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in +America. There are four of him--or her, as the case may be--Miss Monroe, +Miss Rittenhouse, Mrs. Stork, Mr. Braithwaite. The Person stands in a +row and recites in unison:_) + + I've made Poetry + What it is today; + Or ... at least ... + That's what people say: + Earnest-minded effort + Never can be hid; + The Others think They did it-- + But--I--Did! + +SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP, EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS, (_faintly:_) + + You _did_? (_They rush out._) + +PERSON RESPONSIBLE (_still modestly_) + + Well, so they say-- + But I have to go away. + I'm due at a lecture + I give at three today. + + +(_The Person goes out in single file, looking at its watch. As it does so, +there enters a pale and dishevelled girl in Greek robes. It is the Muse._) + +MUSE + + In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and crying + As swine that in deep agony are dying, + A voice of tom-cats wailing, + A never failing + Thud as of rolling logs: + A chattering like frogs, + And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous, + Making a horrible fuss, + Cries out upon my name. + Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame, + So to be mocked and humbled by this use? + I--I, the Muse! + + +(_Enter Spirit of Modern Poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in +horn glasses and a sex-complex._) + +SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY + + You're behind the times; quite narrow, + Don't you want + Culture for the masses? + +MUSE + + No; I am Greek; we never did. + Besides, it _isn't_ culture. + +CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY, (_trotting by two + by two on their way to a lecture, pause._) + + Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking! + She's no Muse! She must be mocking! + +MUSE (_sternly, having lost her temper by this time_) + + I am a goddess. Trifle not with me. + +ELDERLY LADIES (_with resolute tolerance_) + + She _looks_ like a pupil of Isadora Duncan, + But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in + To believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture-- + My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture! + +MUSE (_lifting her arms angrily_) + + Até, my sister! + +ATÉ, (_behind the scenes_) I come! + + +(_Enter from one side, Band of Poets--very large--with lyres and wreaths +put on over their regular clothes. From the other side, a chorus of +Poetry Critics. At their end steals Até, Goddess of Discord, disguised +as a Critic by means of horn glasses and a Cane. The Poets do not see +her--or anything but themselves, indeed. They sing obliviously_) + + My maiden aunt in Keokuk + She writes free verse like anything; + My great-grandmother is in luck, + She's sold her three-piece work on Spring; + My mother does Poetic Plays, + My dad does rhymes while signing checks, + And my flapper sister--we wouldn't have missed her-- + She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex-- + The world's as perfect as it can be, + Everybody writes Poetry! + +CHORUS OF CRITICS, (_chanting yet more loudly:_) + + The world's not _quite_ as perfect as it yet might be, + Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry! + + +(_The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics._) + +SPIRIT OF DISCORD + + Rash poets, think what you would do-- + There's nobody left you can read it to! + +POETS (_aghast_) + + We never thought of that! + An audience, 'tis flat, + Is our most pressing need, + To listen to our screed; + +(_Each turns to his neighbor_) + + Base scribbler, get thee hence + Or be my audience! + +Semi-chorus: + + We want to write ourselves! We'll not! + +Semi-chorus: + + But what _you_ write is merely rot! + Hush up and let _me_ read + My great, eternal screed! + +ATÉ (_stealthily_) Ha, ha! + + +(_Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills +the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet +on the other side. They fall in neat windrows. There are no Poets left. +Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been +shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three +paces to the front, and speak:_) + +What's the use o' poetry, anyhow? _I_ always say, 'if you wanta say +anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.' _I_ never wrote no +poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business. + +CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS, (_thrilled:_) + + Ah, a new Gospel! + Let us write Reviews + About it! + +THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_entering, and addressing the + Editors and Publishers who follow her._) + + Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close. + I wing my hallowed way + To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose. + +EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS + + Nay, our great helper, nay! + Leave us not yet, our only comforter! + We'll need thee still; + Folks who write poetry + There's naught on earth can kill! + + +(_During this the_ CULTURE-HOUNDS, CRITICS, _etc., have clustered round +the_ NON-POETRY-WRITING PUBLIC, _whispering, urging, and pushing. It rises +and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:_) + + B'gosh, I do believe, + Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good + As any of those there fool dead fellers could! + + +(_The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with +lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats._) + +SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS (to Spirit of Rejection Slip) + + You see? Too late! + +SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS + + Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate? + + +(_They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the +Masque, except_ ATÉ, _who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, +and the_ MUSE, _form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every +Minute. They sing:_) + + The Day has come that we adore, + The Day we've all been working for; + The Day has come, tra la, tra lee! + _Everybody_ writes Poetry! + +THE MUSE (_unnoticed in the background_) + + Farewell. + + + + +_Arthur Guiterman_ + + (He recites with appropriate gestures.) + + +A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: A RHYMED REVIEW + + + It seems that Margaret Widdemer + Possessed a Tree with a Bird in it, + And being human, prone to err, + Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it, + + Or christen it, as one might say, + By asking poets closely herded + To come around and spend the day + And sing of what the Tree and Bird did. + + (Poor girl! When next she takes her pen + Some bromide critic's sure to say, + "Don't dare do serious work again-- + This stuff is your true métier!") + + No sooner said than done; the bards + Rush out in quantities surprising, + And, overflowing four front yards + They carol till the moon is rising; + + With ardor, or, as some say, "pash," + In song kind or satirical, + Asking, apparently, no cash, + They make their offerings lyrical. + + I'd be the first a spear to break + For Poesy; but this to tackle ... + It seems a lot of fuss to make + About one Tree and one small Grackle. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Tree with a Bird in it:, by Margaret Widdemer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: *** + +***** This file should be named 36831-8.txt or 36831-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/8/3/36831/ + +Produced by David Edwards, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Tree with a Bird in it: + a symposium of contemporary american poets on being shown + a pear-tree on which sat a grackle + +Author: Margaret Widdemer + +Illustrator: William Saphier + +Release Date: July 24, 2011 [EBook #36831] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0001"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"><img src="images/scover.jpg" width="235" height="400" +title="Front Cover" +alt="a tree with a bird in it (front cover)" /></a> +</div> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +<big>A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT</big> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage1" name="nopage1"></a>[pg]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagei" name="pagei"></a>[i]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0001" id="h2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h1> + A TREE WITH A<br /> BIRD IN IT: +</h1> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +<big> +A SYMPOSIUM OF CONTEMPORARY<br /> +AMERICAN POETS ON BEING<br /> +SHOWN A PEAR-TREE ON<br /> +WHICH SAT A GRACKLE +</big> +</p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +<small>BY</small><br /> +MARGARET WIDDEMER +</p> +<p class="center"> +<small>AUTHOR OF "FACTORIES," "THE OLD ROAD TO PARADISE," "CROSS CURRENTS," ETC.</small> +</p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +<small> +WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY<br /> +</small> +WILLIAM SAPHIER +</p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0002"><!--IMG--></a> +<img src="images/plogo.png" width="60" height="60" +title="logo" +alt="(logo)" /> +</div> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +NEW YORK<br /> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pageii" name="pageii"></a>[ii]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +<small> +COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY <br /> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. +</small> +</p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY <br /> +THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY <br /> +RAHWAY, N. J. +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pageiii" name="pageiii"></a>[iii]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +<small> +THIS IS DEDICATED <br /> +WITH MY FORGIVENESS IN ADVANCE <br /> +TO THE POETS PARODIED IN THIS BOOK <br /> +AND THE POETS NOT PARODIED IN THIS BOOK +</small> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pageiv" name="pageiv"></a>[iv]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagev" name="pagev"></a>[v]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_FORE" id="h2H_FORE"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2 class="normal"> + FOREWORD +</h2> +<h3> + <span class="sc">By the Collator</span> +</h3> + +<p> +A little while since, I had the fortune to live in a house, outside of +whose windows there grew a pear-tree. On the branches of this tree lived +a green bird of indeterminate nature. I do not know what his real name +was, but the name, to quote our great exemplar Lewis Carroll, by which +his name was <i>called</i> was the Grackle. He seemed perfectly willing to +be addressed thus, and accordingly was. +</p> +<p> +Aside from watching the Pear-Tree and the Grackle, my other principal +occupation that winter was watching the Poetry Society of America now +and then at its monthly meetings. It occurred to me finally to invite +such members of it as cared to come, following many good examples, to +an outdoor symposium under the tree. The result follows. +</p> +<p class="right"> +<span class="sc">Margaret Widdemer.</span> +</p> +<p> +P.S.—The tree died. +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagevi" name="pagevi"></a>[vi]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagevii" name="pagevii"></a>[vii]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_TOC" id="h2H_TOC"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2 class="normal"> + TABLE OF CONTENTS +</h2> + +<table summary="Table of Contents"> + +<tr><td></td><td></td><td class="plink"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Foreword: By the Collator</span></td> +<td></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#pagev">v</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Jessie B. Rittenhouse</span></td> +<td><i>Resignation</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edwin Markham</span></td> +<td><i>The Bird with the Woe</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page4">4</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Witter Bynner</span></td> +<td><i>The Unity of Oneness</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page7">7</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Amy Lowell</span></td> +<td><i>Oiseaurie</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page8">8</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edgar Lee Masters</span></td> +<td><i>Imri Swazey</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page9">9</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edwin Arlington Robinson</span></td> +<td><i>Rambuncto</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page10">10</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Robert Frost</span></td> +<td><i>The Bird Misunderstood</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page12">12</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Carl Sandburg</span></td> +<td><i>Chicago Memories</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page13">13</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edith M. Thomas</span></td> +<td><i>Frost and Sandburg Tonight</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page17">17</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Charles Hanson Towne</span></td> +<td><i>The Unquiet Singer</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page18">18</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Sara Teasdale</span></td> +<td><i>At Autumn</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page20">20</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Ezra Pound</span></td> +<td><i>Rainuv</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page21">21</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Margaret Widdemer</span></td> +<td><i>The Sighing Tree</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page24">24</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Richard Le Gallienne</span></td> +<td><i>Ballade of Spring Chickens</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page27">27</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Angela Morgan</span></td> +<td><i>Oh! Bird!</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page29">29</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Conrad Aiken</span></td> +<td><i>The Charnel Bird</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page30">30</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Mary Carolyn Davies</span></td> +<td><i>A Young Girl to a Young Bird</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page34">34</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Marguerite Wilkinson</span></td> +<td><i>The Rune of the Nude</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page35">35</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Aline Kilmer</span></td> +<td><i>Admiration</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page37">37</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="sc">William Rose</span> and <span class="sc">Stephen Vincent Benet</span></td> +<td><i>The Grackle of Grog</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page38">38</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Lola Ridge</span></td> +<td><i>Preenings</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page42">42</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edna St. Vincent Millay</span></td> +<td><i>Tea o' Herbs</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page46">46</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">John V. A. Weaver</span></td> +<td><i>The Weaver Bird</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page50">50</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pageviii" name="pageviii"></a>[viii]</span> + + <span class="sc">David Morton</span></td> +<td><i>Sonnet: Trees Are Not Ships</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page52">52</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Elinor Wylie</span></td> +<td><i>The Grackle Is the Loon</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page53">53</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Leonora Speyer</span></td> +<td><i>A Landscape Gets Personal</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page54">54</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Corinne Roosevelt Robinson</span></td> +<td><i>The Symposium Leading Nowhere</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page57">57</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Ridgely Torrence</span></td> +<td><i>The Fowl of a Thousand Flights</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page59">59</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Henry van Dyke</span></td> +<td><i>The Roiling of Henry</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page61">61</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Cale Young Rice</span></td> +<td><i>Pantings</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page63">63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Bliss Carman</span></td> +<td><i>The Wild</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page65">65</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="sc">Grace Hazard</span> and <span class="sc">Hilda Conkling</span></td> +<td><i>They See the Birdie</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page67">67</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Theodosia Garrison</span></td> +<td><i>A Ballad of the Bird Dance of Pierrette</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page69">69</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">William Griffith</span></td> +<td><i>Pierrette Remembers an Engagement</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page71">71</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edgar Guest</span></td> +<td><i>Ain't Nature Wonderful!</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page72">72</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Don Marquis</span></td> +<td><i>The Meeting of the Columns</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page75">75</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Christopher Morley</span></td> +<td><i>The Mocking-Hoarse-Bird</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page80">80</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Franklin Pierce Adams</span></td> +<td><i>To a Grackle</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page83">83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Thomas Augustin Daly</span></td> +<td><i>Carlo the Gardener</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page84">84</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Vachel Lindsay</span></td> +<td><i>The Hoboken Grackle and the Hobo</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page85">85</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="sc">Percy Mackaye</span><br /> + <span class="sc">Josephine Preston Peabody</span><br /> + <span class="sc">Isabel Fiske Conant</span> +</td> +<td><i>Dies Illa: A Bird of a Masque</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page89">89</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Arthur Guiterman</span></td> +<td><i>A Tree with a Bird in It: Rhymed Review</i></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page101">101</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pageix" name="pageix"></a>[ix]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0003" id="h2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2 class="normal"> + ILLUSTRATIONS +</h2> + +<table summary="List of Illustrations"> +<tr><td></td><td class="plink"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edwin Markham</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page5">5</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Witter Bynner</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page6">6</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Carl Sandburg</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page15">15</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Margaret Widdemer</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page25">25</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Conrad Aiken</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page31">31</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">The Benets</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page39">39</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Lola Ridge</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page43">43</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edna St. Vincent Millay</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page47">47</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Leonora Speyer</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page55">55</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Edgar Guest</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page73">73</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Don Marquis and Christopher Morley</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page77">77</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="sc">Vachel Lindsay</span></td> +<td class="plink"><a href="#page87">87</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagex" name="pagex"></a>[x]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page1" name="page1"></a>[1]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0004" id="h2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2 class="normal"> + A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT +</h2> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page2" name="page2"></a>[2]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page3" name="page3"></a>[3]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0005" id="h2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Jessie B. Rittenhouse</i> +</h2> + +<p class="quote"> + (She steps brightly forward with an air of soprano introduction.) +</p> + +<h3> +RESIGNATION +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I look from out my window, </p> +<p class="i4"> Beloved, and I see </p> +<p class="i2"> A bird upon a pear bough, </p> +<p class="i4"> But what is that to me? </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Because the thought comes icy; </p> +<p class="i4"> That bird you never knew— </p> +<p class="i2"> It's not your bird or pear tree, </p> +<p class="i4"> And what is it to you? </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page4" name="page4"></a>[4]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0006" id="h2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Edwin Markham</i> +</h2> + +<p class="quote"> + (who, though he had to lay a cornerstone, unveil a bust of somebody, + give two lectures and write encouraging introductions to the works + of five young poets before catching the three-ten for Staten Island, + offered his reaction in a benevolent and unhurried manner.) +</p> +<h3> +THE BIRD WITH THE WOE +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Poets to men a curious sight afford; </p> +<p class="i2"> Still they will sing, though all around are bored; </p> +<p class="i2"> But this wise grackle does a kinder thing; </p> +<p class="i2"> Silent he's bored, while all around him sing! