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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..692179b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #62146 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62146) diff --git a/old/62146-0.txt b/old/62146-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f026ac6..0000000 --- a/old/62146-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2515 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Janitor's Boy, by Nathalia Crane - -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/license - - -Title: The Janitor's Boy - And Other Poems - -Author: Nathalia Crane - -Contributor: William Rose Benét -Nunnally Johnson -Edmund Leamy - -Release Date: May 16, 2020 [EBook #62146] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JANITOR'S BOY *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - THE JANITOR’S BOY - AND OTHER POEMS - - -[Illustration: Marceau - -_Nathalia Clara Ruth Crane_] - - - - - THE JANITOR’S BOY - AND OTHER POEMS - - By NATHALIA CRANE - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - THOMAS SELTZER - 1924 - - - - - Copyright, 1924, by - THOMAS SELTZER, INC. - - _All Rights Reserved_ - - First Printing, May, 1924 - Second Printing, May, 1924 - - -PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - _Foreword, by_ - WILLIAM ROSE BENET - - _Nathalia at Ten, by_ - NUNNALLY JOHNSON - - _Afterword, by_ - EDMUND LEAMY - - - - - TO - MY MOTHER - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - FOREWORD, _by William Rose Benét_ XIII - - NATHALIA AT TEN, _by Nunnally Johnson_ XVII - - THE JANITOR’S BOY 23 - - OH, ROGER JONES 24 - - THE FLATHOUSE ROOF 25 - - JOHN PAUL JONES 26 - - THE ROVERS 27 - - THE VACANT LOT 29 - - THE SWINGING STAIR 31 - - THE VESTAL 32 - - THE BLIND GIRL 33 - - PRESCIENCE 34 - - LOVE 35 - - WHAT EVERY GIRL KNOWS 36 - - JEALOUSY 37 - - MOTHER’S BONNET 38 - - THE RAG BAG 39 - - THE FIRST SNOW STORM 40 - - SUFFERING 41 - - THE MAP MAKERS 42 - - DIANA 43 - - THE READING BOY 44 - - THE BATTLE ON THE FLOOR 45 - - MID-DAY AT TRINITY 47 - - CASTLE “BILL” 48 - - CASTLE WILLIAM 49 - - THE ROLL OF THE ROSES 50 - - THE GOSSIPS 51 - - TO-MORROW 52 - - THE ROSE OF REST 53 - - THE SYMBOLS 54 - - THE SALAMANDER ISLES 55 - - THE CHESS GAME 56 - - THE DINOSAURS’ EGGS 58 - - THE FIRST STORY 59 - - THE THREE-CORNERED LOT 60 - - THE HISTORY OF HONEY 61 - - THE HISTORY OF PAINTING 63 - - THE ROAD TO ROSLYN 65 - - THE ARMY LAUNDRESS 67 - - REGINA MENDOSENA 68 - - THE GIRL FROM SOAPSUDS ROW 69 - - EVA 72 - - OLD MAID’S REVERIE 73 - - THE COMMONPLACE 74 - - BERKLEY COMMON 75 - - CHOICE 76 - - THE FIRE VASE 77 - - MY HUSBANDS 78 - - AFTERWORD, _by Edmund Leamy_ 81 - - - - -FOREWORD - - -When I took the two poems from Nathalia’s mother, and promised to read -them, I had seen none of the press notices of Miss Crane’s talent. -Being only a quasi-journalist I seldom read the newspapers. I am -extremely skeptical of infant prodigies, and the poems of Nathalia’s -that I have since seen most quoted in newspaper articles about her -are just what you would expect. They prove nothing except that she -is a little girl with a lively fancy. Certain poems in this first -collection, however, seem to me to prove something more. - -Some long time ago in Scotland there was a little girl named Marjorie -Fleming, and to-day a twelve-year-old, Helen Douglas Adam, the daughter -of a Scotch parson and his wife of Dundee, is her successor overseas to -the juvenile purple. Miss Adam has now been published both in England -and America. Yet the best poems of hers that I have read do not seem to -me to possess such individuality or such maturity of melody and diction -as Miss Crane’s best poems. Then there is our own Hilda Conkling, whose -mother is a distinguished American poet, and who writes in free verse -and has published several volumes of poems. Hilda is a real poet. But -she has never grappled with and conquered certain problems of poetic -structure from which Miss Crane, by sheer instinct, seems to have -wrested occasional victory. - -I took the two poems from Nathalia’s mother; and first I read _The -Blind Girl_. I came upon the two verses: - - In the darkness who would answer for the color of a rose, - Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes. - - * * * - - Oh, night, thy soothing prophecies companion all our ways, - Until releasing hands let fall the catalogue of days. - -These lines and the meditation from which they spring were the -spontaneous phrasing and the natural meditation of--a child of ten. -That in itself, I think, is sufficiently remarkable. - - In the darkness who would cavil at the question of a line, - Since the darkness holds all loveliness beyond the mere design. - -Strange insight for a comparative infant! - -In her lighter moments--and, naturally, there are a great -many--Nathalia’s “heart is all a-flutter like the washing on the line”; -she “could not stain romance with monetary fee”; and, when she has sat -upon a bumble-bee, she knows “the tenseness of humiliating pain.” Many -a grown humorist might envy the freshness of such amusing phrase. - -There is much laughter and nonsense in this book--that of a rather -romantic little girl with a quick eye and ear and a pert fancy. But -there is, as I have intimated, more than that. - - Cloud-made mountains towered - Beckoning to me; - Visionary triremes - Talked about the sea. - - There were strings of camels - On the Tunis sands. - There were certain cities - Holding out their hands. - -Here the thing we call poetry asserts itself. The instinct for -remarkable phrase and striking figurative expression is either -inborn or it is not. Facility with rhyme and metre is not nearly so -remarkable. But when a child can write, as in the poem _My Husbands_, - - I hear in soft recession - The praise they give to me; - I hear them chant my titles - From all antiquity. - -it is almost uncanny. Here is, if you like, a somewhat derivative -diction, but here also is true poetry by every test. - - He showed me like a master - That one rose makes a gown: - That looking up to Heaven - Is merely looking down. - -Well, I not only wonder how she has learned simple finality of phrase -so quickly; I also wonder whether she can possibly realize the -philosophical implications of her best poems. - -As for imagery, Nathalia’s angels hearing “the hurdy-gurdies in the -Candle-Maker’s Row” is an example of her fancy that quickens into -imagination. She sees the Oriental bees flying “in golden convoys to -the mountains of the moon,” she quizzically presents the pathos of _The -Dinosaurs’ Eggs_; she has “steered by stars that sorrowed, with the -moonlight in our wake”; she sees Berkley Common - - Like a manuscript, all yellow, and with many things deleted, - Yet a manuscript completed, with embellishments most rare, - Berkley Common lies forgotten, with its fields of everlasting, - And the sunlight on the windows of the empty houses there. - -As to exactly what she is trying to say in _The Symbols_, I am in -doubt, but it is hard to forget the Talmud stalking like a rabbi in a -gown. - -On the one hand, with Nathalia, we have simply a rhyming gift turned -to amusing descriptions of certain fairly ordinary episodes and -characteristics of life that interest every healthily alert young -lady. On the other hand, we have the beginnings of a poet with a true -ear for rhythm, an eye for the color of words, and a fancy that often -rises into the realm of imagination. I only hope that the young lady -will continue to enjoy all the ordinary incidents of her existence as -much as she has heretofore, and to perfect her technique in her spare -moments. It needs perfecting. It is hardly to be wondered at that her -work is still in the experimental stage. She is not yet “the youngest -of the seers,” nor yet “released from fetters of ancestral pose,” but -there is undoubtedly conquest of poetic beauty “waiting down the years” -for her--“revisions of the ruby and the rose,” as she puts it. Read -the first two verses of _The Vestal_ and marvel that a young lady of -Nathalia’s age should be able to master without effort such a perfectly -Emily Dickinsonian idiom. This is no copy; it is something that even -Emily Dickinson would not have been at all ashamed to have written. And -that is a good deal to say. - -Now as to prophecies, who can make them? Frankly, I have not the -slightest idea how Miss Crane’s gift may develop. I only know that -she has given signs of astonishing precocity as a young poet. Her -parents have wisdom and they will see that she is not spoiled. Her -gifts will simply develop according to her experience of literature -and her experience of life. It is a very ticklish thing to endeavor in -any way to direct so young a gift. It will find by instinct its own -nourishment; that is my belief. - -Meanwhile, to Nathalia, good luck on the difficult road! - - WILLIAM ROSE BENET - - _New York City, May, 1924._ - - - - -NATHALIA AT TEN - - -Nathalia’s day is today. All of Time that is past, from the birth of -those odd old folk, the troglodytes, about which she has ruminated so -pleasantly, up to and through the final scene of the latest Broadway -moving picture is, to her, a harvested crop--important in its way but -no longer interesting. And as for tomorrow and the next year, they will -have their turn presently. It is today.... - -This extract from Nathalia’s as yet unarticulated philosophy is offered -by way of information for those who are instinctively inclined to be -harsh, on general principles, with a talent that springs, a little too -boldly perhaps, ahead of its years. - -Nathalia had been writing her verse for several months before Mr. -and Mrs. Crane came across it, writing it without fuss or excitement -and storing it in a small and private album, content apparently with -the reward of whatever pleasure the rereading of it gave her. If she -had, even secretly, any concern with such a vanity as applause, she -certainly did not betray it. And when shortly before Christmas of 1922, -the little girl mailed some of her poems to a Brooklyn newspaper and -received immediate acknowledgment from the editor, her parents were as -much astonished as, later on, was the editor of a newspaper when, after -having accepted a number of poems signed Nathalia Crane, the author -herself walked into the office and proved to be a mite of a human being. - -I was one of the file of reporters that trailed into Nathalia’s home -the morning after her first publication, bent less on nourishing and -encouraging a young artist than on getting a human-interest story. -It was a file that eventually included generous, vociferous, and -indiscriminate eulogists, a file that threatened to demoralize or -spoil whatever young talents Nathalia had. - -Those kind-hearted newspaper folks showered her with a shocking amount -of almost unqualified praise, some of it accurately placed but most of -it merely blank fire. This would have been very bad for her but for one -thing--Nathalia never read any of it. - -And so, unaffected, she maintained the same tenor of her young days, -playing with her dolls when she pleased and retiring to her boudoir to -make rhythms when she pleased. She has always written, and still does -write, only when the fancy prompts her. - -What Nathalia has written is the kind of thing that she can write, -whatever its merits or demerits. She has measured it against no other -verse, youthful or adult. The inspiration for most of it comes from -books she has read, which are mainly romantic in character. As for the -rest, it happens that she is an extraordinarily articulate little girl, -and if in some cases the conceits and fancies which she crystallizes -are no rarer than those that, in all probability, throng the mysterious -mind of every imaginative child, the explanation is simply that she -is able to utter and clarify them, and these other children are, for -the most part, normally unable to do that. That also they have, in -Nathalia’s case, taken the form of mature work, as evidenced, in one -way, by the fact that editors published her contributions for several -months before learning that she was so much below the accepted age -for serious consideration, is, I believe, another mark of her high -singularity. - -Others, unfortunately, will be less easily satisfied. A cynicism -concerning the future careers of precocious children is one of the -rigid fundamentals of nearly every mind. It has, no doubt, a valid -basis. But, for that reason, Nathalia’s future, probably very dark in -popular prospect, threatens to shade her present. That is why I offered -at the outset, as a point of information, the comment on Nathalia’s -general attitude toward life. Nathalia, I am sure, sees no reason why -anybody else should read these poems with an eye any further ahead in -time than this afternoon’s sunset. She is content to leave the verdict, -so far as posterity is concerned, to her own grandchildren. - - NUNNALLY JOHNSON - - _Brooklyn, N. Y., May, 1924._ - - - - - THE JANITOR’S BOY - AND OTHER POEMS - - - - -THE JANITOR’S BOY - - - Oh I’m in love with the janitor’s boy, - And the janitor’s boy loves me; - He’s going to hunt for a desert isle - In our geography. - - A desert isle with spicy trees - Somewhere near Sheepshead Bay; - A right nice place, just fit for two - Where we can live alway. - - Oh I’m in love with the janitor’s boy, - He’s busy as he can be; - And down in the cellar he’s making a raft - Out of an old settee. - - He’ll carry me off, I know that he will, - For his hair is exceedingly red; - And the only thing that occurs to me - Is to dutifully shiver in bed. - - The day that we sail, I shall leave this brief note, - For my parents I hate to annoy: - “I have flown away to an isle in the bay - With the janitor’s red-haired boy.” - - - - -OH, ROGER JONES - - - Oh, Roger Jones! Oh, Roger Jones! - Oh, Prince! O, Knight! Ah me! - We used to play at keeping house, - Beneath an old oak tree. - - Your hair was red, your eyes were brown, - You had a freckled nose; - You were the father of my dolls, - My husband--I suppose. - - Oh, Roger! You were only nine, - And I was half-past eight; - It really was romantic, or - As good, at any rate. - - - - -THE FLATHOUSE ROOF - - - I linger on the flathouse roof, the moonlight is divine. - But my heart is all a-flutter like the washing on the line. - - I long to be a heroine, I long to be serene, - But my feet, they dance in answer to a distant tambourine. - - And, oh! the dreams of ecstasy. Oh! Babylon and Troy. - I’ve a hero in the basement, he’s the janitor’s red-haired boy. - - There’s the music of his mallet and the jigging of his saw; - I wonder what he’s making on that lovely cellar floor? - - He loves me, for he said it when we met upon the stair, - And that is why I’m on the roof to get a breath of air. - - He said it! Oh! He said it! And the only thing I said - Was, “Roger Jones, I like you, for your hair is very red.” - - We parted when intruders came a-tramping through the hall; - He’s got my pocket handkerchief and I have got his ball. - - And so it is I’m on the roof. Oh! Babylon and Troy! - I’m very sure that I’m in love with someone else’s boy. - - Alone, upon the starry heights, I’m dancing on a green, - To the jingling and the jangling of a distant tambourine. - - To the stamping of a hammer and the jigging of a saw, - And the secret sort of feeling I’m in love forever more. - - Do you think it’s any wonder, with the moonlight so divine, - That my heart is all a-flutter, like the washing on the line? - - - - -JOHN PAUL JONES - - - ’Tis John Paul Jones--the janitor’s boy, - He lives on the gun-deck floor, - Where all of the windows are action ports, - And the dumbwaiters rattle and roar. - - The old trash tins are our hand grenades - And the rugs on the backyard lines-- - Are the mains of the Britisher Serapis - That we fight with our bursting “Nines.” - - ’Tis John Paul Jones--my Admiral; - His hair is a glorious red; - And I am the maiden who serves as the mate - To see that the sawdust is spread. - - He leans on the rail of the laundry tubs - As the Serapis lifts on our lee; - Our gun crews chant by the carronades - And the powder boys yell in their glee. - - For he who stands in Colonial rags, - Is born to the gift of the game-- - Of shaking the dust from a Serapis, - Or the dust from the halls of fame. - - I whirl the wheel of the wash machine - In the spray of a soap-suds sea; - But I know in my heart that the daring Jones - Is winning the fight for me. - - And I think it is sweet of John Paul Jones, - In playing the good old game, - To do all the fighting just for love-- - With never a thought of fame. - - - - -THE ROVERS - - - “Oh, wilt thou go a-sailing,” said the janitor’s boy to me: - “It’s raining, but I’ve got a raft rigged with a canopy. - - “We carry boisterous batteries, our cannon balls are stones, - But I’ll wager all your loveliness you’re safe with John Paul Jones.” - - I asked him very faintly was he competent to steer? - He said he was authority on rafts and running gear. - - Then suddenly his voice sank low to slow and gentle tones, - And off I went a-sailing with my captain, John Paul Jones. - - We drifted down the avenue that was our sweep of sea. - And never man or mermaid any happier than we. - - We paused beside a paradise depicted on a sign; - We moored fast to the margin of its crimson border line. - - We slipped our surf-filled sandals off, we waded to the knee, - And when I felt like swooning John Paul Jones supported me. - - The darkness hesitated, fearing we might lose our way; - We counted all the street lamps ’ere we homeward sought to stray. - - We counted corner lanterns, and the understanding stars - Saw we were linked by longings for the shining shell-strewn bars. - - For the realms reserved for rovers, for the rafts and painted signs, - And the right to moor to ring-heads in the far-off border lines. - - - - -THE VACANT LOT - - - They’re going to build a flathouse on the lot next door to me; - And Roger Jones, the janitor’s boy, is mad as he can be. - - That lot was like a tropic isle, with weeds and rubbish fair, - The rusty cans and coffee pots, that looked like Roger’s hair. - - ’Twas oft we strolled among the weeds, we were in love, you see, - And Roger Jones was going to build a bungalow for me. - - We used to rest upon a rock just where the weeds were tall; - We were engaged, I think, until the builders spoiled it all. - - But now they’ve ruined Roger’s plans, they’ve dug up all the lot; - With all the brick and mortar round, you’d never know the spot. - - They came with carts and horses; tore our wilderness apart; - No wonder Roger Jones was wild; it nearly broke _my_ heart. - - We could have done some wondrous things if time were not so slow; - The weeds, they might have grown to trees, fit for a bungalow. - - With rusty cans and broken glass, we’d planned a home so nice; - But they dumped their brick and mortar in our little paradise. - - They dumped their brick and mortar ’mid the smoky lakes of lime, - Yet we won’t forget, ’twas Eden--Eden, once upon a time. - - Eden, where we dreamed supremely--rusty can and coffee pot; - Eden, with the weeds and rubbish, in a vacant city lot. - - And now, we’re simply waiting, oh, that janitor’s boy and me, - Until the janitor’s boy grows up and finds himself quite free - - To just discover areas where builders never go, - Where we may live forever in a little bungalow. - - - - -THE SWINGING STAIR - - - From the flotsam of a city street we built the Swinging Stair, - And latitude, or longitude, the least of all our care. - - A tilting board--an orange crate--the sparrows screamed with glee, - As we swung to port and starboard like a lugger on the sea. - - We cruised without a compass, but with merchandise of worth, - To barter pins and needles at the portals of the Earth. - - The helmsman was my hero brave, his hair as red could