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diff --git a/36831.txt b/36831.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..770070c --- /dev/null +++ b/36831.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: 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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