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page5" name="page5"></a>[5]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0003"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i001.jpg"><img src="images/i001.png" width="350" height="405" +title="Caricature of Edwin Markham" +alt="(caricature of Edwin Markham)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page6" name="page6"></a>[6]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0004"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i002.jpg"><img src="images/i002.png" width="350" height="430" +title="Caricature of Whitter Bynner" +alt="(caricature of Whitter Bynner)" /></a> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page7" name="page7"></a>[7]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0007" id="h2H_4_0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Witter Bynner</i> +</h2> + +<p class="quote"> + (Prefaced by a short baritone talk on Chinese architecture.) +</p> +<h3> +THE UNITY OF ONENESS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Celia, have you been to China? </p> +<p class="i4"> There upon a mystic tree </p> +<p class="i2"> Sits a bird who murmurs Chinese </p> +<p class="i4"> Of the Me in Thee. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> 'Neath that tree of willow-pattern </p> +<p class="i4"> Twice seven thousand scornful go </p> +<p class="i2"> Paraphrasers and translators </p> +<p class="i4"> Of the long-deceased Li-Po: </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Chinese feelings swift discerning </p> +<p class="i4"> Without all this time and fuss </p> +<p class="i2"> Let us eat that bird, thus learning </p> +<p class="i4"> Of the Him in Us! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page8" name="page8"></a>[8]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0008" id="h2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Amy Lowell</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Fixing her glasses firmly on the rest of the Poetry Society in a way + which makes them with difficulty refrain from writhing.) +</p> +<h3> +OISEAURIE +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Glunk! </p> +<p class="i2"> I toss my heels up to my head ... </p> +<p class="i2"> That was a bird I heard say glunk </p> +<p class="i2"> As I walked statelily through my extensive, expensive English country estate </p> +<p class="i2"> In a pink brocade with silver buttons, a purple passementerie cut with panniers, a train, and faced with watered silk: </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> But it </p> +<p class="i2"> Is dead now! </p> +<p class="i2"> (The bird) </p> +<p class="i2"> Probably putrescent </p> +<p class="i2"> And green.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I scrabble my toes ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Glunk! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page9" name="page9"></a>[9]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0009" id="h2H_4_0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Edgar Lee Masters</i> +</h2> + +<p class="quote"> + (Making a statement which you may take or leave, but convincing you + entirely.) +</p> +<h3> +IMRI SWAZEY +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I was a shock-headed boy bringing in the laundry; </p> +<p class="i2"> Why did I try for that damn bird, anyway? </p> +<p class="i2"> I suppose I had been in the habit of aiming for the pears. </p> +<p class="i2"> But I chucked a stone, anyhow, </p> +<p class="i2"> And it ricocheted and hit my head, </p> +<p class="i2"> And as it hadn't any brains inside the stone busted it </p> +<p class="i2"> And there I was, dead. </p> +<p class="i2"> And dead with me were all the improper things </p> +<p class="i2"> I'd got out of the servants about their employers </p> +<p class="i2"> Bringing in the laundry; </p> +<p class="i2"> But the grackle sings on. </p> +<p class="i2"> Sing forever, O grackle! </p> +<p class="i2"> I died, knowing lots of things <i>you</i> don't know! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page10" name="page10"></a>[10]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0010" id="h2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Edwin Arlington Robinson</i> +</h2> + +<p class="quote"> + (He mutters wearily in an undertone.) +</p> +<h3> +RAMBUNCTO +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Well, they're quite dead, Rambuncto; thoroughly dead. </p> +<p class="i2"> It was a natural thing enough; my eyes </p> +<p class="i2"> Stared baffled down the forest-aisles, brown and green, </p> +<p class="i2"> Not learning what the marks were. Still, who learns? </p> +<p class="i2"> Not I, who stooped and picked the things that day, </p> +<p class="i2"> Scarlet and gold and smooth, friend ... smooth enough! </p> +<p class="i2"> And she's in a vault now, old Jane Fotheringham, </p> +<p class="i2"> My mother-in-law; and my wife's seven aunts, </p> +<p class="i2"> And that cursed bird that used to sit and croak </p> +<p class="i2"> Upon their pear-tree—they threw scraps to him— </p> +<p class="i2"> My wife, too. Lord, that was a curious thing! </p> +<p class="i2"> Because—"I don't like mushrooms much," I said, </p> +<p class="i2"> And they ate all I picked. And then they died. </p> +<p class="i2"> But ... Well, who knows it isn't better that way? </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page11" name="page11"></a>[11]</span> + + It's quieter, at least.... Rambuncto—friend— </p> +<p class="i2"> Why, you're not going?... Well—it's a stupid year, </p> +<p class="i2"> And the world's very useless.... Sorry.... Still </p> +<p class="i2"> The dusk intransience that I much prefer </p> +<p class="i2"> Leaves place for little hope and less regret. </p> +<p class="i2"> I don't suppose he'd care, to stay to dine </p> +<p class="i2"> Under the circumstances.... What's life for? </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page12" name="page12"></a>[12]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0011" id="h2H_4_0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Robert Frost</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Rather nervously, retreating with haste in the wake of Mr. Robinson + as soon as he had finished.) +</p> +<h3> +THE BIRD MISUNDERSTOOD +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> There was a grackle sat on our old pear tree— </p> +<p class="i2"> Don't ask me why—I never did really know; </p> +<p class="i2"> But he made my wife and me feel, for really the very first time </p> +<p class="i2"> We were out in the actual country, hindering things to grow; </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> It gave us rather a queer feeling to hear the grackle grackle, </p> +<p class="i2"> But when it got to be winter time he got up and went thence </p> +<p class="i2"> And now we shall never know, though we watch the tree till April, </p> +<p class="i2"> Whether his curious crying ever made song or sense. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page13" name="page13"></a>[13]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0012" id="h2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Carl Sandburg</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Striking from time to time a few notes on a mouth-organ, with a + wonderful effect of human brotherhood which does not quite include + the East.) +</p> +<h3> +CHICAGO MEMORIES +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Grackles, trees— </p> +<p class="i2"> I been thinkin' 'bout 'em all: I been thinkin' they're all right: </p> +<p class="i2"> Nothin' much—Gosh, nothin' much against God, even. </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>God made little apples</i>, a hobo sang in Kankakee, </p> +<p class="i2"> Shattered apples, I picked you up under a tree, red wormy apples, I ate you.... </p> +<p class="i2"> That lets God out. </p> +<p class="i2"> There were three green birds on the tree, there were three wailing cats against a green dawn.... </p> +<p class="i2"> 'Gene Field sang, "The world is full of a number of things," </p> +<p class="i2"> 'Gene Field said, "When they caught me I was living in a tree...." </p> +<p class="i2"> 'Gene Field said everything in Chicago of the eighties. </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page14" name="page14"></a>[14]</span> + + Now he's dead, I say things, say 'em well, too.... </p> +<p class="i2"> 'Gene Field ... back in the lost days, back in the eighties, </p> +<p class="i2"> Singing, colyumning ... 'Gene Field ... forgotten ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Back in Arkansaw there was a green bird, too, </p> +<p class="i2"> I can remember how he sang, back in the lost days, back in the eighties. </p> +<p class="i2"> Uncle Yon Swenson under the tree chewing slowly, slowly.... </p> +<p class="i2"> Memories, memories! </p> +<p class="i2"> There are only trees now, no 'Gene, no eighties </p> +<p class="i2"> Gray cats, I can feel your fur in my heart ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Green grackle, I remember now, </p> +<p class="i2"> Back in the lost days, back in the eighties </p> +<p class="i2"> The cat ate you. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page15" name="page15"></a>[15]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0005"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i003.jpg"><img src="images/i003.png" width="350" height="425" +title="Caricature of Carl Sandburg" +alt="(caricature of Carl Sandburg)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page16" name="page16"></a>[16]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page17" name="page17"></a>[17]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0013" id="h2H_4_0013"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Edith M. Thomas</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (She tells a friend in confidence, after she is safely out of it all.) +</p> +<h3> +FROST AND SANDBURG TONIGHT +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Apple green bird on a wooden bough, </p> +<p class="i2"> And the brazen sound of a long, loud row, </p> +<p class="i2"> And "Child, take the train, but mind what you do— </p> +<p class="i2"> Frost, tonight, and Sandburg too!" </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Then I sally forth, half wild, half cowed, </p> +<p class="i2"> Till I come to the surging, impervious crowd, </p> +<p class="i2"> The wine-filled, the temperance, the sober, the pied, </p> +<p class="i2"> The Poets that cover the countryside! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The Poets I never would meet till tonight! </p> +<p class="i2"> A gleam of their eyes in the fading light, </p> +<p class="i2"> And I took them all in—the enormous throng— </p> +<p class="i2"> And with one great bound I bolted along. </p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> If the garden had merely held birds and flowers! </p> +<p class="i2"> But I hear a voice—they have talked for hours— </p> +<p class="i2"> "Frost tonight—" if 'twere merely he! </p> +<p class="i2"> Half wild, half cowed, I flee, I flee! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page18" name="page18"></a>[18]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0014" id="h2H_4_0014"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Charles Hanson Towne</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who rather begrudged the time he used up in going out to the + suburbs.) +</p> +<h3> +THE UNQUIET SINGER +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> He had been singing, but I had not heard his voice; </p> +<p class="i2"> He had been bothering the rest with song; </p> +<p class="i2"> But I, most comfortably far </p> +<p class="i2"> Within the city's stimulating jar </p> +<p class="i2"> Feeling for bus-conductors and for flats, </p> +<p class="i2"> And shop-girls buying too expensive hats, </p> +<p class="i2"> And silver-serviced dinners, </p> +<p class="i2"> And various kinds of pleasant urban sinners, </p> +<p class="i2"> And riding on the subway and the L, </p> +<p class="i2"> Had much beside his song to hear and tell. </p> +</div> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> But one day (it was Spring, when poets ride </p> +<p class="i2"> Afield to wild poetic festivals) </p> +<p class="i2"> I, innocently making calls </p> +<p class="i2"> Was snatched by a swift motor toward his tree </p> +<p class="i2"> (Alas, but lady poets will do this to thee </p> +<p class="i2"> If thou art decorative, witty or a Man) </p> +<p class="i2"> And heard him sing, and on the grass did bide. </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page19" name="page19"></a>[19]</span> + + But my whole day was sadder for his words, </p> +<p class="i2"> And I was thinner </p> +<p class="i2"> Because, in spite of my most careful plan </p> +<p class="i2"> I missed a very pleasant little dinner.... </p> +<p class="i2"> In short, unless well-cooked, I don't like Birds. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page20" name="page20"></a>[20]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0015" id="h2H_4_0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Sara Teasdale</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who got Miss Rittenhouse to read it for her.) +</p> +<h3> +AT AUTUMN +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I bend and watch the grackles billing, </p> +<p class="i2"> And fight with tears as I float by; </p> +<p class="i2"> O be a fowl for my heart's filling! </p> +<p class="i2"> O be a bird, yet never fly! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page21" name="page21"></a>[21]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0016" id="h2H_4_0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Ezra Pound</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Mailed disdainfully by him from anywhere but America, and read + prayerfully by a committee from Chicago.) +</p> +<h3> +RAINUV: A ROMANTIC BALLAD FROM THE EARLY BASQUE +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i24"> ... so then naturally </p> +<p class="i2"> This Count Rainuv I speak of </p> +<p class="i2"> (Certainly I did not expect you would ever have heard of him; </p> +<p class="i2"> You are American poets, aren't you? </p> +<p class="i2"> That's rather awful ... I am the only American poet </p> +<p class="i2"> I could ever tolerate ... well, sniff and pass....) </p> +<p class="i2"> Therefore ... well, I knew Rainuv. </p> +<p class="i2"> (My P. G. course at Penn, you'll remember; </p> +<p class="i2"> A little Anglo-Saxon and Basuto, </p> +<p class="i2"> But Provencal, mostly. Most don't go in for that.... </p> +<p class="i2"> You haven't, of course ... What, no Provencal? </p> +<p class="i2"> Well, of course, I know </p> +<p class="i2"> Rather more than you do. That's my specialty. </p> +<p class="i2"> But then—<i>Omnis Gallia est divisa</i>—but no matter. </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page22" name="page22"></a>[22]</span> + + Not fit, perhaps you'd say, that, to be quoted </p> +<p class="i2"> Before ladies.... That's your rather amusing prudishness....) </p> +<p class="i2"> Well, this Rainuv, then, </p> +<p class="i2"> A person with a squint like a flash </p> +<p class="i2"> Of square fishes ... being rather worse than most </p> +<p class="i2"> Of the usual <i>literati</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> Said, being carried off by desire of boasting </p> +<p class="i2"> That he knew all the mid-Victorians </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Et ab lor bos amics:</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> (He thought it was something to boast of.) </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> We'll say he said he smoked with Tennyson, </p> +<p class="i2"> And—deeper pit—<i>pax vobiscum</i>—went to vespers </p> +<p class="i2"> With Adelaide Anne Procter; helped Bob Browning elope </p> +<p class="i2"> With Elizabeth and her lapdog (said it bit him) </p> +<p class="i2"> Said he was the first man Blake told </p> +<p class="i2"> All about the angels in a pear-tree at Peckham Rye </p> +<p class="i2"> Blake drew them for him, he said; they were grackles, not angels— </p> +<p class="i2"> (Blake's not a mid-Victorian, but you don't know better) </p> +<p class="i2"> So ... we come, being slightly irritated, to facing him down. </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page23" name="page23"></a>[23]</span> + + "... And George Eliot?" we ask lightly. </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>Roomed with him</i>," nodded Rainuv confidently, </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>At college!</i>"... Ah, <i>bos amic! bos amic!</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> Rainuv is a king to you.... </p> +<p class="i2"> Three centuries from now (you dead and messy) men whispering insolently </p> +<p class="i2"> (Eeni meeni mini mo...) will boast that their great-grand-uncles </p> +<p class="i2"> Were kicked by me in passing.... </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page24" name="page24"></a>[24]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0017" id="h2H_4_0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Margaret Widdemer</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Clutching a non-existent portičre with one hand.) +</p> +<h3> +THE SIGHING TREE +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The folk of the wood called me— </p> +<p class="i4"> "There sits a golden bird </p> +<p class="i2"> Upon your mother's pear-tree—" </p> +<p class="i4"> But I never said a word. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The Sleepy People whispered— </p> +<p class="i4"> "The bird is singing now." </p> +<p class="i2"> But I felt not then like leaving bed </p> +<p class="i4"> Nor listening beneath the bough. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> But the wronged world beat my portals— </p> +<p class="i4"> "Come out or be sore oppressed!" </p> +<p class="i2"> So I threw a stone at the grackle </p> +<p class="i4"> And my throbbing heart had rest. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page25" name="page25"></a>[25]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0006"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i004.jpg"><img src="images/i004.png" width="350" height="550" +title="Caricature of Margaret Widdemer" +alt="(caricature of Margaret Widdemer)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page26" name="page26"></a>[26]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page27" name="page27"></a>[27]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0018" id="h2H_4_0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Richard Le Gallienne</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Advancing with a dreamy air of there still being a Yellow Book.) +</p> +<h3> +BALLADE OF SPRING CHICKENS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Spring comes—yet where the dream that glows? </p> +<p class="i4"> There only waves upon the lea </p> +<p class="i2"> A lonely pear-bough where doth doze </p> +<p class="i4"> A bird of green, and merely he: </p> +<p class="i4"> Why weave of him our poetry? </p> +<p class="i2"> Why of a Grackle need we sing? </p> +<p class="i4"> Ah, far another fowl for me— </p> +<p class="i2"> I seek Spring Chickens in the Spring. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Though May returns, and frisking shows </p> +<p class="i4"> Her ankles through this white clad tree, </p> +<p class="i2"> Alas, old Spring's gone with the rose, </p> +<p class="i4"> Gone is all old romance and glee— </p> +<p class="i4"> Yet still a joy remains to me— </p> +<p class="i2"> Softly our lyric lutes unstring, </p> +<p class="i4"> Far from this Grackle we shall flee </p> +<p class="i2"> And seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Too soon Youth's <i>mss</i> must close, </p> +<p class="i4"> (<i>Omar</i>) its rose be pot-pourri; </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page28" name="page28"></a>[28]</span> + + What of this bird and all his woes! </p> +<p class="i4"> Catulla, I would fly to thee— </p> +<p class="i4"> Bright bird of luring lingerie, </p> +<p class="i2"> Of bushy bob, of knees aswing, </p> +<p class="i4"> This golden task be mine in fee, </p> +<p class="i2"> To seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! </p> +</div> + +<p class="i18"> +<i>Envoi</i> +</p> + +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Prince, let us leave this grove, pardie, </p> +<p class="i4"> A flapper is a fairer thing: </p> +<p class="i2"> Let us fare fast where such there be, </p> +<p class="i4"> And seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page29" name="page29"></a>[29]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0019" id="h2H_4_0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Angela Morgan</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Carefully lifting her Greek robe off the wet grass, and patting her + fillet with one white glove, recites passionately.) +</p> +<h3> +OH! BIRD! +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I heard a flaming noise that screamed— </p> +<p class="i2"> "Man, panting, crushed, must be redeemed! </p> +<p class="i2"> Man! All the crowd of him! </p> +<p class="i2"> Quiet or loud of him! </p> +<p class="i2"> Men! Raging souls of them! </p> +<p class="i2"> Heaps of them, shoals of them! </p> +<p class="i2"> Hurtling impassioned through fiery-tongued rapture! </p> +<p class="i2"> Leaping for glories all avid to capture </p> +<p class="i2"> Bounteous ćons of star-beating bliss!" </p> +<p class="i2"> I heard a voice cry, and I'm sure it said this: </p> +<p class="i2"> Though the cook said the noise was a tree and a bird ... </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>But I heard! Gods, I heard!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page30" name="page30"></a>[30]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0020" id="h2H_4_0020"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Conrad Aiken</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Creeping mysteriously out of the twilight, draped in a complex.) +</p> +<h3> +THE CHARNEL BIRD +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Forslin murmurs a melodious impropriety </p> +<p class="i4"> Musing on birds and women dead ćons ago.... </p> +<p class="i2"> Was he not, once, this fowl, a gay bird in society? </p> +<p class="i4"> Can any one tell?... After an evening out, who can know? </p> +<p class="i2"> Perhaps Cleopatra, lush in her inadequate wrappings, </p> +<p class="i4"> Lifted him once to her tatbebs.... Perhaps Helen of Troy </p> +<p class="i2"> Found him more live than her Paris ... a bird among dead ones.... </p> +<p class="i4"> Perhaps Semiramis ... once ... in a pink unnamable joy * * * </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I tie my shoes politely, a salute to this bird in his pear-tree; </p> +<p class="i4"> ... What is a pear-tree, after all.... What is a bird? </p> +<p class="i2"> What is a shoe, or a Forslin, or even a Senlin? </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page31" name="page31"></a>[31]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0007"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i005.jpg"><img src="images/i005.png" width="250" height="490" +title="Caricature of Conrad Aiken" +alt="(caricature of Conrad Aiken)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page32" name="page32"></a>[32]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page33" name="page33"></a>[33]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4"> What is ... a what?... Is there any one who has heard?... </p> +<p class="i2"> What is it crawls from the kiss-thickened, Freudian darkness, </p> +<p class="i4"> Amorous, catlike ... Ah, can it be a cat? </p> +<p class="i2"> I would so much rather it had been a scarlet harlot, </p> +<p class="i4"> There is so much more genuine poetry in that.... </p> +</div> +</div> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="quote"> + (Note by the Collator: It was, in fact, Fluffums, the Angora cat + belonging to the Jenkinses on the corner; and the disappointment + was too much for Mr. Aiken, who fainted away, and had to be taken + back to Boston before completing his poem, which he had intended + to fill an entire book.) +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page34" name="page34"></a>[34]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0021" id="h2H_4_0021"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Mary Carolyn Davies</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Impetuously, with a floppy hat.) +</p> +<h3> +A YOUNG GIRL TO A YOUNG BIRD +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> When one is young, you know, then one can sing </p> +<p class="i8"> Of anything: </p> +<p class="i2"> One is so young—so pleasurably so— </p> +<p class="i8"> How can one know </p> +<p class="i2"> If God made little apples, or yet pears, </p> +<p class="i8"> Or ... if God cares? </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> You are young, maybe, Grackle; that is why </p> +<p class="i8"> I want to cry </p> +<p class="i2"> Seeing you watch the poems that I say </p> +<p class="i8"> To-night, to-day ... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> This little boy-bird seems to nod to me </p> +<p class="i8"> With sympathy: </p> +<p class="i2"> He is so young: it must be that is why ... </p> +<p class="i8"> <i>As young as I!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page35" name="page35"></a>[35]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0022" id="h2H_4_0022"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Marguerite Wilkinson</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Advancing with sedate courtesy in a long-sleeved, high-necked + lecture costume.) +</p> +<h3> +THE RUNE OF THE NUDE +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I will set my slim strong soul on this tree with no leaves upon it, </p> +<p class="i4"> I will lift up my undressed dreams to the nude and ethical sky: </p> +<p class="i2"> This bird has his feathers upon him: he shall not have even a sonnet: </p> +<p class="i4"> Until he is stripped of his last pin-plume I will sing of my mate and I! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> My ancestors rise from their graves to be shocked at my soul's wild climbing </p> +<p class="i4"> (They were strong, they were righteous, my ancestors, but they always kept on their clothes) </p> +<p class="i4"> My mate is the best of all mates alive: his voice is a raptured rhyming: </p> +<p class="i2"> He chants "Come Down!" but it cannot come, either for him or those! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page36" name="page36"></a>[36]</span> + +<p class="i2"> My ancestors pound from their ouija-board: my mate leaps in swift indignation: </p> +<p class="i4"> I must tell the world of their wonders, but I must be strong and free— </p> +<p class="i2"> Though all sires and all mates cry out in a runic incantation, </p> +<p class="i4"> My soul shall be stripped and buttonless—it shall dwell in a naked tree! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page37" name="page37"></a>[37]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0023" id="h2H_4_0023"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Aline Kilmer</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (With a certain aloofness.) +</p> +<h3> +ADMIRATION +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Kenton's arrogant eyes watch the Widdemer pear-tree, </p> +<p class="i2"> His thistle-down-footed sister puts out her tongue at him.... </p> +<p class="i2"> Kenton, what do you see? That yonder is only a bare tree; </p> +<p class="i2"> Come, carry Deborah home; she is gossamer-light and slim. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> "Aw, mother, but I don't want to!" Kenton replies with devotion, </p> +<p class="i2"> "I've gathered you stones for the bird; come on, don't you want to throw 'em?" </p> +<p class="i2"> Ah, Kenton, Kenton, my child, who but you would have such an emotion? </p> +<p class="i2"> But in spite of it I admire you, as you'll see when you read this poem. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page38" name="page38"></a>[38]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0024" id="h2H_4_0024"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>The Benet Brothers</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (They sing arm in arm, Stephen Vincent having rather more to do with + the verse and William Rose with the chorus. Their sister Laura is + too busy looking for a fairy under the tree to add to the family + contribution.) +</p> +<h3> +THE GRACKLE OF GROG +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> It was old Yale College </p> +<p class="i4"> Made me what I am— </p> +<p class="i2"> You oughto heard my mother </p> +<p class="i4"> When I first said damn! </p> +<p class="i2"> I put a pin in sister's chair, </p> +<p class="i4"> She jumped sky-high ... </p> +<p class="i2"> I don't know what'll happen </p> +<p class="i4"> When I come to die! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> <i>But oh, the stars burst wild in a glorious crimson whangle,</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>There was foam on the beer mile-deep, mile-high, and the pickles were piled like seas,</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Nœara's hair was a flapper's bob that turned to a ten-mile tangle,</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>And the forests were crowded with unicorns, and gold elephants charged up trees!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page39" name="page39"></a>[39]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0008"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i006.jpg"><img src="images/i006.png" width="300" height="450" +title="Caricature of the Benet brothers" +alt="(caricature of the Benet brothers)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page40" name="page40"></a>[40]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page41" name="page41"></a>[41]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Forceps in the dentist's chair, </p> +<p class="i4"> Razors in the lather ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Lord, the black experience </p> +<p class="i4"> I've had time to gather ... </p> +<p class="i2"> But I've thought of one thing </p> +<p class="i4"> That may pull me through— </p> +<p class="i2"> I'm a reg'lar devil </p> +<p class="i4"> But the Devil was, too! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> <i>There were thousands of trees with knotholed knees that kicked in a league-long rapture,</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>Birds green as a seasick emerald in a million-mile shrieking row—</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>It was sixty dollars or sixty days when the cop had made his capture....</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>But God! the bun was a gorgeous one, and the Faculty did not know!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page42" name="page42"></a>[42]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0025" id="h2H_4_0025"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Lola Ridge</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who apparently did not care for the suburbs.) +</p> +<h3> +PREENINGS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I preen myself.... </p> +<p class="i2"> I ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Always do ... </p> +<p class="i2"> My ego expanding encompasses ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Everything, naturally.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> This bird preens himself ... </p> +<p class="i2"> It is our only likeness.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Ah, God, I want a Ghetto </p> +<p class="i2"> And a Freud and an alley and some Immigrants calling names ... </p> +<p class="i2"> God, you know </p> +<p class="i2"> How awful it is.... </p> +<p class="i2"> Here are trees and birds and clouds </p> +<p class="i2"> And picturesquely neat children across the way on the grass </p> +<p class="i2"> Not doing anything </p> +<p class="i2"> Improper ... </p> +<p class="i2"> (Poor little fools, I mustn't blame them for that </p> +<p class="i2"> Perhaps they never </p> +<p class="i2"> Knew How....) </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page43" name="page43"></a>[43]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0009"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i007.jpg"><img src="images/i007.png" width="350" height="450" +title="Caricature of Lola Ridge" +alt="(caricature of Lola Ridge)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page44" name="page44"></a>[44]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page45" name="page45"></a>[45]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> But oh, God, take me to the nearest trolley line! </p> +<p class="i2"> This is a country landscape— </p> +<p class="i2"> I can't stand it! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> God, take me away— </p> +<p class="i2"> There is no Sex here </p> +<p class="i2"> And no Smell! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page46" name="page46"></a>[46]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0026" id="h2H_4_0026"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Edna St. Vincent Millay</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Recites in a flippant voice which occasionally chokes up with + irrepressible emotion, and clenching her hands tensely as she + notices that the Grackle has hopped twice.) +</p> +<h3> +TEA O' HERBS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> O I have brought in now </p> +<p class="i4"> Bergamot, </p> +<p class="i2"> A packet o' brown senna </p> +<p class="i4"> And an iron pot; </p> +<p class="i2"> In my scarlet gown </p> +<p class="i4"> I make all hot. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> And other men and girls </p> +<p class="i4"> Write like me </p> +<p class="i2"> Setting herbs a-plenty </p> +<p class="i4"> In their poetry </p> +<p class="i2"> (<i>Bergamot for hair-oil,</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>Bergamot for tea!</i>) </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> And they may do ill now </p> +<p class="i2"> Or they may do well, </p> +<p class="i2"> (Little should I care now </p> +<p class="i2"> What they have to sell—) </p> + +<!--following two lines moved up from page 49--> +<p class="i2"> But what bergamot and rue are </p> +<p class="i4"> None of them can tell. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page47" name="page47"></a>[47]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0010"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i008.jpg"><img src="images/i008.png" width="350" height="500" +title="Caricature of Edna St. Vincent Millay" +alt="(caricature of Edna St. Vincent Millay)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page48" name="page48"></a>[48]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page49" name="page49"></a>[49]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> All above my bitter tea </p> +<p class="i4"> I have set a lid </p> +<p class="i2"> (As my bitter heart </p> +<p class="i4"> By its red gown hid) </p> +<p class="i2"> They write of bergamot </p> +<p class="i4"> Because I did.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> (From its padded hangers </p> +<p class="i4"> They've snatched my red gown, </p> +<p class="i2"> Men as well as girls </p> +<p class="i4"> And gone down town, </p> +<p class="i2"> Flaunting my vocabulary, </p> +<p class="i4"> Every verb and noun!) </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> And the grackle moans </p> +<p class="i4"> High above the pot, </p> +<p class="i2"> He is sick with herbs ... </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>And am I not,</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Who have brought in</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>Bergamot?</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page50" name="page50"></a>[50]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0027" id="h2H_4_0027"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>John V. A. Weaver</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (With a strong note of infant brutality.) +</p> +<h3> +THE WEAVER BIRD +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree </p> +<p class="i2"> All green an' cocky—why, it might be me </p> +<p class="i2"> Singin' to you.... Wisht I was just a bird </p> +<p class="i2"> Bringin' you worms—aw, you know, things I've heard </p> +<p class="i2"> 'Bout me—an' flowers, maybe.... Like as not </p> +<p class="i2"> Somebody'd get me with an old slingshot </p> +<p class="i2"> An' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up! </p> +<p class="i2"> Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet, </p> +<p class="i2"> Knowin' my grave was out there in the wet </p> +<p class="i2"> And we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid, </p> +<p class="i2"> It makes me weep, same as it always did, </p> +<p class="i2"> To think how bad you'd feel.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i32"> I got a thought, </p> +<p class="i2"> An awful funny one I sorta caught— </p> +<p class="i2"> Nobody never thought that way, I guess— </p> +<p class="i2"> When I get blue, an' things is in a mess </p> +<p class="i2"> I map out all my funeral, the hearses </p> +<p class="i2"> An' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page51" name="page51"></a>[51]</span> + + Sayin' how great I was, an' all like that, </p> +<p class="i2"> An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat </p> +<p class="i2"> Tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke, </p> +<p class="i2"> An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I can't stand that bird, somehow—makes me cry.... </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>The world'll be darn sorry when I die!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page52" name="page52"></a>[52]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0028" id="h2H_4_0028"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>David Morton</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who, being very polite, only thought it.) +</p> +<h3> +SONNET: TREES ARE NOT SHIPS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> There is no magic in a living tree, </p> +<p class="i2"> And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds: </p> +<p class="i2"> My soul is seasick, and its only words </p> +<p class="i2"> Murmur desire for things more like a sea. </p> +<p class="i2"> In this dry landscape here there seems to be </p> +<p class="i2"> No water, merely persons in large herds, </p> +<p class="i2"> Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds, </p> +<p class="i2"> Come from the Poetry Society. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> What could be drier, where all things are dry? </p> +<p class="i2"> What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide? </p> +<p class="i2"> Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie, </p> +<p class="i2"> Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships, </p> +<p class="i2"> Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside, </p> +<p class="i2"> That I may have great sonnets on my lips! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page53" name="page53"></a>[53]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0029" id="h2H_4_0029"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Elinor Wylie</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.) +</p> +<h3> +THE GRACKLE IS THE LOON +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Never believe this bird connotes </p> +<p class="i4"> Jade whorls of carven commonness: </p> +<p class="i2"> Nor as from ordinary throats </p> +<p class="i4"> Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> He is the cold and scornful Loon, </p> +<p class="i4"> Who, hoping that the sun shall fail, </p> +<p class="i2"> Steeps in the silver of the moon </p> +<p class="i4"> His burnished claws, his chiseled tail. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page54" name="page54"></a>[54]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0030" id="h2H_4_0030"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Leonora Speyer</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.) +</p> +<h3> +A LANDSCAPE GETS PERSONAL +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Beloved.... </p> +<p class="i2"> I cannot bear that Bird </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> He is green </p> +<p class="i2"> With envy of My Songs: </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>Cheep! Cheep!</i>" </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> This Tree </p> +<p class="i2"> Has a furtive look </p> +<p class="i2"> And the Brook </p> +<p class="i2"> Says, "Oh ... Splash...." </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ... </p> +<p class="i2"> It waves at me.... </p> +<p class="i2"> It is too flirtatious! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Beloved, </p> +<p class="i2"> Let us leave swiftly ... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> <i>I fear this Landscape!</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>It would vamp me!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page55" name="page55"></a>[55]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0011"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i009.jpg"><img src="images/i009.png" width="350" height="495" +title="Caricature of Leonora Speyer" +alt="(caricature of Leonora Speyer)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page56" name="page56"></a>[56]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page57" name="page57"></a>[57]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0031" id="h2H_4_0031"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Corinne Roosevelt Robinson</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who, having engagements to speak at ten unveilings, and nine public + schools and twelve other symposiums, stayed away, but sent this + handsome tribute by wire.) +</p> +<h3> +THE SYMPOSIUM LEADING NOWHERE +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I sing of the joy of the Small Paths </p> +<p class="i4"> The paths that lead nowhere at all, </p> +<p class="i2"> (Though I never have gone on them nevertheless </p> +<p class="i4"> They are admirable, and so small!) </p> +<p class="i2"> I go out at midnight in motors </p> +<p class="i4"> But, being a Roosevelt, I drive </p> +<p class="i2"> Straight ahead on the neatly paved highway, </p> +<p class="i4"> For I wish with much speed to arrive. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small Paths </p> +<p class="i4"> Surrounded with Birds and with Trees </p> +<p class="i2"> I would love to go down on a Small Path </p> +<p class="i4"> And sit in communion with these! </p> +<p class="i2"> Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you, </p> +<p class="i4"> For poetic communion I yearn </p> +<p class="i2"> But I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbs </p> +<p class="i4"> And alas, I've no time to return. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page58" name="page58"></a>[58]</span> + + <i>Oh alas, the undone moments,</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>Oh, the myriad hours bereft</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Trying to be twenty people</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>And to do things right and left.</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>I would sit down by a Small Path</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>And would make me a Large Rhyme</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>I should love to find my soul there</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>But I haven't got the time!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page59" name="page59"></a>[59]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0032" id="h2H_4_0032"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Ridgely Torrence</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who felt that the Bird did not sufficiently uphold Art.) +</p> +<h3> +THE FOWL OF A THOUSAND FLIGHTS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Grackle, Grackle on your tree, </p> +<p class="i4"> There's something wrong to-day, </p> +<p class="i2"> In the moonlight, in the quiet evening, </p> +<p class="i4"> You will rise and croak and fly away; </p> +<p class="i2"> Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight </p> +<p class="i4"> (And that's all right) </p> +<p class="i2"> But you have never criticised a single song </p> +<p class="i4"> (And that's all wrong) </p> +<p class="i2"> Lo, would you add despair unto despair? </p> +<p class="i2"> Do you not care </p> +<p class="i2"> That all these lesser children of the Muse </p> +<p class="i2"> Shall sing to you exactly as they choose? </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem, </p> +<p class="i2"> Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'em </p> +<p class="i2"> That you should not </p> +<p class="i2"> Be shot: </p> +<p class="i2"> What saw I then, what heard? </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page60" name="page60"></a>[60]</span> + + Multitudes—multitudes, under the tree they stirred, </p> +<p class="i2"> And with too many a broken note and wheeze </p> +<p class="i2"> They sang what each did please.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> And Thou, </p> +<p class="i2"> O bird of emeraldine beak and brow, </p> +<p class="i2"> Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle, </p> +<p class="i2"> Grackle! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page61" name="page61"></a>[61]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0033" id="h2H_4_0033"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Henry van Dyke</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who, although for different reasons, did not care for the Grackle + either.) +</p> +<h3> +THE ROILING OF HENRY +</h3> + +<p class="center"> +(<span class="sc">A Song of the Grating Outdoors</span>) +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Bird, thou art not a Veery, </p> +<p class="i4"> Nor yet a Yellowthroat, </p> +<p class="i2"> Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song, </p> +<p class="i4"> Long, long e'er I could vote; </p> +<p class="i2"> Thou art not a Blue Flower, </p> +<p class="i4"> Nor e'en a real Blue Bird; </p> +<p class="i2"> Yet there's a moral high and pure </p> +<p class="i4"> In all thy likings heard: </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—</i> </p> +<p class="i6"> <i>Go on and ne'er look back!</i>" </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The noble tow'rs of Princeton </p> +<p class="i4"> Hear high thy pensive trill, </p> +<p class="i2"> And eke my ear has heard thee </p> +<p class="i4"> The while I fished the rill; </p> +<p class="i2"> Thy note rings out at daybreak </p> +<p class="i4"> Before I rise to toil; </p> +<p class="i2"> Thou counselest Persistence; </p> +<p class="i4"> Thy song no stone can spoil; </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>Go on and ne'er look back!</i>" </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page62" name="page62"></a>[62]</span> + + Yet, Bird, there is a limit </p> +<p class="i4"> To all I've undergone; </p> +<p class="i2"> From five o'clock till five o'clock </p> +<p class="i4"> Thou'st chanted o'er my lawn; </p> +<p class="i2"> I cannot get my work done ... </p> +<p class="i4"> I give thee, Bird, advice; </p> +<p class="i2"> If thou wouldst save thy skin alive, </p> +<p class="i4"> Let me not warn thee twice, </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>Go on and ne'er look back!</i>" </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page63" name="page63"></a>[63]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0034" id="h2H_4_0034"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Cale Young Rice</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who came out rather tired from trying to choose a new suit, and + could not get it off his mind.) +</p> +<h3> +PANTINGS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! </p> +<p class="i4"> Gents' immanent furnishings! </p> +<p class="i2"> On a mystic tide I ride, I ride, </p> +<p class="i4"> Of the clothes of a million springs! </p> +<p class="i2"> I take the train for the suburbs </p> +<p class="i4"> Or I sweep from Pole to Pole, </p> +<p class="i2"> But where is the window that holds them not, </p> +<p class="i4"> Gents' furnishings of my soul! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! </p> +<p class="i4"> Shirtings and coatings too! </p> +<p class="i2"> How can I think of mere birds, nor blink </p> +<p class="i4"> In the Cosmic Hullaballoo? </p> +<p class="i2"> The hot world throbs with Immenseness, </p> +<p class="i4"> The Voidness plunks in the Void, </p> +<p class="i2"> And all of it doubtless has something to do </p> +<p class="i4"> With Employer and Unemployed! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page64" name="page64"></a>[64]</span> + + Pantings! Pantings! Pantings! </p> +<p class="i4"> Trousers through all the town! </p> +<p class="i2"> And the tailors' dummies with iron for tummies </p> +<p class="i4"> Smirk in their blue and brown; </p> +<p class="i2"> I float in a slithering simoon </p> +<p class="i4"> Of fevered and surging tints, </p> +<p class="i2"> And my ears are dulled with the mighty throb </p> +<p class="i4"> Of the Male Best Dressers' Hints: </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> <i>Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>My wardrobe, they send it fleet....</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Ah, the Is and the Was and the Never Does....</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>And the Cosmos at last complete!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page65" name="page65"></a>[65]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0035" id="h2H_4_0035"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Bliss Carman</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who, incidentally, happened to be correct.) +</p> +<h3> +THE WILD +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Ho, Spring calls clear a message.... </p> +<p class="i4"> The Grackle is not green.... </p> +<p class="i2"> The Mighty Mother Nature </p> +<p class="i4"> She knows just what I mean. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The lilac and the willow </p> +<p class="i4"> The grass and violet </p> +<p class="i2"> They are my wild companions </p> +<p class="i4"> Where I was raised a pet. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The secrets of great nature </p> +<p class="i4"> From childhood I have heard; </p> +<p class="i2"> Oh, I can tell a wild flower </p> +<p class="i4"> Swiftly from a wild bird; </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> And Gwendolen and Marna </p> +<p class="i4"> And Myrtle (dead all three ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Among my wildwood sweethearts </p> +<p class="i4"> Was much mortality). </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page66" name="page66"></a>[66]</span> + + If they my loves returning </p> +<p class="i4"> Might gather 'neath these boughs </p> +<p class="i2"> (Oh, they would sniff at pear-trees </p> +<p class="i4"> Who loved the Northern Sloughs). </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Their wild eternal whisper </p> +<p class="i4"> Would back me up, I ween: </p> +<p class="i2"> "This bird is not a Grackle: </p> +<p class="i4"> A Grackle is not green." </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page67" name="page67"></a>[67]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0036" id="h2H_4_0036"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Grace Hazard and Hilda Conkling</i> +</h2> + +<h3> +THEY SEE THE BIRDIE +</h3> + +<p class="quote"> +(Mrs. Conkling points maternally.) +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4"> Oh, Hilda! see the little Bird! </p> +<p class="i4"> If you will watch, upon my word </p> +<p class="i4"> He will come out; a Veery<a href="#note-1" name="noteref-1"><small> 1</small></a> he </p> +<p class="i4"> As like an Oboe as can be: </p> +<p class="i4"> He shall be wingčd, with a tail, </p> +<p class="i4"> Mayhap a Beak him shall not fail! </p> +<p class="i4"> And I will tell him, "Birdie, oh, </p> +<p class="i4"> This is my Hilda, you must know— </p> +<p class="i4"> And oh, what joy, if you but knew— </p> +<p class="i4"> She shall make poetry on you!" </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="quote"> +(The Birdie obliges, whereupon Hilda recites obediently, while her +mother, concealing herself completely behind the bird, takes +dictation.) +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4"> Oh, my lovely Mother, </p> +<p class="i4"> That is a Bird: </p> +<p class="i4"> Sitting on a Tree. </p> +<p class="i4"> I am a Little Girl </p> +<p class="i4"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page68" name="page68"></a>[68]</span> + + Standing on the Ground. </p> +<p class="i4"> I see the Bird, </p> +<p class="i4"> The Bird sees me. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4"> <i>Bird!</i> </p> +<p class="i4"> <i>Color of Grass!</i> </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4"> <i>I love my Mother</i> </p> +<p class="i7"> <i>More than I do You!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="foot"> +<a name="note-1"><!--Note--></a> +1 (<a href="#noteref-1"><small>return</small></a>)<br /> +Note by the Collator: I do not pretend to explain the +veery-complex of American poets. They all seemed possessed to rub it +into the poor bird that he wasn't one. +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page69" name="page69"></a>[69]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0037" id="h2H_4_0037"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Theodosia Garrison</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who began cheerfully, but reduced her audience to tears, which she + surveyed with complacence, by the third line.) +</p> +<h3> +A BALLAD OF THE BIRD DANCE OF PIERRETTE +</h3> + +<p class="quote"> +<i>Pierrette's mother speaks:</i> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> "Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other? </p> +<p class="i4"> (Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same—) </p> +<p class="i2"> Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish mother </p> +<p class="i4"> That named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name! </p> +<p class="i2"> Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars, </p> +<p class="i4"> With yer hair that docked an' frizzed—if Father Pat shud see! </p> +<p class="i2"> Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers, </p> +<p class="i4"> Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!" </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i8"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page70" name="page70"></a>[70]</span> + + <i>But it was Bridget Sullivan,</i> </p> +<p class="i10"> <i>Her locks flour-sprent,</i> </p> +<p class="i8"> <i>That danced beneath the flowering tree</i> </p> +<p class="i10"> <i>Leaping as she went.</i> </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> "If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation </p> +<p class="i4"> (Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard), </p> +<p class="i2"> Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,' </p> +<p class="i4"> Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd! </p> +<p class="i2"> Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin' </p> +<p class="i4"> (Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,) </p> +<p class="i2"> Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin', </p> +<p class="i4"> Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!" </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i8"> <i>But it was Bridget Sullivan,</i> </p> +<p class="i10"> <i>Her head down-bent,</i> </p> +<p class="i8"> <i>Went back on the three-thirteen,</i> </p> +<p class="i10"> <i>Coughing as she went.</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page71" name="page71"></a>[71]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0038" id="h2H_4_0038"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>William Griffith</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who felt for her.) +</p> +<h3> +PIERRETTE REMEMBERS AN ENGAGEMENT +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Pierrette has gone—but it was not </p> +<p class="i4"> Exactly that she lied; </p> +<p class="i2"> She said she had to catch a train; </p> +<p class="i4"> "I have a date," she cried. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> To keep a sudden rendezvous </p> +<p class="i4"> It came into her mind </p> +<p class="i2"> As quite the quickest way to flee </p> +<p class="i4"> From parties of this kind; </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> She went most softly and most soon, </p> +<p class="i4"> But still she made a stir, </p> +<p class="i2"> For, going, she took all the men </p> +<p class="i4"> To town along with her. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page72" name="page72"></a>[72]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0039" id="h2H_4_0039"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Edgar Guest</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who has an air of absolute belief in the True, the Optimistic, and + the Checkbook. He seems yet a little ill at ease among the others, + and to be looking about restlessly for Ella Wheeler Wilcox.) +</p> +<h3> +AIN'T NATURE WONDERFUL! +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> How dear to me are home and wife, </p> +<p class="i4"> The dear old Tree I used to Love, </p> +<p class="i2"> The Pear it shed on starting life </p> +<p class="i4"> And God's Outdoors so bright above! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> For Virtue gets a high reward, </p> +<p class="i4"> Noble is all good Scenery, </p> +<p class="i2"> So I will root for Virtue hard, </p> +<p class="i4"> For God, for Nature, and for Me! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page73" name="page73"></a>[73]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0012"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i010.jpg"><img src="images/i010.png" width="350" height="420" +title="Caricature of Edgar Guest" +alt="(caricature of Edgar Guest)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page74" name="page74"></a>[74]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page75" name="page75"></a>[75]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0040" id="h2H_4_0040"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Don Marquis</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Who, it appears, refers to departments which he and certain of his + friends run in New York papers. He swings a theoretical barrel of + hootch above his head, and chants:) +</p> +<h3> +THE MEETING OF THE COLUMNS +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Chris and Frank and I </p> +<p class="i4"> Each had a column; </p> +<p class="i2"> Chris and I were plump and gay, </p> +<p class="i2"> But not so F.P.A.: </p> +<p class="i4"> F.P.A. was solemn— </p> +<p class="i4"> Not so his Column; </p> +<p class="i2"> That was full of wit, </p> +<p class="i4"> As good as My Column </p> +<p class="i2"> Nearly every bit! </p> +<p class="i2"> We sat on each an office chair </p> +<p class="i4"> And all snapped our scissors; </p> +<p class="i2"> Their things were pretty fair </p> +<p class="i4"> But all of mine were Whizzers! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Frank wrote of Cyril, </p> +<p class="i4"> An ungrammatic sinner, </p> +<p class="i2"> But I wrote of Drink </p> +<p class="i4"> And Chris wrote of Dinner; </p> +<p class="i4"> And Frank kept getting thinner </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page76" name="page76"></a>[76]</span> + + And we kept getting plump— </p> +<p class="i2"> Frank sat like a Bump </p> +<p class="i4"> Translating from the Latin, </p> +<p class="i2"> Chris wrote of Happy Homes </p> +<p class="i2"> I wrote of Alcoholic Foams, </p> +<p class="i4"> And we still seemed to fatten; </p> +<p class="i2"> Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been, </p> +<p class="i2"> I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin! </p> +<p class="i2"> But we both got fatter, </p> +<p class="i2"> So the parties didn't matter, </p> +<p class="i2"> Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her.... </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> F.P.A. went calling </p> +<p class="i4"> And sang about it sorely ... </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> F.P.A. played tennis </p> +<p class="i4"> And told the World he did.... </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry, </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!