be; - Perhaps he was the janitor’s boy, but he belonged to me; - - He was mine because I made him master of the Swinging Stair, - And because I liked the color of his very auburn hair. - - The surf upon the sandbars called the price of sugar cane; - It was mounting every moment down upon the Spanish Main. - - The trades were in the topsails, in the scuppers raced the foam, - But never did we get beyond the gateway of our home. - - We have notions that the motions of a lugger ’neath a tree - Do not exactly tally with the leagues she makes at sea; - - Yet the glory of the ocean lies in no far distant goal, - But reflections in the water, and the port to starboard roll. - - - - -THE VESTAL - - - Once a pallid vestal - Doubted truth in blue; - Listed red as ruin, - Harried every hue; - - Barricaded vision, - Garbed herself in sighs; - Ridiculed the birth marks - Of the butterflies. - - Dormant and disdainful, - Never could she see - Why the golden powder - Decorates the bee; - - Why a summer pasture - Lends itself to paint; - Why love unappareled - Still remains the saint. - - Finally she faltered; - Saw at last, forsooth, - Every gaudy color - Is a bit of truth. - - Then the gates were opened; - Miracles were seen; - That instructed damsel - Donned a gown of green; - - Wore it in a churchyard, - All arrayed with care; - And a painted rainbow - Shone above her there. - - - - -THE BLIND GIRL - - - In the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose, - Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes. - - In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care, - If the odor of the roses and the winged things were there. - - In the darkness who would cavil o’er the question of a line. - Since the darkness holds all loveliness, beyond the mere design. - - Oh night, thy soothing prophecies companion all our ways, - Until releasing hands let fall the catalogue of days. - - In the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose, - Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes. - - In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care, - If the odor of the roses and the better things were there. - - - - -PRESCIENCE - - - A precious place is Paradise and none may know its worth, - But Eden ever longeth for the knickknacks of the earth. - - The angels grow quite wistful over worldly things below; - They hear the hurdy-gurdies in the Candle Maker’s Row. - - They listen for the laughter from the attics of the earth; - They lower pails from heaven’s walls to catch the milkmaids’ mirth. - - By turns they scan the shadow of the dial on the wall; - The rams’ heads of that drawbridge never lowered since the fall. - - They sway with sweet misgivings, that on rising somewhat late - They may hear unusual noises by the battlemented gate. - - See warders at each windlass, every rusty chain a-cry; - See a ponderous portcullis rise, a drawbridge downward fly. - - Perchance some summer morning and with no one on the wall, - The warders may get orders and the drawbridge swiftly fall. - - A wingless one may be the first to stumble on the scene - And vision earth and heaven, with a rustic bridge between. - - - - -LOVE - - - Now Marjory is seven years, - And I am nine and more. - We went a-strolling after cream - Into a Flatbush store. - - The handsome clerk said “Ladies, yes, - I’ll serve you with a rush.” - He looked so very scrumptious that - We both began to blush. - - He smiled at us, we smiled at him. - And then we went away: - We were so captivated, yes, - That we forgot to pay. - - Of course we could have sauntered back, - And settled, don’t you see, - But oh, we could not stain romance - With monetary fee. - - - - -WHAT EVERY GIRL KNOWS - - - In my bedroom, in my boudoir, - There’s a box I ope no more; - It is packed with all my treasures - From the ten cent store. - - Saturday, a longing seizes-- - Grips me so I scarce can speak, - And I ask for my allowance, - Mostly thirty cents a week. - - Then I call on Margie Lynam, - And we hasten from the door; - And we go inspecting counters - In the ten cent store. - - We get flushed most every visit - When we lay our money down; - There are no expert advisors-- - Mr. Woolworth’s out of town. - - Homeward, purchases we carry, - And examine them with care; - Then we pile them in the play-box, - And we always leave them there. - - Riches never will be ours, - We have said it o’er and o’er, - Till they make things all “One Dollar” - In the ten cent store. - - - - -JEALOUSY - - - Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! - See the bobbed-head riding - On the bob-tailed car. - Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! - I saw a big girl staring at my Pa. - - She was standing in the corner, she was turning in her toes. - She must have been a senior--by the powder on her nose. - - Her hair was bobbed and blond-like and she was someone’s pet, - But I went into action with the battlefield all set. - - Rah! Rah! Flatbush! my mother wasn’t there, - But some papas are rather young and need a daughter’s care. - - And that is why in Flatbush we have organized a guard, - Made up of little daughters of the men who work so hard. - - Some day, of course, I will mature and know a little more, - But now I am content to be my mother’s Signal Corps. - - And mother knows when I go out with Pa, things are O. K., - For I belong to the Flatbush Guards--we don’t let father stray. - - Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! - I hold on to father’s hand - When we go very far. - Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah! - See the bobbed-head riding on the bob-tailed car. - - - - -MOTHER’S BONNET - - - This is her bonnet, with ribbons arrayed, - Clearly a calico ambuscade; - It dates from the days of the bricks of straw-- - This is the bonnet my mother wore. - - This is the bonnet my mother donned - When she walked with a youth by Plymouth Pond; - ’Twas the night she wore her beads of jade, - And father fell into the ambuscade. - - This is the bonnet I found in a chest, - Daisies and bows in a lavender nest; - It looks like the plumes the Persians wore, - But it must have had wonderful power to draw. - - - - -THE RAG BAG - - - When we went down to grandma’s - To visit our dearest kin, - We asked for grandma’s rag bag - That hangs in the garret bin. - - Oh, grandma’s frugal minded - From an old New England day, - But you ought to see that rag bag - And the things she threw away. - - There were gloves that had no fingers, - And hose of Highland clans; - There were petticoats from Paris - And Pekin’s painted fans. - - Our fingers flew at random - Like bees at a flower stall, - And we found that gown of grandma’s - That she wore at the governor’s ball. - - We carried it down from the garret, - The Florentine flounces set; - And we made our grandma show us - How she danced the minuet. - - Oh, grandma’s frugal minded, - And sometimes her foot goes down, - But her riches she puts in the rag bag - When we are coming to town. - - - - -THE FIRST SNOW STORM - - - The very first snow of the year, Mama, - And the drifts must be ten feet high; - So I’ve come home to get dry, Mama, - And this is the reason why: - - We were on our way from school, Mama, - Betty and Margie and Nan, - When someone gave us a terrible push - And into a drift we ran. - - And we sat down in the snow, Mama, - It wasn’t as cold as you’d think; - And we thought we would sit for a while, Mama. - And we did, till we grew quite pink. - - I feel that my shoes are wet, Mama, - And I fear the same for my hose: - And I fancy I’m rather damp, Mama, - Around in my underclothes. - - - - -SUFFERING - - - I sat down on a bumble bee - In Mrs. Jackson’s yard: - I sat down on a bumble bee: - The bee stung good and hard. - - I sat down on a bumble bee, - For just the briefest spell, - And I had only muslin on, - As any one could tell. - - I sat down on a bumble bee, - But I arose again; - And now I know the tenseness of - Humiliating pain. - - - - -THE MAP MAKERS - - - There was a man who made a map - Of all you see at night; - He made the moon and all the stars - And comets in their flight. - - He worked for twenty years or more - And extra ink he bought, - And then he mapped the Milky Way - As sort of an afterthought. - - I read the story to Margaret, - She said that it must be true, - For she herself could draw a map - Of Ocean avenue. - - She made a dot for Prospect Park, - A blot for Sheepshead Bay, - And then she ruled a line between - To show the right of way. - - It took her just five minutes just, - But I have my private fears, - That it isn’t quite up to the moon-man’s map, - For it never took twenty years. - - - - -DIANA - - - Diana, out of Italy, my sister’s protégée, - She came to us, with letters, for a little summer stay. - - Diana, she was beautiful, and yet she made me laugh-- - Forever and forever taking one eternal bath. - - She had lost her bow and arrow, she had lost her lingerie, - But she was far from Venice and my sister’s protégée. - - And because of her distinction, and the wonder of design, - Her color and her contour, surpassing any line, - - I braved a frowning family, I offered her my best, - And worshipped her in silence as my sister’s chosen guest. - - As the flowers seek the sunlight, as the birds adore the air, - So Diana loved the water, loved to comb her Titian hair. - - The neighbors talked of nothing but my sister Mary’s taste-- - Of vagaries and vanities, and time that went to waste. - - But when my sister came at last to claim our protégée, - I was her only confidante, and comfort’s only ray; - - I was her only confidante in all the good old town, - And she whispered: “Our Diana never owned a dressing gown; - - “Never owned a beaded bodice, never owned a veil of tulle; - “Her gowns are made from sparkles of the waters of a pool; - - “And those who cry for draperies, arouse the gods of wrath, - “For the gods possess their copies of ‘Diana at the Bath!’” - - - - -THE READING BOY - - - He is carved in alabaster, he is called the Reading Boy, - A cross-legged little pagan, pondering o’er the Siege of Troy; - He’s a miniature Adonis, with a bandeau round his head, - And he’s reading late and early when he ought to be in bed. - - He cons an ancient manuscript, he scanneth as a sage, - But with all his mighty reading, never yet hath turned a page; - Never alabaster side glance at the turtle in the bowl, - Never alabaster wiggle, ’though I know he has a soul. - - I have watched him late and early, just an image out of Rome, - And politely offered bookmarks to divert him from that tome; - Yea, with aggravating gestures sought to turn aside his face, - But not for pots of honey could you make him lose his place. - - There he sits in sweet perfection that the chisel did unveil, - With the rapture of an angel up against a lively tale. - But I’d give an old maid’s ransom, just to see that little wretch, - Discard that Trojan magazine, and give a real good stretch. - - - - -THE BATTLE ON THE FLOOR - - - My father was a soldier, so - Some nights he talks of war; - He tells of guns at “action right,”-- - The battlefield’s the floor. - - He says: “My little daughter Nan, - “There’s art in every fight, - “So push the chairs and rugs around - “And set the battle right. - - “Put down the vase and candlesticks, - “And throw the books around-- - “We want to show a town in France, - “With shell-holes in the ground. - - “Here’s infantry and batteries, - “And outposts, out before; - “That piece of string will do for wires - “Laid by the Signal Corps. - - “The enemy’s upon the rug, - “We’ve fathomed their design; - “So now we’ll bring the doughboys up - “And charge the whole darn line.” - - The captains, on the carpet, shout-- - “Reserves are back too far”-- - But the guns go into action with - The smoke of Pa’s cigar. - - Then Ma gets mad, and says that Pa - Was shell-shocked once in War, - Or else he wouldn’t want to play - At battles on the floor. - - She says that war is bad enough, - And pretty rough, to boot, - Without a battlefield at home, - Or teaching girls to shoot. - - Then Pa, he stops the battle, and - We put things in their place; - We know when we have fought enough, - By the look on Mother’s face. - - But I’d just as soon be shell-shocked some, - To know what father knows; - I’d just as soon stay out at night-- - In France--and wet my clothes, - - For I’d like to see a battle fierce, - With star shells up at night, - With regiments upon the move, - And guns at “action right.” - - With cunning ammunition mules - A-trotting to and fro, - And personal friends a-shouting in - The dark, “Let’s Go.” - - I think that Father’s quite correct - Describing things to me, - And all that war in rainy France - That lies across the sea; - - For Father feels that every girl - Should have some nerve and tone, - And know just how to manage in - A battle all her own. - - - - -MID-DAY AT TRINITY - - - The pigeons perch on Trinity, - From cowls of saints they croon; - In pious patience preen their wings - Till Trinity strikes noon. - - They make their vows to visions fair, - The maids with mid-day smiles; - They wait their own communion sweet-- - The crumbs along the aisles. - - And presently from Wall Street strolls - A princess past a gate; - She pries apart a paper box - As if she scarce could wait. - - She sinks upon an old settee, - Her luncheon in her lap; - And other maidens follow her-- - A score or more, mayhap. - - The pigeons peer from pinnacles, - They see their tables spread; - The sugar and the spices strewn, - The crusts of creamy bread. - - The saints upon the walls maintain - Their attitudes benign; - But conquered by confusing quests, - The doves drift down to dine. - - - - -CASTLE “BILL” - - - Down on Gov’nors Island, - Ivy etched and chill, - Hollow as a halo, - There is Castle “Bill.” - - Once the pride of outfits-- - Prisoners under guard, - Form for evening roll-call - In the castle yard. - - Sentries with their side arms, - Counting, one by one, - While the twilight tarries - For the sunset gun. - - Miles away the music - Soundeth at parade - Chanting of Cochita, - Filipino maid; - - Chanting of Cochita - Of Corregidor; - Piping of the palm trees - ’Long Lunetta shore. - - Dusty gunners listen, - Lead and chain and wheel; - Long ago Manila - Held them all to heel; - - Boys from all battalions, - Saberless and still, - Waiting on a sunset-- - Down in Castle “Bill.” - - - - -CASTLE WILLIAM - - - Where Buttermilk Channel doth seek to beguile - Diffident margins of Governor’s Isle, - - There is a fortress all bastioned and chill, - Known to the army as old “Castle Bill.” - - There are occasions when soldiers may smile; - Not in that castle on Governor’s Isle; - - Not in the cloisters where sentries abound; - Not where a gun butt leaps up from the ground. - - Oh! There are many--the old cannoneers, - Infantry sergeants and grave grenadiers; - - They have gone onward to zones of desire, - Scorning all theories of musketry fire; - - They have advanced to civilian vales, - Building new barracks for sweet nightingales. - - Yet they revert in their leisure sedate, - Seeing in visions that old castle gate; - - Still they remember their days in the mill-- - Down in the casemates of old “Castle Bill.” - - - - -THE ROLL OF THE ROSES - - - We called the roll of the roses - And all of the front rank red, - Were present and ready for duty, - To serve with the living or dead. - - We called the roll of the roses, - But where were the yellow and white? - With the troubadours on a terrace-- - Somewhere secure in the night. - - We break no pledge to the poppies - Or the culls of a country lane; - Our own were alone in denying - The levies we sought in vain. - - Now who shall match us a color - In the talk of a kinship fair, - When none of the white or the yellow, - But only the red were there. - - We called the roll of the roses - On the field where the roses fell; - And a distant down made answer - With a troubadour tolling a bell. - - - - -THE GOSSIPS - - - The rose bud that grew by the settle, - Bowed low to the gossiping thrusts; - The poet was praising the nettle, - The nettle that nobody trusts. - - The pansies were painted in postures, - The poppies have stood on their toes; - But long before mention of Moses - Her rivals have flouted the rose. - - Oh! Sweetness a-sway by the settle, - Be still on thy beautiful stem; - For love never clung to the nettle-- - The nettle that burns to condemn. - - Fear not for a moment’s defection, - Though pansies and poppies may pose; - For after a bit of reflection - The rover returns to the rose. - - - - -TO-MORROW - - - The sun shall shine in ages yet to be, - The musing moon illumine pastures dim, - And afterward a new nativity - For all who slept the dreamless interim. - - The starry brocade of the summer night - Is linked to us as part of our estate; - And every bee that wings its sidelong flight - Assurance of a sweeter, fairer fate. - - The blazoned humming-bird hath made it plain-- - It seeks ravines where wildings wreathe each wall; - And there succeeding broods are marked again - By rainbows o’er a rambling waterfall. - - When you return, the youngest of the seers, - Released from fetters of ancestral pose, - There will be beauty waiting down the years-- - Revisions of the ruby and the rose. - - - - -THE ROSE OF REST - - - From the water-gate of Pekin, where the latticed lanterns glow, - Eastward to the Cherry Gardens in the heart of Tokio, - - There is none who may outrank her, none who answers love’s behest, - None of all my seven daughters like the little Rose of Rest. - - Her eyes are questing colors, matchless mirrors of delight, - The turquoise dawn of China and the duskiness of night. - - Her lips are pouting poppies by love’s tender tempests blown, - They tremble with the secrets only Buddha could have known. - - She cometh in the twilight with the tamarinds and tea; - She kneeleth near to serve me in the sweet obscurity. - - She sayeth not a single word, but ever I am blest, - And I fall asleep caressing her, the little Rose of Rest. - - - - -THE SYMBOLS - - - The sign work of the Orient it runneth up and down, - The Talmud stalks from right to left, a rabbi in a gown; - - The Roman rolls from left to right from Maytime unto May, - But the gods shake up their symbols in an absent-minded way. - - Their language runs to circles like the language of the eyes, - Emphasized by strange dilations and with little panting sighs. - - There are symbols set as signals for unbarricaded lips, - Emblems manifesting merits thrilling to the finger tips. - - The very serpents bite their tails; the bees forget to sting, - For a language so celestial setteth up a wondering. - - And the touch of absent-mindedness is more than any line, - Since direction counts as nothing when the gods set up a sign. - - - - -THE SALAMANDER ISLES - - - Snaring lights surmount the sand-dunes of the Salamander Isles; - The chime buoys chant new tunes each tide, false soundings run for - miles. - - And yet, for lures like these we set such sail as we could make; - We steered by stars that sorrowed, with the moonlight in our wake. - - We dipped or rose supremely as we shook our freeboard clear; - We clung, but smiled serenely when the head seas swept our gear. - - We were captives of the currents, we were harried by the flaw, - Or the red mists from the marshes mocked the navigator’s law. - - Glimpsed we evanescent channels, marked by flares upon a wreck, - But the channels shoaled to shallows ere the tops could hail the deck. - - Yet we won to realization that the ports long sought in vain, - Were illusive as the May moths or the madrigals of Spain; - - And that only charts from China, drawn by wizards full of wiles, - Would give the proper bearings for the Salamander Isles. - - - - -THE CHESS GAME - - - My king, my queen, the castle twain, each bishop, pawn and knight, - I led them into battle by the flick’ring candle light. - - I