</i> </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me, </p> +<p class="i2"> To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree: </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page77" name="page77"></a>[77]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0013"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i011.jpg"><img src="images/i011.png" width="350" height="290" +title="Caricature of Don Marquis and Christopher Morley" +alt="(caricature of Don Marquis and Christopher Morley)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page78" name="page78"></a>[78]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page79" name="page79"></a>[79]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle— </p> +<p class="i2"> "Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle! </p> +<p class="i2"> A Grackle with a Hackle, </p> +<p class="i4"> A ticklish one to tackle </p> +<p class="i2"> A tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...." </p> +<p class="i2"> And we both began to giggle </p> +<p class="i4"> And woggle, and wiggle, </p> +<p class="i2"> And we giggled and we gurgled </p> +<p class="i4"> And we gargled and were gay ... </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page80" name="page80"></a>[80]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0041" id="h2H_4_0041"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Christopher Morley</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Acting, in spite of himself, as if the Bird were his long-lost + brother, and locating the Grackle, for poetic purposes, in his own + home.) +</p> +<h3> +THE MOCKING-HOARSE BIRD +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Good fowl, though I would speak to thee </p> +<p class="i2"> With wonted geniality, </p> +<p class="i2"> And Oxford charm in my address, </p> +<p class="i2"> It's not quite easy, I confess: </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Suaviter in modo's</i> hard </p> +<p class="i2"> When poets trample one's front yard, </p> +<p class="i2"> And this is such an enormous crew </p> +<p class="i2"> That you've got trailing after you! </p> +<p class="i2"> I'd washed my youngest child but four, </p> +<p class="i2"> Put the milk-bottles out the door, </p> +<p class="i2"> Paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh </p> +<p class="i2"> (Ah, happy wife! Ah, happy I!) </p> +<p class="i2"> Tossed down (see essays) then my pen </p> +<p class="i2"> To be a private citizen, </p> +<p class="i2"> Written about that in the Post, </p> +<p class="i2"> When lo, upon the lawn a host </p> +<p class="i2"> Of Poets, sprung upon my sight </p> +<p class="i2"> Each eager for a Poem to write! </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page81" name="page81"></a>[81]</span> + + To a less placid bard you'd be </p> +<p class="i2"> A flat domestic tragedy,— </p> +<p class="i2"> Bird—grackle—nay, I'd scarcely call </p> +<p class="i2"> You bird—a mere egg you, that's all— </p> +<p class="i2"> Only a bad egg has the nerve </p> +<p class="i2"> To poach (a pun!) on my preserve! </p> +<p class="i2"> To P.Q.S. and X.Y.D. </p> +<p class="i2"> (Both columnists whom you should see) </p> +<p class="i2"> And L.M.N (a man who never </p> +<p class="i2"> Columns a word that isn't clever,) </p> +<p class="i2"> And B.C.D. (who scintillates </p> +<p class="i2"> Much more than most who get his rates) </p> +<p class="i2"> A thing like this would be a trial.... </p> +<p class="i2"> It is to me, there's no denial. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Why, Bird, if they would sing of you, </p> +<p class="i2"> Or Sin, or Broken Hearts, or Rue, </p> +<p class="i2"> Or what Young Devils they all are, </p> +<p class="i2"> Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star, </p> +<p class="i2"> Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing, </p> +<p class="i2"> It would be quite another thing: </p> +<p class="i2"> But, Bird, here they come mousing round </p> +<p class="i2"> On my suburban, sacred ground, </p> +<p class="i2"> And see my happiness—it's flat, </p> +<p class="i2"> You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that! </p> +<p class="i2"> They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and later </p> +<p class="i2"> The joys of my Refrigerator, </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page82" name="page82"></a>[82]</span> + + Burst into song about the points </p> +<p class="i2"> Of Babies, Married Peace, Hot Joints, </p> +<p class="i2"> The Jimmy-Pipe I often carol, </p> +<p class="i2"> My Commutation, my Rain-Barrel, </p> +<p class="i2"> And each Uncontroverted Fact </p> +<p class="i2"> With which my poetry is packed ... </p> +<p class="i2"> In short, base Bird, they'll sing like me, </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>And then, where will my living be?</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page83" name="page83"></a>[83]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0042" id="h2H_4_0042"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Franklin P. Adams</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Coldly ignoring the roistering of his friends, addresses the Grackle + with bitterness:) +</p> +<h3> +TO A GRACKLE +</h3> +<p class="center"> +(Horace, Ode XVIXXV, p. 23) +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Bird, if you think I do not care </p> +<p class="i4"> To gaze upon your feathered form </p> +<p class="i2"> Rather than converse with some fair </p> +<p class="i4"> Or make my brow with tennis warm; </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> If you should think I'd liefer far </p> +<p class="i4"> Hear your sweet song than fast be driving </p> +<p class="i2"> Within my costly motor car </p> +<p class="i4"> And in my handsome home arriving, </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> If you should think I would be gone </p> +<p class="i4"> Far sooner than you might expect </p> +<p class="i2"> From off this uncolumnar lawn; </p> +<p class="i4"> Bird, you'd be utterly correct! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page84" name="page84"></a>[84]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0043" id="h2H_4_0043"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Tom Daly</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Showing the Italian's love of the Beautiful, which he makes his own + more than the Anglo-Saxon dreams of doing.) +</p> +<h3> +CARLO THE GARDENER +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree, </p> +<p class="i2"> Dey gotta da arta, da birda—but me, </p> +<p class="i2"> I lova da arta, I lova da flower, </p> +<p class="i2"> (Ah, <i>bella fioretta</i>!) I waita da hour: </p> +<p class="i2"> I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf— </p> +<p class="i2"> I brava young Carlo—Maria! fine t'ief! </p> +<p class="i2"> I waita </p> +<p class="i2"> Till later. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Da poets go homa, go finda da sup', </p> +<p class="i2"> I creep by dis tree and I digga her up, </p> +<p class="i2"> (Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love, </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Per Dio!</i> and da art!) So I giva da shove, </p> +<p class="i2"> I catcha da birda, I getta da tree, </p> +<p class="i2"> I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she— </p> +<p class="i2"> She gotta </p> +<p class="i2"> In potta! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page85" name="page85"></a>[85]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0044" id="h2H_4_0044"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Vachel Lindsay</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (Bounding on toward the end of the proceedings with a bundle over + his shoulder, and making the rest join in at the high spots.) +</p> +<h3> +THE HOBOKEN GRACKLE AND THE HOBO +</h3> +<p class="center"> +(<span class="sc">An Explanation</span>) +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>Steadily</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> As I went marching, torn-socked, free, </p> +<p class="i2"> With my red heart marching all agog in front of me </p> +<p class="i2"> And my throbbing heels </p> +<p class="i2"> And my throbbing feet </p> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>With energy</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> Making an impression on the Hoboken street </p> +<p class="i2"> Then I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird, </p> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>With surprise</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard! </p> +<p class="i2"> Banks—of—poets—round—that—tree— </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>All</i> of the Poetry Society but <i>me</i>! </p> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>Chatteringly like parrots</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackle </p> +<p class="i2"> Showed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly) </p> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>Cooingly, yet with impatience</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page86" name="page86"></a>[86]</span> + + Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, </p> +<p class="i2"> Gosh, what a packed street! </p> +<p class="i2"> The Secretary, <i>President</i> and TREASURER went by! </p> +<p class="i2"> "That's not a grackle," said I to all of him, </p> +<p class="i2"> Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim, </p> +<p class="i2"> "<i>That's an English sparrow on that limb!</i>" </p> +<p class="i2"> And they all went home </p> +<p class="i2"> No more to roam. </p> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>Intemperately</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam </p> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>With calm majesty</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> And I took my bandanna again on my stick </p> +<p class="i2"> And I walked to the grocery and took my pick </p> + +<p class="side"> +[<i>With domesticity for the moment</i>] +</p> + +<p class="i2"> And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn, </p> +<p class="i2"> Codfish like flakes of snow at morn, </p> +<p class="i2"> Buns for breakfast and a fountain-pen </p> +<p class="i2"> Laid down change and marched out again </p> +<p class="i2"> And I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free, </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!</i> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page87" name="page87"></a>[87]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figure"> +<a name="image-0014"><!--IMG--></a> +<a href="images/i012.jpg"><img src="images/i012.png" width="350" height="425" +title="Caricature of Vachel Lindsay" +alt="(caricature of Vachel Lindsay)" /></a> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page88" name="page88"></a>[88]</span></p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page89" name="page89"></a>[89]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0045" id="h2H_4_0045"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h3> + <big>DIES ILLA: A BIRD OF A MASQUE</big> +</h3> + +<p class="center"> + Being a Collaboration by Percy Mackaye,<br /> + Isabel Fiske Conant and Josephine<br /> + Preston Peabody. +</p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p class="center"> +<big>DRAMATIS PERSONĆ</big> +</p> + +<div class="cast-list"> +<p> +<span class="sc">The Grackle</span> (who does not appear at all) +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">The Spirit of the Rejection Slip</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">The Spirit of Modern Poetry</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">Chorus of Elderly Ladies Who Appreciate Poetry</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">Chorus of Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, +High-School and College Classes in Verse-Writing</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">Chorus of Young Men Running Poetry Magazines</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">Chorus of Poetry Critics</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">Chorus of Assorted Culture-Hounds</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">The Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in America</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">The Non-Poetry Writing Public (Composed of two citizens +who have never learned to read or write)</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">Semi-Choruses of Magazine Editors and Book-Publishers</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">Até, Goddess of Discord</span> +</p> +<p> +<span class="sc">The Muse</span> +</p> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p> +<span class="sc">Time</span>: <i>Next year.</i> <span class="sc">Place</span>: <i>Everywhere.</i> <span class="sc">Scene</span>: <i>A level stretch of monotony.</i> +</p> + +</div> + +<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>Entering despairingly</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Alas—in vain! Yet I have barred the way </p> +<p class="i2"> As best I might, that this great horror fall </p> +<p class="i2"> Not on the world. <i>Returned with many thanks</i> </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>And not because of lack of merit,</i> I </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page90" name="page90"></a>[90]</span> + + Have said to twenty million poets ... nay ... </p> +<p class="i2"> Profane it not, that word ... to twenty million </p> +<p class="i2"> Persons who wasted stamps and typewriting </p> +<p class="i2"> And midnight oil, to add unto the world </p> +<p class="i2"> More Bunk.... In vain—in vain! </p> +<p class="i2"> <span class="dir-i">(<i>She sinks down sobbing.</i>)</span> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>From right and left of stage enter Semi-Choruses Magazine Editors and +Book Publishers, tearing their hair rhythmically.</i>) +</p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> We have mailed their poems back </p> +<p class="i2"> To every man and woman-jack </p> +<p class="i2"> Who weigh the postman down </p> +<p class="i2"> From country and from town; </p> +<p class="i2"> But all in vain, in vain, </p> +<p class="i2"> They mail them in again! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Though we've sent them flying, </p> +<p class="i2"> We are nearly dying, </p> +<p class="i2"> From the books of poetry </p> +<p class="i2"> Sent by people unto we; </p> +<p class="i2"> In vain we keep them off our shelves, </p> +<p class="i2"> They go and publish them themselves! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page91" name="page91"></a>[91]</span></p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIPS</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye, </p> +<p class="i2"> And I've toiled with you.... All in vain, in vain— </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>Enter, with a proud consciousness of duty well done, the Chorus of +Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes +for Writing Verse. They sing Joyously</i>) +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The Day has come that we adore, </p> +<p class="i2"> The Day we've all been working for, </p> +<p class="i2"> Now babies in their bassinets </p> +<p class="i2"> And military school cadets, </p> +<p class="i2"> And chambermaids in each hotel </p> +<p class="i2"> And folks in slums who cannot spell, </p> +<p class="i2"> Professors, butchers, clergymen, </p> +<p class="i2"> And every one, have grabbed a pen: </p> +<p class="i2"> The Day has come—tra la, tra lee— </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Everybody</i> writes poetry! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>They do a Symbolic Dance with Typewriters, during which enters the +Chorus of Young Men who Run Poetry Magazines. These put on horn-rimmed +spectacles and chant earnestly as follows</i>) +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page92" name="page92"></a>[92]</span></p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN WHO RUN POETRY MAGAZINES</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> We're very careful what we put in; </p> +<p class="i2"> This magazine is of highest grade; </p> +<p class="i2"> If it doesn't appeal to our personal taste </p> +<p class="i2"> There's no use sending it, we're afraid; </p> +<p class="i2"> We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats, </p> +<p class="i2"> We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead; </p> +<p class="i2"> If you write like us there will be no fuss— </p> +<p class="i2"> That's the best of verse, when the last word's said.... <span class="dir-i">(<i>Bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground</i>)</span> </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Yale! Yale! Yale! </p> +<p class="i2"> Our Poetry! </p> +<p class="i2"> Fine Poetry! </p> +<p class="i2"> Nobody Else's Poetry! </p> +<p class="i2"> Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>Enter, modestly, the Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in +America. There are four of him—or her, as the case may be—Miss Monroe, +Miss Rittenhouse, Mrs. Stork, Mr. Braithwaite. The Person stands in a +row and recites in unison:</i>) +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page93" name="page93"></a>[93]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I've made Poetry </p> +<p class="i4"> What it is today; </p> +<p class="i2"> Or ... at least ... </p> +<p class="i4"> That's what people say: </p> +<p class="i2"> Earnest-minded effort </p> +<p class="i4"> Never can be hid; </p> +<p class="i2"> The Others think They did it— </p> +<p class="i4"> But—I—Did! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP, EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS</small>, <span class="dir-i">(<i>faintly:</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> You <i>did</i>? <span class="dir-i">(<i>They rush out.</i>)</span> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">PERSON RESPONSIBLE</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>still modestly</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Well, so they say— </p> +<p class="i2"> But I have to go away. </p> +<p class="i2"> I'm due at a lecture </p> +<p class="i2"> I give at three today. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>The Person goes out in single file, looking at its watch. As it does so, +there enters a pale and dishevelled girl in Greek robes. It is the Muse.</i>) +</p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">MUSE</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and crying </p> +<p class="i2"> As swine that in deep agony are dying, </p> +<p class="i2"> A voice of tom-cats wailing, </p> +<p class="i2"> A never failing </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page94" name="page94"></a>[94]</span> + + Thud as of rolling logs: </p> +<p class="i2"> A chattering like frogs, </p> +<p class="i2"> And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous, </p> +<p class="i2"> Making a horrible fuss, </p> +<p class="i2"> Cries out upon my name. </p> +<p class="i2"> Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame, </p> +<p class="i2"> So to be mocked and humbled by this use? </p> +<p class="i2"> I—I, the Muse! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>Enter Spirit of Modern Poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in +horn glasses and a sex-complex.</i>) +</p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> You're behind the times; quite narrow, </p> +<p class="i2"> Don't you want </p> +<p class="i2"> Culture for the masses? </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">MUSE</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> No; I am Greek; we never did. </p> +<p class="i2"> Besides, it <i>isn't</i> culture. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY</small>, <span class="dir-i">(<i>trotting by two by two on their way to a lecture, pause.</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking! </p> +<p class="i2"> She's no Muse! She must be mocking! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page95" name="page95"></a>[95]</span></p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">MUSE</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>sternly, having lost her temper by this time</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I am a goddess. Trifle not with me. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">ELDERLY LADIES</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>with resolute tolerance</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> She <i>looks</i> like a pupil of Isadora Duncan, </p> +<p class="i2"> But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in </p> +<p class="i2"> To believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture— </p> +<p class="i2"> My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">MUSE</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>lifting her arms angrily</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Até, my sister! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">ATÉ</small>, <span class="dir-i">(<i>behind the scenes</i>)</span> I come! +</p> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>Enter from one side, Band of Poets—very large—with lyres and wreaths +put on over their regular clothes. From the other side, a chorus of +Poetry Critics. At their end steals Até, Goddess of Discord, disguised +as a Critic by means of horn glasses and a Cane. The Poets do not see +her—or anything but themselves, indeed. They sing obliviously</i>) +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page96" name="page96"></a>[96]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> My maiden aunt in Keokuk </p> +<p class="i4"> She writes free verse like anything; </p> +<p class="i2"> My great-grandmother is in luck, </p> +<p class="i4"> She's sold her three-piece work on Spring; </p> +<p class="i2"> My mother does Poetic Plays, </p> +<p class="i4"> My dad does rhymes while signing checks, </p> +<p class="i2"> And my flapper sister—we wouldn't have missed her— </p> +<p class="i4"> She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex— </p> +<p class="i2"> The world's as perfect as it can be, </p> +<p class="i2"> Everybody writes Poetry! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">CHORUS OF CRITICS</small>, <span class="dir-i">(<i>chanting yet more loudly:</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The world's not <i>quite</i> as perfect as it yet might be, </p> +<p class="i2"> Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics.</i>) +</p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SPIRIT OF DISCORD</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Rash poets, think what you would do— </p> +<p class="i2"> There's nobody left you can read it to! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">POETS</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>aghast</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> We never thought of that! </p> +<p class="i2"> An audience, 'tis flat, </p> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page97" name="page97"></a>[97]</span> + + Is our most pressing need, </p> +<p class="i2"> To listen to our screed; </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>Each turns to his neighbor</i>) +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Base scribbler, get thee hence </p> +<p class="i2"> Or be my audience! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +Semi-chorus: +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> We want to write ourselves! We'll not! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +Semi-chorus: +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> But what <i>you</i> write is merely rot! </p> +<p class="i2"> Hush up and let <i>me</i> read </p> +<p class="i2"> My great, eternal screed! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">ATÉ</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>stealthily</i>)</span> Ha, ha! +</p> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills +the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet +on the other side. They fall in neat windrows. There are no Poets left. +Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been +shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three +paces to the front, and speak:</i>) +</p> + +<p> +What's the use o' poetry, anyhow? <i>I</i> always say, 'if you wanta say +anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.' <i>I</i> never wrote no +poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business. +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page98" name="page98"></a>[98]</span></p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS,</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>thrilled:</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Ah, a new Gospel! </p> +<p class="i2"> Let us write Reviews </p> +<p class="i2"> About it! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>entering, and addressing the Editors and Publishers who follow her.</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close. </p> +<p class="i2"> I wing my hallowed way </p> +<p class="i2"> To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Nay, our great helper, nay! </p> +<p class="i2"> Leave us not yet, our only comforter! </p> +<p class="i2"> We'll need thee still; </p> +<p class="i2"> Folks who write poetry </p> +<p class="i2"> There's naught on earth can kill! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>During this the</i> <small class="sc">CULTURE-HOUNDS</small>, <small class="sc">CRITICS</small>, <i>etc., have clustered round the</i> <small class="sc">NON-POETRY-WRITING +PUBLIC</small>, <i>whispering, urging, and pushing. It rises and scratches its +head in a flattered way, and finally says:</i>) +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page99" name="page99"></a>[99]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> B'gosh, I do believe, </p> +<p class="i2"> Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good </p> +<p class="i2"> As any of those there fool dead fellers could! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with +lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats.</i>) +</p> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS</small> <span class="dir-i">(to Spirit of Rejection Slip)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> You see? Too late! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS</small> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate? </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="dir-c"> +(<i>They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the +Masque, except</i> <small class="sc">ATÉ</small>, <i>who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, +and the</i> <small class="sc">MUSE</small>, <i>form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every +Minute. They sing:</i>) +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page100" name="page100"></a>[100]</span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> The Day has come that we adore, </p> +<p class="i2"> The Day we've all been working for; </p> +<p class="i2"> The Day has come, tra la, tra lee! </p> +<p class="i2"> <i>Everybody</i> writes Poetry! </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +<small class="sc">THE MUSE</small> <span class="dir-i">(<i>unnoticed in the background</i>)</span> +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Farewell. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page101" name="page101"></a>[101]</span></p> + +<div><a name="h2H_4_0046" id="h2H_4_0046"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + +<h2> + <i>Arthur Guiterman</i> +</h2> +<p class="quote"> + (He recites with appropriate gestures.) +</p> +<h3> +A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: A RHYMED REVIEW +</h3> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> It seems that Margaret Widdemer </p> +<p class="i4"> Possessed a Tree with a Bird in it, </p> +<p class="i2"> And being human, prone to err, </p> +<p class="i4"> Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it, </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> Or christen it, as one might say, </p> +<p class="i4"> By asking poets closely herded </p> +<p class="i2"> To come around and spend the day </p> +<p class="i4"> And sing of what the Tree and Bird did. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> (Poor girl! When next she takes her pen </p> +<p class="i4"> Some bromide critic's sure to say, </p> +<p class="i2"> "Don't dare do serious work again— </p> +<p class="i4"> This stuff is your true métier!") </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> No sooner said than done; the bards </p> +<p class="i4"> Rush out in quantities surprising, </p> +<p class="i2"> And, overflowing four front yards </p> +<p class="i4"> They carol till the moon is rising; </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page102" name="page102"></a>[102]</span> + + With ardor, or, as some say, "pash," </p> +<p class="i4"> In song kind or satirical, </p> +<p class="i2"> Asking, apparently, no cash, </p> +<p class="i4"> They make their offerings lyrical. </p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> I'd be the first a spear to break </p> +<p class="i4"> For Poesy; but this to tackle ... </p> +<p class="i2"> It seems a lot of fuss to make </p> +<p class="i4"> About one Tree and one small Grackle. </p> +</div> +</div> + +<div style="height: 6em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Tree with a Bird in it:, by Margaret Widdemer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: *** + +***** This file should be named 36831-h.htm or 36831-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/8/3/36831/ + +Produced by David Edwards, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Tree with a Bird in it: + a symposium of contemporary american poets on being shown + a pear-tree on which sat a grackle + +Author: Margaret Widdemer + +Illustrator: William Saphier + +Release Date: July 24, 2011 [EBook #36831] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + + + + + +[Illustration: a tree with a bird in it (front cover)] + + + + + + +A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: + +A SYMPOSIUM OF CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETS ON BEING SHOWN A PEAR-TREE +ON WHICH SAT A GRACKLE + +BY MARGARET WIDDEMER + +AUTHOR OF "FACTORIES," "THE OLD ROAD TO PARADISE," "CROSS CURRENTS," ETC. + +WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM SAPHIER + +[Illustration] + + NEW YORK + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. + + PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY + THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY + RAHWAY, N. J. + + + + +THIS IS DEDICATED WITH MY FORGIVENESS IN ADVANCE TO THE POETS +PARODIED IN THIS BOOK AND THE POETS NOT PARODIED IN THIS BOOK + + + + +FOREWORD + +By the Collator + + +A little while since, I had the fortune to live in a house, outside of +whose windows there grew a pear-tree. On the branches of this tree lived +a green bird of indeterminate nature. I do not know what his real name +was, but the name, to quote our great exemplar Lewis Carroll, by which +his name was _called_ was the Grackle. He seemed perfectly willing to +be addressed thus, and accordingly was. + +Aside from watching the Pear-Tree and the Grackle, my other principal +occupation that winter was watching the Poetry Society of America now +and then at its monthly meetings. It occurred to me finally to invite +such members of it as cared to come, following many good examples, to +an outdoor symposium under the tree. The result follows. + + Margaret Widdemer. + +P.S.--The tree died. + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + + + PAGE + Foreword: By the Collator v + Jessie B. Rittenhouse _Resignation_ 3 + Edwin Markham _The Bird with the Woe_ 4 + Witter Bynner _The Unity of Oneness_ 7 + Amy Lowell _Oiseaurie_ 8 + Edgar Lee Masters _Imri Swazey_ 9 + Edwin Arlington Robinson _Rambuncto_ 10 + Robert Frost _The Bird Misunderstood_ 12 + Carl Sandburg _Chicago Memories_ 13 + Edith M. Thomas _Frost and Sandburg Tonight_ 17 + Charles Hanson Towne _The Unquiet Singer_ 18 + Sara Teasdale _At Autumn_ 20 + Ezra Pound _Rainuv_ 21 + Margaret Widdemer _The Sighing Tree_ 24 + Richard Le Gallienne _Ballade of Spring Chickens_ 27 + Angela Morgan _Oh! Bird!_ 29 + Conrad Aiken _The Charnel Bird_ 30 + Mary Carolyn Davies _A Young Girl to a Young Bird_ 34 + Marguerite Wilkinson _The Rune of the Nude_ 35 + Aline Kilmer _Admiration_ 37 + William Rose and + Stephen Vincent Benet _The Grackle of Grog_ 38 + Lola Ridge _Preenings_ 42 + Edna St. Vincent Millay _Tea o' Herbs_ 46 + John V. A. Weaver _The Weaver Bird_ 50 + David Morton _Sonnet: Trees Are Not Ships_ 52 + Elinor Wylie _The Grackle Is the Loon_ 53 + Leonora Speyer _A Landscape Gets Personal_ 54 + Corinne Roosevelt Robinson _The Symposium Leading Nowhere_ 57 + Ridgely Torrence _The Fowl of a Thousand Flights_ 59 + Henry van Dyke _The Roiling of Henry_ 61 + Cale Young Rice _Pantings_ 63 + Bliss Carman _The Wild_ 65 + Grace Hazard and + Hilda Conkling _They See the Birdie_ 67 + Theodosia Garrison _A Ballad of the Bird Dance of Pierrette_ 69 + William Griffith _Pierrette Remembers an Engagement_ 71 + Edgar Guest _Ain't Nature Wonderful!_ 72 + Don Marquis _The Meeting of the Columns_ 75 + Christopher Morley _The Mocking-Hoarse-Bird_ 80 + Franklin Pierce Adams _To a Grackle_ 83 + Thomas Augustin Daly _Carlo the Gardener_ 84 + Vachel Lindsay _The Hoboken Grackle and the Hobo_ 85 + Percy Mackaye } + Josephine Preston Peabody } _Dies Illa: A Bird of a Masque_ 89 + Isabel Fiske Conant } + Arthur Guiterman _A Tree with a Bird in It: Rhymed Review_ 101 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + + PAGE + Edwin Markham 5 + Witter Bynner 6 + Carl Sandburg 15 + Margaret Widdemer 25 + Conrad Aiken 31 + The Benets 39 + Lola Ridge 43 + Edna St. Vincent Millay 47 + Leonora Speyer 55 + Edgar Guest 73 + Don Marquis and Christopher Morley 77 + Vachel Lindsay 87 + + + + +A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT + + + + +_Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ + + (She steps brightly forward with an air of soprano introduction.) + + +RESIGNATION + + + I look from out my window, + Beloved, and I see + A bird upon a pear bough, + But what is that to me? + + Because the thought comes icy; + That bird you never knew-- + It's not your bird or pear tree, + And what is it to you? + + + + +_Edwin Markham_ + + (who, though he had to lay a cornerstone, unveil a bust of somebody, + give two lectures and write encouraging introductions to the works + of five young poets before catching the three-ten for Staten Island, + offered his reaction in a benevolent and unhurried manner.) + + +THE BIRD WITH THE WOE + + Poets to men a curious sight afford; + Still they will sing, though all around are bored; + But this wise grackle does a kinder thing; + Silent he's bored, while all around him sing! + + +[Illustration] + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Witter Bynner_ + + (Prefaced by a short baritone talk on Chinese architecture.) + + +THE UNITY OF ONENESS + + + Celia, have you been to China? + There upon a mystic tree + Sits a bird who murmurs Chinese + Of the Me in Thee. + + 'Neath that tree of willow-pattern + Twice seven thousand scornful go + Paraphrasers and translators + Of the long-deceased Li-Po: + + Chinese feelings swift discerning + Without all this time and fuss + Let us eat that bird, thus learning + Of the Him in Us! + + + + +_Amy Lowell_ + + (Fixing her glasses firmly on the rest of the Poetry Society in a way + which makes them with difficulty refrain from writhing.) + + +OISEAURIE + + + Glunk! + I toss my heels up to my head ... + That was a bird I heard say glunk + As I walked statelily through my extensive, expensive English country + estate + In a pink brocade with silver buttons, a purple passementerie cut with + panniers, a train, and faced with watered silk: + + But it + Is dead now! + (The bird) + Probably putrescent + And green.... + + I scrabble my toes ... + Glunk! + + + + +_Edgar Lee Masters_ + + (Making a statement which you may take or leave, but convincing you + entirely.) + + +IMRI SWAZEY + + + I was a shock-headed boy bringing in the laundry; + Why did I try for that damn bird, anyway? + I suppose I had been in the habit of aiming for the pears. + But I chucked a stone, anyhow, + And it ricocheted and hit my head, + And as it hadn't any brains inside the stone busted it + And there I was, dead. + And dead with me were all the improper things + I'd got out of the servants about their employers + Bringing in the laundry; + But the grackle sings on. + Sing forever, O grackle! + I died, knowing lots of things _you_ don't know! + + + + +_Edwin Arlington Robinson_ + + (He mutters wearily in an undertone.) + + +RAMBUNCTO + + + Well, they're quite dead, Rambuncto; thoroughly dead. + It was a natural thing enough; my eyes + Stared baffled down the forest-aisles, brown and green, + Not learning what the marks were. Still, who learns? + Not I, who stooped and picked the things that day, + Scarlet and gold and smooth, friend ... smooth enough! + And she's in a vault now, old Jane Fotheringham, + My mother-in-law; and my wife's seven aunts, + And that cursed bird that used to sit and croak + Upon their pear-tree--they threw scraps to him-- + My wife, too. Lord, that was a curious thing! + Because--"I don't like mushrooms much," I said, + And they ate all I picked. And then they died. + But ... Well, who knows it isn't better that way? + It's quieter, at least.... Rambuncto--friend-- + Why, you're not going?... Well--it's a stupid year, + And the world's very useless.... Sorry.... Still + The dusk intransience that I much prefer + Leaves place for little hope and less regret. + I don't suppose he'd care, to stay to dine + Under the circumstances.... What's life for? + + + + +_Robert Frost_ + + (Rather nervously, retreating with haste in the wake of Mr. Robinson + as soon as he had finished.) + + +THE BIRD MISUNDERSTOOD + + + There was a grackle sat on our old pear tree-- + Don't ask me why--I never did really know; + But he made my wife and me feel, for really the very first time + We were out in the actual country, hindering things to grow; + + It gave us rather a queer feeling to hear the grackle grackle, + But when it got to be winter time he got up and went thence + And now we shall never know, though we watch the tree till April, + Whether his curious crying ever made song or sense. + + + + +_Carl Sandburg_ + + (Striking from time to time a few notes on a mouth-organ, with a + wonderful effect of human brotherhood which does not quite include + the East.) + + +CHICAGO MEMORIES + + + Grackles, trees-- + I been thinkin' 'bout 'em all: I been thinkin' they're all right: + Nothin' much--Gosh, nothin' much against God, even. + _God made little apples_, a hobo sang in Kankakee, + Shattered apples, I picked you up under a tree, red wormy apples, I + ate you.... + That lets God out. + There were three green birds on the tree, there were three wailing + cats against a green dawn.... + 'Gene Field sang, "The world is full of a number of things," + 'Gene Field said, "When they caught me I was living in a tree...." + 'Gene Field said everything in Chicago of the eighties. + Now he's dead, I say things, say 'em well, too.... + 'Gene Field ... back in the lost days, back in the eighties, + Singing, colyumning ... 'Gene Field ... forgotten ... + Back in Arkansaw there was a green bird, too, + I can remember how he sang, back in the lost days, back in the eighties. + Uncle Yon Swenson under the tree chewing slowly, slowly.... + Memories, memories! + There are only trees now, no 'Gene, no eighties + Gray cats, I can feel your fur in my heart ... + Green grackle, I remember now, + Back in the lost days, back in the eighties + The cat ate you. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Edith M. Thomas_ + + (She tells a friend in confidence, after she is safely out of it all.) + + +FROST AND SANDBURG TONIGHT + + + Apple green bird on a wooden bough, + And the brazen sound of a long, loud row, + And "Child, take the train, but mind what you do-- + Frost, tonight, and Sandburg too!" + + Then I sally forth, half wild, half cowed, + Till I come to the surging, impervious crowd, + The wine-filled, the temperance, the sober, the pied, + The Poets that cover the countryside! + + The Poets I never would meet till tonight! + A gleam of their eyes in the fading light, + And I took them all in--the enormous throng-- + And with one great bound I bolted along. + + * * * * * + + If the garden had merely held birds and flowers! + But I hear a voice--they have talked for hours-- + "Frost tonight--" if 'twere merely he! + Half wild, half cowed, I flee, I flee! + + + + +_Charles Hanson Towne_ + + (Who rather begrudged the time he used up in going out to the + suburbs.) + + +THE UNQUIET SINGER + + + He had been singing, but I had not heard his voice; + He had been bothering the rest with song; + But I, most comfortably far + Within the city's stimulating jar + Feeling for bus-conductors and for flats, + And shop-girls buying too expensive hats, + And silver-serviced dinners, + And various kinds of pleasant urban sinners, + And riding on the subway and the L, + Had much beside his song to hear and tell. + + But one day (it was Spring, when poets ride + Afield to wild poetic festivals) + I, innocently making calls + Was snatched by a swift motor toward his tree + (Alas, but lady poets will do this to thee + If thou art decorative, witty or a Man) + And heard him sing, and on the grass did bide. + But my whole day was sadder for his words, + And I was thinner + Because, in spite of my most careful plan + I missed a very pleasant little dinner.... + In short, unless well-cooked, I don't like Birds. + + + + +_Sara Teasdale_ + + (Who got Miss Rittenhouse to read it for her.) + + +AT AUTUMN + + I bend and watch the grackles billing, + And fight with tears as I float by; + O be a fowl for my heart's filling! + O be a bird, yet never fly! + + + + +_Ezra Pound_ + + (Mailed disdainfully by him from anywhere but America, and read + prayerfully by a committee from Chicago.) + + +RAINUV: A ROMANTIC BALLAD FROM THE EARLY BASQUE + + + ... so then naturally + This Count Rainuv I speak of + (Certainly I did not expect you would ever have heard of him; + You are American poets, aren't you? + That's rather awful ... I am the only American poet + I could ever tolerate ... well, sniff and pass....) + Therefore ... well, I knew Rainuv. + (My P. G. course at Penn, you'll remember; + A little Anglo-Saxon and Basuto, + But Provencal, mostly. Most don't go in for that.... + You haven't, of course ... What, no Provencal? + Well, of course, I know + Rather more than you do. That's my specialty. + But then--_Omnis Gallia est divisa_--but no matter. + Not fit, perhaps you'd say, that, to be quoted + Before ladies.... That's your rather amusing prudishness....) + Well, this Rainuv, then, + A person with a squint like a flash + Of square fishes ... being rather worse than most + Of the usual _literati_ + Said, being carried off by desire of boasting + That he knew all the mid-Victorians + _Et ab lor bos amics:_ + (He thought it was something to boast of.) + + We'll say he said he smoked with Tennyson, + And--deeper pit--_pax vobiscum_--went to vespers + With Adelaide Anne Procter; helped Bob Browning elope + With Elizabeth and her lapdog (said it bit him) + Said he was the first man Blake told + All about the angels in a pear-tree at Peckham Rye + Blake drew them for him, he said; they were grackles, not angels-- + (Blake's not a mid-Victorian, but you don't know better) + So ... we come, being slightly irritated, to facing him down. + "... And George Eliot?" we ask lightly. + "_Roomed with him_," nodded Rainuv confidently, + "_At college!_"... Ah, _bos amic! bos amic!_ + Rainuv is a king to you.... + Three centuries from now (you dead and messy) men whispering insolently + (Eeni meeni mini mo...) will boast that their great-grand-uncles + Were kicked by me in passing.... + + + + +_Margaret Widdemer_ + + (Clutching a non-existent portiere with one hand.) + + +THE SIGHING TREE + + The folk of the wood called me-- + "There sits a golden bird + Upon your mother's pear-tree--" + But I never said a word. + + The Sleepy People whispered-- + "The bird is singing now." + But I felt not then like leaving bed + Nor listening beneath the bough. + + But the wronged world beat my portals-- + "Come out or be sore oppressed!" + So I threw a stone at the grackle + And my throbbing heart had rest. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Richard Le Gallienne_ + + (Advancing with a dreamy air of there still being a Yellow Book.) + + +BALLADE OF SPRING CHICKENS + + + Spring comes--yet where the dream that glows? + There only waves upon the lea + A lonely pear-bough where doth doze + A bird of green, and merely he: + Why weave of him our poetry? + Why of a Grackle need we sing? + Ah, far another fowl for me-- + I seek Spring Chickens in the Spring. + + Though May returns, and frisking shows + Her ankles through this white clad tree, + Alas, old Spring's gone with the rose, + Gone is all old romance and glee-- + Yet still a joy remains to me-- + Softly our lyric lutes unstring, + Far from this Grackle we shall flee + And seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! + + Too soon Youth's _mss_ must close, + (_Omar_) its rose be pot-pourri; + What of this bird and all his woes! + Catulla, I would fly to thee-- + Bright bird of luring lingerie, + Of bushy bob, of knees aswing, + This golden task be mine in fee, + To seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! + +_Envoi_ + + Prince, let us leave this grove, pardie, + A flapper is a fairer thing: + Let us fare fast where such there be, + And seek Spring Chickens in the Spring! + + + + +_Angela Morgan_ + + (Carefully lifting her Greek robe off the wet grass, and patting her + fillet with one white glove, recites passionately.) + + +OH! BIRD! + + + I heard a flaming noise that screamed-- + "Man, panting, crushed, must be redeemed! + Man! All the crowd of him! + Quiet or loud of him! + Men! Raging souls of them! + Heaps of them, shoals of them! + Hurtling impassioned through fiery-tongued rapture! + Leaping for glories all avid to capture + Bounteous aeons of star-beating bliss!" + I heard a voice cry, and I'm sure it said this: + Though the cook said the noise was a tree and a bird ... + _But I heard! Gods, I heard!_ + + + + +_Conrad Aiken_ + + (Creeping mysteriously out of the twilight, draped in a complex.) + + +THE CHARNEL BIRD + + + Forslin murmurs a melodious impropriety + Musing on birds and women dead aeons ago.... + Was he not, once, this fowl, a gay bird in society? + Can any one tell? ... After an evening out, who can know? + Perhaps Cleopatra, lush in her inadequate wrappings, + Lifted him once to her tatbebs.... Perhaps Helen of Troy + Found him more live than her Paris ... a bird among dead ones.... + Perhaps Semiramis ... once ... in a pink unnamable joy * * * + +[Illustration] + + I tie my shoes politely, a salute to this bird in his pear-tree; + ... What is a pear-tree, after all.... What is a bird? + What is a shoe, or a Forslin, or even a Senlin? + What is ... a what? ... Is there any one who has heard? ... + What is it crawls from the kiss-thickened, Freudian darkness, + Amorous, catlike ... Ah, can it be a cat? + I would so much rather it had been a scarlet harlot, + There is so much more genuine poetry in that.... + + + (Note by the Collator: It was, in fact, Fluffums, the Angora cat + belonging to the Jenkinses on the corner; and the disappointment + was too much for Mr. Aiken, who fainted away, and had to be taken + back to Boston before completing his poem, which he had intended + to fill an entire book.) + + + + +_Mary Carolyn Davies_ + + (Impetuously, with a floppy hat.) + + +A YOUNG GIRL TO A YOUNG BIRD + + + When one is young, you know, then one can sing + Of anything: + One is so young--so pleasurably so-- + How can one know + If God made little apples, or yet pears, + Or ... if God cares? + + You are young, maybe, Grackle; that is why + I want to cry + Seeing you watch the poems that I say + To-night, to-day ... + + This little boy-bird seems to nod to me + With sympathy: + He is so young: it must be that is why ... + _As young as I!_ + + + + +_Marguerite Wilkinson_ + + (Advancing with sedate courtesy in a long-sleeved, high-necked + lecture costume.) + + +THE RUNE OF THE NUDE + + + I will set my slim strong soul on this tree with no leaves upon it, + I will lift up my undressed dreams to the nude and ethical sky: + This bird has his feathers upon him: he shall not have even a sonnet: + Until he is stripped of his last pin-plume I will sing of my mate + and I! + + My ancestors rise from their graves to be shocked at my soul's wild + climbing + (They were strong, they were righteous, my ancestors, but they + always kept on their clothes) + My mate is the best of all mates alive: his voice is a raptured + rhyming: + He chants "Come Down!" but it cannot come, either for him or those! + + My ancestors pound from their ouija-board: my mate leaps in swift indignation: + I must tell the world of their wonders, but I must be strong and free-- + Though all sires and all mates cry out in a runic incantation, + My soul shall be stripped and buttonless--it shall dwell in a naked tree! + + + + +_Aline Kilmer_ + + (With a certain aloofness.) + + +ADMIRATION + + + Kenton's arrogant eyes watch the Widdemer pear-tree, + His thistle-down-footed sister puts out her tongue at him.... + Kenton, what do you see? That yonder is only a bare tree; + Come, carry Deborah home; she is gossamer-light and slim. + + "Aw, mother, but I don't want to!" Kenton replies with devotion, + "I've gathered you stones for the bird; come on, don't you want to throw 'em?" + Ah, Kenton, Kenton, my child, who but you would have such an emotion? + But in spite of it I admire you, as you'll see when you read this poem. + + + + +_The Benet Brothers_ + + (They sing arm in arm, Stephen Vincent having rather more to do with + the verse and William Rose with the chorus. Their sister Laura is + too busy looking for a fairy under the tree to add to the family + contribution.) + + +THE GRACKLE OF GROG + + + It was old Yale College + Made me what I am-- + You oughto heard my mother + When I first said damn! + I put a pin in sister's chair, + She jumped sky-high ... + I don't know what'll happen + When I come to die! + + _But oh, the stars burst wild in a glorious crimson whangle,_ + _There was foam on the beer mile-deep, mile-high, and the pickles were + piled like seas,_ + _Noeara's hair was a flapper's bob that turned to a ten-mile tangle,_ + _And the forests were crowded with unicorns, and gold elephants + charged up trees!_ + +[Illustration] + + Forceps in the dentist's chair, + Razors in the lather ... + Lord, the black experience + I've had time to gather ... + But I've thought of one thing + That may pull me through-- + I'm a reg'lar devil + But the Devil was, too! + + _There were thousands of trees with knotholed knees that kicked in + a league-long rapture,_ + _Birds green as a seasick emerald in a million-mile shrieking row--_ + _It was sixty dollars or sixty days when the cop had made his + capture...._ + _But God! the bun was a gorgeous one, and the Faculty did not know!_ + + + + +_Lola Ridge_ + + (Who apparently did not care for the suburbs.) + + +PREENINGS + + + I preen myself.... + I ... + Always do ... + My ego expanding encompasses ... + Everything, naturally.... + + This bird preens himself ... + It is our only likeness.... + + Ah, God, I want a Ghetto + And a Freud and an alley and some Immigrants calling names ... + God, you know + How awful it is.... + Here are trees and birds and clouds + And picturesquely neat children across the way on the grass + Not doing anything + Improper ... + (Poor little fools, I mustn't blame them for that + Perhaps they never + Knew How....) + +[Illustration] + + But oh, God, take me to the nearest trolley line! + This is a country landscape-- + I can't stand it! + + God, take me away-- + There is no Sex here + And no Smell! + + + + +_Edna St. Vincent Millay_ + + (Recites in a flippant voice which occasionally chokes up with + irrepressible emotion, and clenching her hands tensely as she + notices that the Grackle has hopped twice.) + + +TEA O' HERBS + + + O I have brought in now + Bergamot, + A packet o' brown senna + And an iron pot; + In my scarlet gown + I make all hot. + + And other men and girls + Write like me + Setting herbs a-plenty + In their poetry + (_Bergamot for hair-oil,_ + _Bergamot for tea!_) + + And they may do ill now + Or they may do well, + (Little should I care now + What they have to sell--) + But what bergamot and rue are + None of them can tell. + +[Illustration] + + All above my bitter tea + I have set a lid + (As my bitter heart + By its red gown hid) + They write of bergamot + Because I did.... + + (From its padded hangers + They've snatched my red gown, + Men as well as girls + And gone down town, + Flaunting my vocabulary, + Every verb and noun!) + + And the grackle moans + High above the pot, + He is sick with herbs ... + _And am I not,_ + _Who have brought in_ + _Bergamot?_ + + + + +_John V. A. Weaver_ + + (With a strong note of infant brutality.) + + +THE WEAVER BIRD + + + Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree + All green an' cocky--why, it might be me + Singin' to you.... Wisht I was just a bird + Bringin' you worms--aw, you know, things I've heard + 'Bout me--an' flowers, maybe.... Like as not + Somebody'd get me with an old slingshot + An' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up! + Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet, + Knowin' my grave was out there in the wet + And we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid, + It makes me weep, same as it always did, + To think how bad you'd feel.... + + I got a thought, + An awful funny one I sorta caught-- + Nobody never thought that way, I guess-- + When I get blue, an' things is in a mess + I map out all my funeral, the hearses + An' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses + Sayin' how great I was, an' all like that, + An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat + Tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke, + An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak.... + + I can't stand that bird, somehow--makes me cry.... + _The world'll be darn sorry when I die!_ + + + + +_David Morton_ + + (Who, being very polite, only thought it.) + + +SONNET: TREES ARE NOT SHIPS + + + There is no magic in a living tree, + And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds: + My soul is seasick, and its only words + Murmur desire for things more like a sea. + In this dry landscape here there seems to be + No water, merely persons in large herds, + Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds, + Come from the Poetry Society. + + What could be drier, where all things are dry? + What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide? + Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie, + Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships, + Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside, + That I may have great sonnets on my lips! + + + + +_Elinor Wylie_ + + (With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.) + + +THE GRACKLE IS THE LOON + + + Never believe this bird connotes + Jade whorls of carven commonness: + Nor as from ordinary throats + Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress. + + He is the cold and scornful Loon, + Who, hoping that the sun shall fail, + Steeps in the silver of the moon + His burnished claws, his chiseled tail. + + + + +_Leonora Speyer_ + + (Speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.) + + +A LANDSCAPE GETS PERSONAL + + + Beloved.... + I cannot bear that Bird + + He is green + With envy of My Songs: + "_Cheep! Cheep!_" + + This Tree + Has a furtive look + And the Brook + Says, "Oh ... Splash...." + + And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ... + It waves at me.... + It is too flirtatious! + + Beloved, + Let us leave swiftly ... + + _I fear this Landscape!_ + _It would vamp me!_ + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ + + (Who, having engagements to speak at ten unveilings, and nine public + schools and twelve other symposiums, stayed away, but sent this + handsome tribute by wire.) + + +THE SYMPOSIUM LEADING NOWHERE + + + I sing of the joy of the Small Paths + The paths that lead nowhere at all, + (Though I never have gone on them nevertheless + They are admirable, and so small!) + I go out at midnight in motors + But, being a Roosevelt, I drive + Straight ahead on the neatly paved highway, + For I wish with much speed to arrive. + + Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small Paths + Surrounded with Birds and with Trees + I would love to go down on a Small Path + And sit in communion with these! + Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you, + For poetic communion I yearn + But I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbs + And alas, I've no time to return. + + _Oh alas, the undone moments,_ + _Oh, the myriad hours bereft_ + _Trying to be twenty people_ + _And to do things right and left._ + _I would sit down by a Small Path_ + _And would make me a Large Rhyme_ + _I should love to find my soul there_ + _But I haven't got the time!_ + + + + +_Ridgely Torrence_ + + (Who felt that the Bird did not sufficiently uphold Art.) + + +THE FOWL OF A THOUSAND FLIGHTS + + + Grackle, Grackle on your tree, + There's something wrong to-day, + In the moonlight, in the quiet evening, + You will rise and croak and fly away; + Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight + (And that's all right) + But you have never criticised a single song + (And that's all wrong) + Lo, would you add despair unto despair? + Do you not care + That all these lesser children of the Muse + Shall sing to you exactly as they choose? + + You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem, + Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'em + That you should not + Be shot: + What saw I then, what heard? + Multitudes--multitudes, under the tree they stirred, + And with too many a broken note and wheeze + They sang what each did please.... + + And Thou, + O bird of emeraldine beak and brow, + Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle, + Grackle! + + + + +_Henry van Dyke_ + + (Who, although for different reasons, did not care for the Grackle + either.) + + +THE ROILING OF HENRY + +(A Song of the Grating Outdoors) + + Bird, thou art not a Veery, + Nor yet a Yellowthroat, + Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song, + Long, long e'er I could vote; + Thou art not a Blue Flower, + Nor e'en a real Blue Bird; + Yet there's a moral high and pure + In all thy likings heard: + "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ + _Go on and ne'er look back!_" + + The noble tow'rs of Princeton + Hear high thy pensive trill, + And eke my ear has heard thee + The while I fished the rill; + Thy note rings out at daybreak + Before I rise to toil; + Thou counselest Persistence; + Thy song no stone can spoil; + "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ + _Go on and ne'er look back!_" + + Yet, Bird, there is a limit + To all I've undergone; + From five o'clock till five o'clock + Thou'st chanted o'er my lawn; + I cannot get my work done ... + I give thee, Bird, advice; + If thou wouldst save thy skin alive, + Let me not warn thee twice, + "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ + _Go on and ne'er look back!_" + + + + +_Cale Young Rice_ + + (Who came out rather tired from trying to choose a new suit, and + could not get it off his mind.) + + +PANTINGS + + + Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! + Gents' immanent furnishings! + On a mystic tide I ride, I ride, + Of the clothes of a million springs! + I take the train for the suburbs + Or I sweep from Pole to Pole, + But where is the window that holds them not, + Gents' furnishings of my soul! + + Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! + Shirtings and coatings too! + How can I think of mere birds, nor blink + In the Cosmic Hullaballoo? + The hot world throbs with Immenseness, + The Voidness plunks in the Void, + And all of it doubtless has something to do + With Employer and Unemployed! + + Pantings! Pantings! Pantings! + Trousers through all the town! + And the tailors' dummies with iron for tummies + Smirk in their blue and brown; + I float in a slithering simoon + Of fevered and surging tints, + And my ears are dulled with the mighty throb + Of the Male Best Dressers' Hints: + + _Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!_ + _My wardrobe, they send it fleet...._ + _Ah, the Is and the Was and the Never Does...._ + _And the Cosmos at last complete!_ + + + + +_Bliss Carman_ + + (Who, incidentally, happened to be correct.) + + +THE WILD + + + Ho, Spring calls clear a message.... + The Grackle is not green.... + The Mighty Mother Nature + She knows just what I mean. + + The lilac and the willow + The grass and violet + They are my wild companions + Where I was raised a pet. + + The secrets of great nature + From childhood I have heard; + Oh, I can tell a wild flower + Swiftly from a wild bird; + + And Gwendolen and Marna + And Myrtle (dead all three ... + Among my wildwood sweethearts + Was much mortality). + + If they my loves returning + Might gather 'neath these boughs + (Oh, they would sniff at pear-trees + Who loved the Northern Sloughs). + + Their wild eternal whisper + Would back me up, I ween: + "This bird is not a Grackle: + A Grackle is not green." + + + + +_Grace Hazard and Hilda Conkling_ + + +THEY SEE THE BIRDIE + + +(Mrs. Conkling points maternally.) + + Oh, Hilda! see the little Bird! + If you will watch, upon my word + He will come out; a Veery[1] he + As like an Oboe as can be: + He shall be winged, with a tail, + Mayhap a Beak him shall not fail! + And I will tell him, "Birdie, oh, + This is my Hilda, you must know-- + And oh, what joy, if you but knew-- + She shall make poetry on you!" + +(The Birdie obliges, whereupon Hilda recites obediently, while her +mother, concealing herself completely behind the bird, takes +dictation.) + + Oh, my lovely Mother, + That is a Bird: + Sitting on a Tree. + I am a Little Girl + Standing on the Ground. + I see the Bird, + The Bird sees me. + + _Bird!_ + _Color of Grass!_ + + _I love my Mother_ + _More than I do You!