led them into combat ’gainst a genius at the game, - And the candles all were laughing as I sought to hide my shame. - - But the little silver chessmen that were wrought in Samarcand - Caught the spirit of crusaders there upon the teakwood stand. - - The warriors all murmured, while the monarch moved to lean - And voice his plan of action to his understanding queen: - - “For the sake of all the trumpeters who had to sound retreat-- - For the sake of all beginners who have gone down to defeat; - - “We will fight, no human guiding, for a lovely lady’s fame, - And we’ll run our counter-gambit to a checkmate in the game.” - - Oh, the glory of that battle, thunder marching in the ranks; - The castles staunchly standing, and the proud pawns on the flanks. - - The queen with her litter and the king upon the right - Spurred on each knight and bishop in the fury of the fight - - ’Mid the stone piles of his slingers surged my men of Samarcand, - And we conquered our opponent on that polished teakwood stand. - - Thus reality was riven by the wisdom of a wraith, - By the images inanimate that fought for love and faith; - - By the images inanimate that came from Samarcand - To show their knightly courtesy upon a teakwood stand. - - - - -THE DINOSAURS’ EGGS - - - One morn in old Mongolia, - In Asia’s arid lands, - Men found the eggs of dinosaurs - Upon the Gobi sands. - - The one-time myths in miniature, - The seeds that turned to stone; - The mirage of forgotten things - Upon the sands were strown. - - Fate left them to strange lassitudes, - The lonely and the still, - That could have tusked creation’s flanks - But for some sudden chill. - - The roses pined in weary wastes - Yet won to garden wall; - The honey-loving humming-birds - Outlived a waterfall; - - The does a-down the centuries - Soft nosed each little fawn; - The robin’s breast was o’er her brood, - All gentle things were born. - - With sweet significance the bowers - Gave beckonings and smiles, - And then came Eden’s wistful mates - To walk in Eden’s aisles. - - But in the Gobi solitudes, - The tombs time left unlatched-- - There lay in wind-blown shrouds of sand - The eggs that never hatched. - - - - -THE FIRST STORY - - - Mid seaweed on a sultry strand, ten thousand years ago, - A sun-burned baby sprawling lay, a-playing with his toe. - - The babe was dreaming of the day that he might swing a club, - When lo! He saw a fishy thing, a-squirming in the mud. - - The creature was an octopus, and dangerous to pat, - But the prehistoric infant never stopped to think of that. - - The baby’s fingernails were sharp, his appetite was prime, - He clutched that deep-sea monster, for ’twas nearing supper-time, - - Oh! Suddenly, from out the pulp a fluid black did flow, - ’Twas flavored like a barberry wine and gave a sort of glow; - - It squirted in the baby’s eyes; it made him gasp and blink, - But to that octopus he held, and drank up all the ink. - - The ink was in the baby--he was bound to write a tale; - So he wrote the first of stories with his little fingernail. - - - - -THE THREE-CORNERED LOT - - - Said the farmer to his daughter: “When I die, as like as not, - I’ll leave to you the title to the old three-cornered lot. - - “’Tis the vale beyond the pastures, never any good to me, - With the huckleberry bushes and the silver maple-tree. - - “Fair scenery for song birds, but too small to cultivate; - Yet there’s a wall around it, like a foolish man’s estate.” - - Fell a blight upon the corn fields; stood an empty barn and cot; - The farmer’s holdings dwindled to the old three-cornered lot. - - He saw his home dismantled; learned that permanence, alas, - Is the portrait of a swallow painted on the shadow grass. - - Came his daughter as a seeress, and she said: “As like as not, - I’m giving back the title to the old three-cornered lot. - - “’Tis just a bit of scenery too sweet to cultivate, - Yet there’s a wall around it, like a nobleman’s estate; - - “There are huckleberry bushes and a length of garden loam, - And the stone walls of the foolish man wherewith to build a home.” - - - - -THE HISTORY OF HONEY - - - “The History of Honey”--by an aged mandarin, - And I bought it for the pictures of the burnished bees therein. - - For the dainty revelations, masquerading up and down, - For the odor of the sandalwood that talked of China-town. - - According to the mandarin, the Oriental bees - Were the first to hoard their honey in the mountain cavities. - - In the ages of antiquity, each summer afternoon, - They flew in golden convoys to the mountains of the moon. - - And there, in caves by cataracts, where nothing could annoy, - Poured gallons in the caverns when Confucius was a boy. - - Many mountains bulged with honey stored before the days of Ming, - From each crevice dripped the essence of a very precious thing. - - Imprisoned in this honey, aging as the æons wane, - Are the souls of all the flowers, waiting to be born again. - - Every lotus, every poppy, every tulip, every rose, - And those who sip the honey slip beyond all human woes. - - Dream again of youth’s digressions, index misty ways of joy, - Turn unto the pagan pastimes of Confucius--as a boy. - - Doubtless there are yet secreted some divine distilleries - Overflowing with the wonder worth a dozen dynasties. - - But the mandarin, he made no map, contented in old age - To draw the clinging love scenes of the bees on every page. - - There he found an inspiration antedating all the Mings, - And he got the ancient essence of the very sweetest things. - - - - -THE HISTORY OF PAINTING - - - A shadow and reflection quarelled once upon a time, - Disputing o’er the setting for a woodland pantomime. - - One claimed that color dominates and waved to heaven’s blue; - The other held that outline makes an angel worth the view. - - The tumult shook the thrushes’ nests, the fledglings joined their - cries; - Forth came the fauns from forest gloom with wistful enterprise. - - Reflection flung her florid robes o’er gneiss and dolomite; - The shadow bowed to everything that stood within the light. - - But color lacked the candor and the certainty divine; - The shadow clung forever to the flatness of a line. - - Spake suddenly an oracle, gray-feathered, blindly wise: - “The absence of the sunlight worketh wonders in the eyes; - - “For light and shades are synonyms of things that stand apart - Till love creates a question and a longing in each heart.” - - The fledglings caught the utterance, the fauns were there to see; - They stayed to watch a shadow kiss a rose light recklessly. - - Thereafter there was artistry, the brooks began to paint; - The ferns were willing models and the lilacs lost restraint; - - The lakes were filled with sunsets and the birth-marked butterflies - On balanced wings were cruising ’cross the mirrors of the skies. - - The granite learned to glisten and the rocks that held the rain - Awoke to truer technique, tempting visions back again. - - Thus from a bickering were born the painter’s art and lore - That beauty might be glorified by love forever more. - - - - -THE ROAD TO ROSLYN - - - Upon the road to Roslyn Town, - The road that skirts the bay; - Upon the road to Roslyn Town, - Upon a summer’s day; - - I met a dark-haired Gypsy girl, - ’Twas afternoon, and late; - With haunting eyes she halted me - By Thomas Clapham’s gate. - - She was bent upon the business of - A very ancient race; - But no mercenary motive marred - That sombre Gypsy face. - - “Oh, maiden beautiful,” she said, - “Let’s tarry on the green-- - What luck upon the Roslyn Road - To meet a Gypsy queen.” - - With amber eyes she read my palm, - Then raised them to a stare, - “You wed for love, for wealth, for power, - And thrice three sons will bear.” - - She asked me for a silver piece, - The amber eyeballs glowed; - I gave her all the change I had, - Upon the Roslyn Road. - - She begged from me my hosiery, - My gloves, and named my beau; - She slipped the Solway sandals from - The infantry below; - - She got from me my garnet ring, - She cozened off my gown; - She left me like Godiva on - The Road to Roslyn Town. - - Oh, I went home across the lots - In the gloaming and in tears, - But she didn’t get my earrings, for - The bobbed hair hid my ears. - - - - -THE ARMY LAUNDRESS - - - Beside a somber sally port upon a bastioned isle - There dwells a bare-armed laundry girl to serve the rank and file. - - Her name is Sheila Shanahan, she reigns in Soap Suds Row, - The lane that won to luster in the army long ago. - - She bendeth o’er a wash tub while the sentries walk the walls, - And pyramids are builded from the brooding cannon balls. - - She elevates an army post without the least design, - The belle of all the barracks hanging clothes upon a line. - - Fate ransacked ancient reveries to dower youth’s desire, - Unrolled the scrolls of Sidon and the tapestries of Tyre; - - She pilfered from Parnassus till the gods ran to and fro, - Then gave her golden gleanings to the girl in Soap Suds Row. - - Oh, there are many lovers of sweet Sheila Shanahan, - The seagulls and the sundown breeze upon the barbican; - - The pigeons on the parapets, the disappearing guns, - The sign-boards on the magazines, the Colonel’s rompered sons, - - And while the sunset tarrieth and while an army waits, - The children from the post school storm the dusty barrack gates; - - They wander into Soap Suds Row with laughter in the van - The bravest of the cavaliers of Sheila Shanahan. - - - - -REGINA MENDOSENA - - - I’m Regina Mendosena, queen of all of Shanty Town; - Just behold me in me sport dress with me stockings hanging down; - - Just behold me with me sceptre, Mither Grady’s washing stick, - A sunflower for a coronet--me foot upon a brick. - - I’m Regina Mendosena, and I’m Irish if you please, - Me mither was an actress and me faither sailed the seas; - - And for culture and for travel, it was hard to beat the pair-- - I’m Regina Mendosena and ’tis me that is their heir. - - They made me Queen of Ireland when mither flew the town; - They gave me Madden’s old shebang when faither’s ship went down; - - They gave me Crazy Mary’s goats when Crazy Mary died, - And they’re going to kape me going till I gits to be a bride. - - I’m Regina Mendosena, queen of all of Shanty Town, - Me pus’nal friends admiring all the contour of me gown; - - Me pus’nal friends remarking on the browness of me eyes, - I’m Regina Mendosena--but I wonder if they lies? - - I’m Regina Mendosena, and ’tis when to Mass I go, - I gown meself discreetly with me braidings in a bow; - - I’m Regina Mendosena, I’m the same and not the same, - For I lay aside me titles and me very ancient name. - - - - -THE GIRL FROM SOAP SUDS ROW - - - Oh! Mistress Margaret Esther Snow, - She lived way down in Soap Suds Row; - She came to school in a gingham frock, - With breakfast stains upon her smock. - - Oh! Mistress Margaret Esther Snow - Is rather poor as we all know; - Her socks are a most unusual sight, - And her shoes are never quite watertight. - - She missed her lessons most every day; - She seemed too sad to want to play; - So Miss McHugh, our teacher grave, - Said she was meeker than any slave. - - She so admonished poor Mistress Snow, - That the little girl longed for Soap Suds Row; - And lastly, the teacher, to make her bright, - Gave her a piece to learn to recite. - - For three whole days we didn’t know - The piece she had given to Mistress Snow; - But on Monday morning Miss McHugh - Said: “Margaret will speak for the 2-A-2.” - - Then Mistress Margaret Esther wailed, - And all of us girls in sympathy paled; - But all of a sudden she walked right out, - She tossed her head as she turned about. - - She made a most wonderful Grecian bow - That someone had taught her in Soap Suds Row; - Her eyes were shining--she wasn’t afraid, - And she spoke “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” - - Did she speak that piece? Well, I guess she did. - ’Twas a fight to a finish--she took off the lid; - The up-stairs classes--they heard her shout, - And the principal came to see what ’twas about. - - But Mistress Margaret--she never stayed-- - She gave us the whole of “The Light Brigade.” - You could smell the smoke, you could see each gun; - You could hear the galloping horses run. - - And we sat stunned in the 2-A-2. - When we saw what Soap Suds Row could do; - For she told of the battle and everything done, - With everyone dead and the glory won. - - Sometimes her voice was like sugar plums, - And then it shook with the noise of drums; - And the girls upstairs, they thought ’twas true - That there was a fight in the 2-A-2. - - Well, when it was over, so sweet was her face - That she seemed as if dressed in velvet and lace; - And she made that wonderful bow once more, - Till her rather scant petticoat touched the floor. - - We clapped our hands, and we made them smart, - And we were happy around the heart, - For the way that the teachers crowded in - Added a lot to the lovely din. - - Poor Miss McHugh was pleased till she cried, - While the 2-A-2 just swelled with pride; - And so excited was Miss McHugh - That she didn’t know just the thing to do. - - But she kissed our beauty of Soap Suds Row, - Till Margaret’s face was all aglow; - She mentioned that Marge was a human lute-- - She was glad that her bread was bearing fruit. - - Then the principal said in his stately way - That for 1-3-9 ’twas a very proud day, - And that close alignment to classroom rules - Made genius flourish in public schools. - - But somehow the girls in the 2-A-2, - They get things just a bit askew; - And they surmise that Mistress Snow - Found most of her genius in Soap Suds Row. - - - - -EVA - - - Eva, the first of the fair ones, - Taught all her daughters to paint; - Using indelible colors, - Seeress and siren and saint. - - Banished them all to the brook brims, - There in benign ambuscade, - Taught them the art of portraying - Beauty that never may fade. - - Voiced she the values of the shadows - Moored to the moss-mantled crags; - Primed them to pose by the dwarf palms - And mid the cat-tails and flags. - - Thus by each crevice and cavern, - Thus in the lunettes and glades, - There are depicted all damsels, - Eva’s most wonderful maids. - - Traceries tender and dimpled, - Intricate art of design; - Shadowy ideals of Eden, - Even of Eva, divine. - - Breathe but a name in the bowers, - Pour out her praise as a prayer; - Forth from the fronds floats a presence, - Vestured in loveliness rare. - - Thus, since the first of the fair ones, - All of the daughters of Eve, - Portray in permanent colors, - Making men see and believe. - - - - -OLD MAID’S REVERIE - - - I’m tired of mirthless mirrors and their hostile heresies, - Of musing in a mansion hung with mildewed memories; - - Of the silence of the stairways, of the statuary wan, - Of the alabaster angel riding on the fountain swan; - - I’m irked by isolation and the lawns kept so and so-- - I’d trade an old maid’s theories for a rood of Soap Suds Row; - - For the sunflowers and the shanties where the shadows sit at ease, - For the horde of baby banshees and the swing-scarred apple-trees; - - Therefore methinks I’ll venture to a disarrayed domain, - And shoonless dance the saraband in some assuaging lane. - - No sandals wrought in Sybaris, or girdle bossed with gold, - But beauty in a barefoot mood, revising edicts old. - - There cupids turn the calendars to Michael Angelo, - The goya needs no gabardine, the rose no kimono; - - And me, a maiden mendicant may ask an alms, forsooth, - As one who missed the rubrics in the litanies of youth. - - - - -THE COMMONPLACE - - - By the steps of the paper-box factory, - Or the gates where the Seraphim nod, - In the time and the place that’s appointed, - You will meet with your commonplace god. - - And then you’ll be glad and forever, - For the queens of the East and the West, - With the sets of the Garden of Eden - Have failed in a commonplace quest. - - So to you who have dreamed in the starlight, - And to you who have drudged in the town, - And to you of the commonplace vision, - With the beauty the Greeks handed down, - - Doubt not that the time is appointed, - That the chart with a quester is girt, - But remember that star-dust is star-dust - And ranks not the commonest dirt; - - That the gods of Olympus were beggars - Or ever they burned to create, - And that rags ripple down into samite - For a Venus who swings on a gate; - - That the steps of the paper-box factory, - As well as the gardens of kings, - Are only the blue-print devices - Of love, and the commonplace things. - - - - -BERKLEY COMMON - - - Summer broods o’er Berkley Common, o’er the fields of everlasting, - And around the common cluster homes no one would ever rent; - The people that once lived there, long have gone to other places, - Dusty heirlooms in the garrets give a clue to where they went. - - Like a manuscript, all yellow, and with many things deleted, - Yet a manuscript completed, with embellishments most rare, - Berkley Common lies forgotten, with its fields of everlasting, - And the sunlight on the windows of the empty houses there. - - It is off the line of travel; to the present unrelated; - Only peddlers down from Dighton go that way to Taunton Weir; - They haste by Berkley Common, by the fields of everlasting, - For the empty houses fill them with a feeling like to fear. - - - - -CHOICE - - - Cloud-made mountains towered, - Beckoning to me; - Visionary triremes - Talked about the sea.... - - There were strings of camels - On the Tunis sands.... - There were certain cities - Holding out their hands.... - - Mine the choice that fettered - Lips to fountain brim; - Timed the droning transits-- - Bees in gardens dim. - - Thus I pay no tribute, - Heed no tallier’s call; - Only sound of kisses - From a waterfall. - - Only honey dripping - In a hollow tree; - First of hour glasses - Keeping time for me. - - Only broken whispers, - Tracing themes unsaid; - Soft as tread of visions - O’er a poppy bed.... - - - - -THE FIRE VASE - - - Said the potter to the flower pots: “It’s a question of design-- - Must I hold my hands forever from the images divine?” - - He ran a royal pattern and he shaped a wondrous vase, - From the peach-bloom drew his color, from the rose-blend drew his - glaze. - - Came collectors of ceramics, connoisseurs who stayed to yearn; - Something wonderful was hidden ’neath the cover of that urn. - - Some said ’twas filled with roses, others wagered it was wine, - One said it might be empty as a part of the design. - - Nearly all of the appraisers for the outside made their bid, - But the one who bought the beauty dreamed of what was ’neath the lid. - - He set it on his cottage hearth, the vase beside the fire, - And the cover rose in answer to a very old desire, - - And through the peach-bloom color and the rose-blend of the glaze, - He saw love’s lost illusions safe within the potter’s vase. - - - - -MY HUSBANDS - - - I hear my husbands marching - The æons all adown: - The shepherd boys and princes-- - From cavern unto crown. - - I hear in soft recession - The praise they give to me; - I hear them chant my titles - From all antiquity. - - But never do I answer, - I might be overheard; - Lose Love’s revised illusions - By one unhappy word. - - I sit, a silent siren, - And count my cavaliers; - The men I wed in wisdom, - The boys who taught me tears. - - To some I gave devotion, - To some I kinked the knee; - But there was one old wizard - Who laid his spells on me. - - He showed me like a master - That one rose makes a gown; - That looking up to Heaven - Is merely looking down. - - He marked me for the circle, - Made magic in my eyes; - He won me by revealing - The truth in all his lies. - - So, when I see that wizard - Among the marchers dim, - I make the full court curtsy - In fealty to him. - - - - -AFTERWORD - - -In a maze of contributions such as the poetry editor of a large -metropolitan newspaper printing daily two or three