_ + + +[Footnote 1: Note by the Collator: I do not pretend to explain the +veery-complex of American poets. They all seemed possessed to rub it +into the poor bird that he wasn't one.] + + + + +_Theodosia Garrison_ + + (Who began cheerfully, but reduced her audience to tears, which she + surveyed with complacence, by the third line.) + + +A BALLAD OF THE BIRD DANCE OF PIERRETTE + + +_Pierrette's mother speaks:_ + + "Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other? + (Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same--) + Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish mother + That named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name! + Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars, + With yer hair that docked an' frizzed--if Father Pat shud see! + Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers, + Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!" + + _But it was Bridget Sullivan,_ + _Her locks flour-sprent,_ + _That danced beneath the flowering tree_ + _Leaping as she went._ + + "If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation + (Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard), + Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,' + Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd! + Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin' + (Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,) + Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin', + Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!" + + _But it was Bridget Sullivan,_ + _Her head down-bent,_ + _Went back on the three-thirteen,_ + _Coughing as she went._ + + + + +_William Griffith_ + + (Who felt for her.) + + +PIERRETTE REMEMBERS AN ENGAGEMENT + + + Pierrette has gone--but it was not + Exactly that she lied; + She said she had to catch a train; + "I have a date," she cried. + + To keep a sudden rendezvous + It came into her mind + As quite the quickest way to flee + From parties of this kind; + + She went most softly and most soon, + But still she made a stir, + For, going, she took all the men + To town along with her. + + + + +_Edgar Guest_ + + (Who has an air of absolute belief in the True, the Optimistic, and + the Checkbook. He seems yet a little ill at ease among the others, + and to be looking about restlessly for Ella Wheeler Wilcox.) + + +AIN'T NATURE WONDERFUL! + + + How dear to me are home and wife, + The dear old Tree I used to Love, + The Pear it shed on starting life + And God's Outdoors so bright above! + + For Virtue gets a high reward, + Noble is all good Scenery, + So I will root for Virtue hard, + For God, for Nature, and for Me! + + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Don Marquis_ + + (Who, it appears, refers to departments which he and certain of his + friends run in New York papers. He swings a theoretical barrel of + hootch above his head, and chants:) + + +THE MEETING OF THE COLUMNS + + Chris and Frank and I + Each had a column; + Chris and I were plump and gay, + But not so F.P.A.: + F.P.A. was solemn-- + Not so his Column; + That was full of wit, + As good as My Column + Nearly every bit! + We sat on each an office chair + And all snapped our scissors; + Their things were pretty fair + But all of mine were Whizzers! + + Frank wrote of Cyril, + An ungrammatic sinner, + But I wrote of Drink + And Chris wrote of Dinner; + And Frank kept getting thinner + And we kept getting plump-- + Frank sat like a Bump + Translating from the Latin, + Chris wrote of Happy Homes + I wrote of Alcoholic Foams, + And we still seemed to fatten; + Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been, + I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin! + But we both got fatter, + So the parties didn't matter, + Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her.... + + F.P.A. went calling + And sang about it sorely ... + "_Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!_ + F.P.A. played tennis + And told the World he did.... + _I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!_ + Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry, + _But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!_ + + And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me, + To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree: + +[Illustration] + + But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle-- + "Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle! + A Grackle with a Hackle, + A ticklish one to tackle + A tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...." + And we both began to giggle + And woggle, and wiggle, + And we giggled and we gurgled + And we gargled and were gay ... + _For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!_ + + + + +_Christopher Morley_ + + (Acting, in spite of himself, as if the Bird were his long-lost + brother, and locating the Grackle, for poetic purposes, in his own + home.) + + +THE MOCKING-HOARSE BIRD + + + Good fowl, though I would speak to thee + With wonted geniality, + And Oxford charm in my address, + It's not quite easy, I confess: + _Suaviter in modo's_ hard + When poets trample one's front yard, + And this is such an enormous crew + That you've got trailing after you! + I'd washed my youngest child but four, + Put the milk-bottles out the door, + Paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh + (Ah, happy wife! Ah, happy I!) + Tossed down (see essays) then my pen + To be a private citizen, + Written about that in the Post, + When lo, upon the lawn a host + Of Poets, sprung upon my sight + Each eager for a Poem to write! + + To a less placid bard you'd be + A flat domestic tragedy,-- + Bird--grackle--nay, I'd scarcely call + You bird--a mere egg you, that's all-- + Only a bad egg has the nerve + To poach (a pun!) on my preserve! + To P.Q.S. and X.Y.D. + (Both columnists whom you should see) + And L.M.N (a man who never + Columns a word that isn't clever,) + And B.C.D. (who scintillates + Much more than most who get his rates) + A thing like this would be a trial.... + It is to me, there's no denial. + + Why, Bird, if they would sing of you, + Or Sin, or Broken Hearts, or Rue, + Or what Young Devils they all are, + Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star, + Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing, + It would be quite another thing: + But, Bird, here they come mousing round + On my suburban, sacred ground, + And see my happiness--it's flat, + You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that! + They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and later + The joys of my Refrigerator, + Burst into song about the points + Of Babies, Married Peace, Hot Joints, + The Jimmy-Pipe I often carol, + My Commutation, my Rain-Barrel, + And each Uncontroverted Fact + With which my poetry is packed ... + In short, base Bird, they'll sing like me, + _And then, where will my living be?_ + + + + +_Franklin P. Adams_ + + (Coldly ignoring the roistering of his friends, addresses the Grackle + with bitterness:) + + +TO A GRACKLE + +(Horace, Ode XVIXXV, p. 23) + + + Bird, if you think I do not care + To gaze upon your feathered form + Rather than converse with some fair + Or make my brow with tennis warm; + + If you should think I'd liefer far + Hear your sweet song than fast be driving + Within my costly motor car + And in my handsome home arriving, + + If you should think I would be gone + Far sooner than you might expect + From off this uncolumnar lawn; + Bird, you'd be utterly correct! + + + + +_Tom Daly_ + + (Showing the Italian's love of the Beautiful, which he makes his own + more than the Anglo-Saxon dreams of doing.) + + +CARLO THE GARDENER + + + De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree, + Dey gotta da arta, da birda--but me, + I lova da arta, I lova da flower, + (Ah, _bella fioretta_!) I waita da hour: + I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf-- + I brava young Carlo--Maria! fine t'ief! + I waita + Till later. + + Da poets go homa, go finda da sup', + I creep by dis tree and I digga her up, + (Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love, + _Per Dio!_ and da art!) So I giva da shove, + I catcha da birda, I getta da tree, + I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she-- + She gotta + In potta! + + + + +_Vachel Lindsay_ + + (Bounding on toward the end of the proceedings with a bundle over + his shoulder, and making the rest join in at the high spots.) + + +THE HOBOKEN GRACKLE AND THE HOBO + +(An Explanation) + + + As I went marching, torn-socked, free, [_Steadily_] + With my red heart marching all agog in front of me + And my throbbing heels + And my throbbing feet + Making an impression on the Hoboken street [_With energy_] + Then I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird, + And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard! [_With surprise_] + Banks--of--poets--round--that--tree-- + _All_ of the Poetry Society but _me_! + All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackle [_Chatteringly + Showed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly) like parrots_] + Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, [_Cooingly, yet + Gosh, what a packed street! with impatience_] + The Secretary, _President_ and TREASURER went by! + "That's not a grackle," said I to all of him, + Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim, + "_That's an English sparrow on that limb!_" + And they all went home + No more to roam. + And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam [_Intemperately_] + And I took my bandanna again on my stick [_With calm majesty_] + And I walked to the grocery and took my pick + And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn, [_With domesticity + Codfish like flakes of snow at morn, for the moment_] + Buns for breakfast and a fountain-pen + Laid down change and marched out again + And I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free, + _With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!_ + + +[Illustration] + + + + +DIES ILLA: A BIRD OF A MASQUE + + Being a Collaboration by Percy Mackaye, Isabel + Fiske Conant and Josephine Preston Peabody. + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + +THE GRACKLE (who does not appear at all) + +THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP + +THE SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY + +CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY + +CHORUS OF CORRESPONDENCE, KINDERGARTEN, GRAMMAR, HIGH-SCHOOL AND COLLEGE + CLASSES IN VERSE-WRITING + +CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN RUNNING POETRY MAGAZINES + +CHORUS OF POETRY CRITICS + +CHORUS OF ASSORTED CULTURE-HOUNDS + +THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR THE POETIC RENAISSANCE IN AMERICA + +THE NON-POETRY WRITING PUBLIC (COMPOSED OF TWO CITIZENS WHO HAVE NEVER + LEARNED TO READ OR WRITE) + +SEMI-CHORUSES OF MAGAZINE EDITORS AND BOOK-PUBLISHERS + +ATE, GODDESS OF DISCORD + +THE MUSE + + +TIME: _Next year._ PLACE: _Everywhere._ SCENE: _A level stretch of +monotony._ + + + +THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_Entering despairingly_) + + Alas--in vain! Yet I have barred the way + As best I might, that this great horror fall + Not on the world. _Returned with many thanks_ + _And not because of lack of merit,_ I + Have said to twenty million poets ... nay ... + Profane it not, that word ... to twenty million + Persons who wasted stamps and typewriting + And midnight oil, to add unto the world + More Bunk.... In vain--in vain! + (_She sinks down sobbing._) + + +(_From right and left of stage enter Semi-Choruses Magazine Editors and +Book Publishers, tearing their hair rhythmically._) + +SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS + + We have mailed their poems back + To every man and woman-jack + Who weigh the postman down + From country and from town; + But all in vain, in vain, + They mail them in again! + +SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS + + Though we've sent them flying, + We are nearly dying, + From the books of poetry + Sent by people unto we; + In vain we keep them off our shelves, + They go and publish them themselves! + +SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIPS + + All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye, + And I've toiled with you.... All in vain, in vain-- + + +(_Enter, with a proud consciousness of duty well done, the Chorus of +Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes +for Writing Verse. They sing Joyously_) + + The Day has come that we adore, + The Day we've all been working for, + Now babies in their bassinets + And military school cadets, + And chambermaids in each hotel + And folks in slums who cannot spell, + Professors, butchers, clergymen, + And every one, have grabbed a pen: + The Day has come--tra la, tra lee-- + _Everybody_ writes poetry! + + +(_They do a Symbolic Dance with Typewriters, during which enters the +Chorus of Young Men who Run Poetry Magazines. These put on horn-rimmed +spectacles and chant earnestly as follows_) + +CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN WHO RUN POETRY MAGAZINES + + We're very careful what we put in; + This magazine is of highest grade; + If it doesn't appeal to our personal taste + There's no use sending it, we're afraid; + We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats, + We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead; + If you write like us there will be no fuss-- + That's the best of verse, when the last word's said.... (_Bursting + irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn + spectacles to the ground_) + + Yale! Yale! Yale! + Our Poetry! + Fine Poetry! + Nobody Else's Poetry! + Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw! + + +(_Enter, modestly, the Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in +America. There are four of him--or her, as the case may be--Miss Monroe, +Miss Rittenhouse, Mrs. Stork, Mr. Braithwaite. The Person stands in a +row and recites in unison:_) + + I've made Poetry + What it is today; + Or ... at least ... + That's what people say: + Earnest-minded effort + Never can be hid; + The Others think They did it-- + But--I--Did! + +SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP, EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS, (_faintly:_) + + You _did_? (_They rush out._) + +PERSON RESPONSIBLE (_still modestly_) + + Well, so they say-- + But I have to go away. + I'm due at a lecture + I give at three today. + + +(_The Person goes out in single file, looking at its watch. As it does so, +there enters a pale and dishevelled girl in Greek robes. It is the Muse._) + +MUSE + + In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and crying + As swine that in deep agony are dying, + A voice of tom-cats wailing, + A never failing + Thud as of rolling logs: + A chattering like frogs, + And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous, + Making a horrible fuss, + Cries out upon my name. + Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame, + So to be mocked and humbled by this use? + I--I, the Muse! + + +(_Enter Spirit of Modern Poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in +horn glasses and a sex-complex._) + +SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY + + You're behind the times; quite narrow, + Don't you want + Culture for the masses? + +MUSE + + No; I am Greek; we never did. + Besides, it _isn't_ culture. + +CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY, (_trotting by two + by two on their way to a lecture, pause._) + + Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking! + She's no Muse! She must be mocking! + +MUSE (_sternly, having lost her temper by this time_) + + I am a goddess. Trifle not with me. + +ELDERLY LADIES (_with resolute tolerance_) + + She _looks_ like a pupil of Isadora Duncan, + But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in + To believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture-- + My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture! + +MUSE (_lifting her arms angrily_) + + Ate, my sister! + +ATE, (_behind the scenes_) I come! + + +(_Enter from one side, Band of Poets--very large--with lyres and wreaths +put on over their regular clothes. From the other side, a chorus of +Poetry Critics. At their end steals Ate, Goddess of Discord, disguised +as a Critic by means of horn glasses and a Cane. The Poets do not see +her--or anything but themselves, indeed. They sing obliviously_) + + My maiden aunt in Keokuk + She writes free verse like anything; + My great-grandmother is in luck, + She's sold her three-piece work on Spring; + My mother does Poetic Plays, + My dad does rhymes while signing checks, + And my flapper sister--we wouldn't have missed her-- + She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex-- + The world's as perfect as it can be, + Everybody writes Poetry! + +CHORUS OF CRITICS, (_chanting yet more loudly:_) + + The world's not _quite_ as perfect as it yet might be, + Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry! + + +(_The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics._) + +SPIRIT OF DISCORD + + Rash poets, think what you would do-- + There's nobody left you can read it to! + +POETS (_aghast_) + + We never thought of that! + An audience, 'tis flat, + Is our most pressing need, + To listen to our screed; + +(_Each turns to his neighbor_) + + Base scribbler, get thee hence + Or be my audience! + +Semi-chorus: + + We want to write ourselves! We'll not! + +Semi-chorus: + + But what _you_ write is merely rot! + Hush up and let _me_ read + My great, eternal screed! + +ATE (_stealthily_) Ha, ha! + + +(_Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills +the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet +on the other side. They fall in neat windrows. There are no Poets left. +Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been +shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three +paces to the front, and speak:_) + +What's the use o' poetry, anyhow? _I_ always say, 'if you wanta say +anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.' _I_ never wrote no +poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business. + +CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS, (_thrilled:_) + + Ah, a new Gospel! + Let us write Reviews + About it! + +THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_entering, and addressing the + Editors and Publishers who follow her._) + + Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close. + I wing my hallowed way + To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose. + +EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS + + Nay, our great helper, nay! + Leave us not yet, our only comforter! + We'll need thee still; + Folks who write poetry + There's naught on earth can kill! + + +(_During this the_ CULTURE-HOUNDS, CRITICS, _etc., have clustered round +the_ NON-POETRY-WRITING PUBLIC, _whispering, urging, and pushing. It rises +and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:_) + + B'gosh, I do believe, + Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good + As any of those there fool dead fellers could! + + +(_The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with +lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats._) + +SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS (to Spirit of Rejection Slip) + + You see? Too late! + +SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS + + Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate? + + +(_They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the +Masque, except_ ATE, _who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, +and the_ MUSE, _form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every +Minute. They sing:_) + + The Day has come that we adore, + The Day we've all been working for; + The Day has come, tra la, tra lee! + _Everybody_ writes Poetry! + +THE MUSE (_unnoticed in the background_) + + Farewell. + + + + +_Arthur Guiterman_ + + (He recites with appropriate gestures.) + + +A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: A RHYMED REVIEW + + + It seems that Margaret Widdemer + Possessed a Tree with a Bird in it, + And being human, prone to err, + Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it, + + Or christen it, as one might say, + By asking poets closely herded + To come around and spend the day + And sing of what the Tree and Bird did. + + (Poor girl! When next she takes her pen + Some bromide critic's sure to say, + "Don't dare do serious work again-- + This stuff is your true metier!") + + No sooner said than done; the bards + Rush out in quantities surprising, + And, overflowing four front yards + They carol till the moon is rising; + + With ardor, or, as some say, "pash," + In song kind or satirical, + Asking, apparently, no cash, + They make their offerings lyrical. + + I'd be the first a spear to break + For Poesy; but this to tackle ... + It seems a lot of fuss to make + About one Tree and one small Grackle. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Tree with a Bird in it:, by Margaret Widdemer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: *** + +***** This file should be named 36831.txt or 36831.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/8/3/36831/ + +Produced by David Edwards, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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