poems receives there -came to me unheralded one morning in the mail a little poem which bore -the name of an author of whom I had never heard--Nathalia Crane. It -was a whimsical piece of verse such as an editor rarely receives, a -rhythmical, lilting production that would gladden the heart of any one. -It was called _The History of Honey_. Needless to say it was accepted -for publication. Subsequently others submitted by Nathalia Crane also -found a place in _The Sun_. - -Then followed some correspondence in regard to various other poems but -a call at the office made by the author in answer to a letter about the -poem _The Army Laundress_ disclosed to my amazement that the writer was -none other than a little girl--a shy, unassuming youngster who was as -embarrassed during the interview as I was myself. For I must admit I -was embarrassed--or rather taken aback. - -My surprise is excusable. So many times I had received “poems” from -youngsters who were careful to give their ages in addition to their -names; so often I had received visits from doting parents or relatives -requesting publication of verses by their children or sisters or -cousins that I had never dreamed any child would ever submit any work -from his or her pen without adding the words “Aged -- years.” But -little Nathalia was the exception--and there was nothing in her poems -that I received to indicate her age. - -The poems bought were accepted on their merits and on their merits -alone, and many a poet of greater years and of recognized standing -would not despise being known as the author of _The Reading Boy_, _The -Three Cornered Lot_ and _The Commonplace_. - -Nathalia Crane is a little girl who plays with dolls and toys and Roger -Jones, whom she has glorified in some of her poems, when she is not -busy at a typewriter giving expression to dreams and visions. She is -also an author of delightful verse who obtained wide recognition of her -work not because it was written by a child but because it was in itself -worth while reading. For this alone, if for nothing else, she deserves -all the success that is hers, all the laurels with which her friends -and readers are glad to crown her and none more than the writer of this -“Afterword” who came to know Nathalia Crane through her poetry which -did not disclose her years. - - EDMUND LEAMY. - - _New York, May, 1924._ - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Janitor's Boy, by Nathalia Crane - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JANITOR'S BOY *** - -***** This file should be named 62146-0.txt or 62146-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/1/4/62146/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. 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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/license - - -Title: The Janitor's Boy - And Other Poems - -Author: Nathalia Crane - -Contributor: William Rose Bent - Nunnally Johnson - Edmund Leamy - -Release Date: May 16, 2020 [EBook #62146] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JANITOR'S BOY *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<h1>THE JANITOR’S BOY<br /> -AND OTHER POEMS</h1> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_frontispiece.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption"><span class="illright">Marceau</span><br /> - -<i>Nathalia Clara Ruth Crane</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p><span class="xxlarge">THE JANITOR’S BOY</span><br /> -<span class="large">AND OTHER POEMS</span></p> - -<p><span class="xlarge">By NATHALIA CRANE</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_titlelogo.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p>NEW YORK<br /> -<span class="large">THOMAS SELTZER</span><br /> -1924</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="center"> -Copyright, 1924, by<br /> -THOMAS SELTZER, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>All Rights Reserved</i><br /> -<br /> -First Printing, May, 1924<br /> -Second Printing, May, 1924</p> - - -<p class="center">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<p class="center"> -<i>Foreword, by</i><br /> -WILLIAM ROSE BENET<br /> -<br /> -<i>Nathalia at Ten, by</i><br /> -NUNNALLY JOHNSON<br /> -<br /> -<i>Afterword, by</i><br /> -EDMUND LEAMY</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<p class="center">TO<br /> -MY MOTHER</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XI" id="Page_XI">[XI]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak"> -CONTENTS</h2></div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td>FOREWORD, <i>by William Rose Bent</i></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_XIII"> XIII</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>NATHALIA AT TEN, <i>by Nunnally Johnson</i> </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_XVII"> XVII</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE JANITOR’S BOY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_23"> 23</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>OH, ROGER JONES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_24"> 24</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE FLATHOUSE ROOF</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25"> 25</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>JOHN PAUL JONES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_26"> 26</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE ROVERS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_27"> 27</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE VACANT LOT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_29"> 29</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE SWINGING STAIR</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_31"> 31</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE VESTAL</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_32"> 32</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE BLIND GIRL</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_33"> 33</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>PRESCIENCE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34"> 34</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>LOVE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_35"> 35</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>WHAT EVERY GIRL KNOWS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_36"> 36</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>JEALOUSY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_37"> 37</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>MOTHER’S BONNET</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_38"> 38</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE RAG BAG</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_39"> 39</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE FIRST SNOW STORM</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_40"> 40</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>SUFFERING</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_41"> 41</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE MAP MAKERS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_42"> 42</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>DIANA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_43"> 43</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE READING BOY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_44"> 44</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE BATTLE ON THE FLOOR</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_45"> 45</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>MID-DAY AT TRINITY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47"> 47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>CASTLE “BILL”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48"> 48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>CASTLE WILLIAM</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_49"> 49</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE ROLL OF THE ROSES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50"> 50</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE GOSSIPS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_51"> 51</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>TO-MORROW</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_52"> 52</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE ROSE OF REST</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_53"> 53</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE SYMBOLS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_54"> 54</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE SALAMANDER ISLES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55"> 55</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE CHESS GAME</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56"> 56</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XII" id="Page_XII">[XII]</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE DINOSAURS’ EGGS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_58"> 58</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE FIRST STORY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_59"> 59</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE THREE-CORNERED LOT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_60"> 60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE HISTORY OF HONEY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_61"> 61</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE HISTORY OF PAINTING</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_63"> 63</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE ROAD TO ROSLYN</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65"> 65</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE ARMY LAUNDRESS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67"> 67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>REGINA MENDOSENA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_68"> 68</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE GIRL FROM SOAPSUDS ROW</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_69"> 69</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>EVA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_72"> 72</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>OLD MAID’S REVERIE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_73"> 73</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE COMMONPLACE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_74"> 74</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>BERKLEY COMMON</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_75"> 75</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>CHOICE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76"> 76</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE FIRE VASE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_77"> 77</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>MY HUSBANDS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_78"> 78</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>AFTERWORD, <i>by Edmund Leamy</i></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_81"> 81</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIII" id="Page_XIII">[XIII]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">FOREWORD</h2></div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> I took the two poems from Nathalia’s mother, -and promised to read them, I had seen none of the press -notices of Miss Crane’s talent. Being only a quasi-journalist -I seldom read the newspapers. I am extremely -skeptical of infant prodigies, and the poems of Nathalia’s -that I have since seen most quoted in newspaper articles -about her are just what you would expect. They prove -nothing except that she is a little girl with a lively fancy. -Certain poems in this first collection, however, seem to -me to prove something more.</p> - -<p>Some long time ago in Scotland there was a little girl -named Marjorie Fleming, and to-day a twelve-year-old, -Helen Douglas Adam, the daughter of a Scotch parson -and his wife of Dundee, is her successor overseas to the -juvenile purple. Miss Adam has now been published -both in England and America. Yet the best poems of -hers that I have read do not seem to me to possess such -individuality or such maturity of melody and diction as -Miss Crane’s best poems. Then there is our own Hilda -Conkling, whose mother is a distinguished American poet, -and who writes in free verse and has published several -volumes of poems. Hilda is a real poet. But she has -never grappled with and conquered certain problems of -poetic structure from which Miss Crane, by sheer instinct, -seems to have wrested occasional victory.</p> - -<p>I took the two poems from Nathalia’s mother; and -first I read <i>The Blind Girl</i>. I came upon the two verses:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In the darkness who would answer for the color of a rose,</div> -<div class="verse">Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<hr class="tb" /> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh, night, thy soothing prophecies companion all our ways,</div> -<div class="verse">Until releasing hands let fall the catalogue of days.</div> -</div></div></div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIV" id="Page_XIV">[XIV]</a></span>These lines and the meditation from which they spring -were the spontaneous phrasing and the natural meditation -of—a child of ten. That in itself, I think, is sufficiently -remarkable.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">In the darkness who would cavil at the question of a line,</div> -<div class="verse">Since the darkness holds all loveliness beyond the mere design.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Strange insight for a comparative infant!</p> - -<p>In her lighter moments—and, naturally, there are a -great many—Nathalia’s “heart is all a-flutter like the -washing on the line”; she “could not stain romance with -monetary fee”; and, when she has sat upon a bumble-bee, -she knows “the tenseness of humiliating pain.” Many a -grown humorist might envy the freshness of such amusing -phrase.</p> - -<p>There is much laughter and nonsense in this book—that -of a rather romantic little girl with a quick eye and ear -and a pert fancy. But there is, as I have intimated, -more than that.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Cloud-made mountains towered</div> -<div class="indent">Beckoning to me;</div> -<div class="verse">Visionary triremes</div> -<div class="indent">Talked about the sea.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There were strings of camels</div> -<div class="indent">On the Tunis sands.</div> -<div class="verse">There were certain cities</div> -<div class="indent">Holding out their hands.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Here the thing we call poetry asserts itself. The instinct -for remarkable phrase and striking figurative expression -is either inborn or it is not. Facility with rhyme and -metre is not nearly so remarkable. But when a child can -write, as in the poem <i>My Husbands</i>,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">I hear in soft recession</div> -<div class="indent">The praise they give to me;</div> -<div class="verse">I hear them chant my titles</div> -<div class="indent">From all antiquity.</div> -</div></div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XV" id="Page_XV">[XV]</a></span>it is almost uncanny. Here is, if you like, a somewhat -derivative diction, but here also is true poetry by every -test.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">He showed me like a master</div> -<div class="indent">That one rose makes a gown:</div> -<div class="verse">That looking up to Heaven</div> -<div class="indent">Is merely looking down.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Well, I not only wonder how she has learned simple -finality of phrase so quickly; I also wonder whether she -can possibly realize the philosophical implications of her -best poems.</p> - -<p>As for imagery, Nathalia’s angels hearing “the hurdy-gurdies -in the Candle-Maker’s Row” is an example of -her fancy that quickens into imagination. She sees the -Oriental bees flying “in golden convoys to the mountains -of the moon,” she quizzically presents the pathos of <i>The -Dinosaurs’ Eggs</i>; she has “steered by stars that sorrowed, -with the moonlight in our wake”; she sees Berkley -Common</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">Like a manuscript, all yellow, and with many things deleted,</div> -<div class="verse">Yet a manuscript completed, with embellishments most rare,</div> -<div class="verse">Berkley Common lies forgotten, with its fields of everlasting,</div> -<div class="verse">And the sunlight on the windows of the empty houses there.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>As to exactly what she is trying to say in <i>The -Symbols</i>, I am in doubt, but it is hard to forget the -Talmud stalking like a rabbi in a gown.</p> - -<p>On the one hand, with Nathalia, we have simply a -rhyming gift turned to amusing descriptions of certain -fairly ordinary episodes and characteristics of life that -interest every healthily alert young lady. On the other -hand, we have the beginnings of a poet with a true ear -for rhythm, an eye for the color of words, and a fancy -that often rises into the realm of imagination. I only -hope that the young lady will continue to enjoy all the -ordinary incidents of her existence as much as she has -heretofore, and to perfect her technique in her spare -moments. It needs perfecting. It is hardly to be wondered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XVI" id="Page_XVI">[XVI]</a></span> -at that her work is still in the experimental stage. She -is not yet “the youngest of the seers,” nor yet “released -from fetters of ancestral pose,” but there is undoubtedly -conquest of poetic beauty “waiting down the years” for -her—“revisions of the ruby and the rose,” as she puts -it. Read the first two verses of <i>The Vestal</i> and marvel -that a young lady of Nathalia’s age should be able to -master without effort such a perfectly Emily Dickinsonian -idiom. This is no copy; it is something that even Emily -Dickinson would not have been at all ashamed to have -written. And that is a good deal to say.</p> - -<p>Now as to prophecies, who can make them? Frankly, -I have not the slightest idea how Miss Crane’s gift may -develop. I only know that she has given signs of astonishing -precocity as a young poet. Her parents have wisdom -and they will see that she is not spoiled. Her gifts will -simply develop according to her experience of literature -and her experience of life. It is a very ticklish thing to -endeavor in any way to direct so young a gift. It will -find by instinct its own nourishment; that is my belief.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, to Nathalia, good luck on the difficult -road!</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">William Rose Benet</span></p> - - -<p><i>New York City, May, 1924.</i></p></blockquote> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XVII" id="Page_XVII">[XVII]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak"> -NATHALIA AT TEN</h2></div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Nathalia’s</span> day is today. All of Time that is past, -from the birth of those odd old folk, the troglodytes, -about which she has ruminated so pleasantly, up to and -through the final scene of the latest Broadway moving -picture is, to her, a harvested crop—important in its way -but no longer interesting. And as for tomorrow and -the next year, they will have their turn presently. It is -today....</p> - -<p>This extract from Nathalia’s as yet unarticulated philosophy -is offered by way of information for those who -are instinctively inclined to be harsh, on general principles, -with a talent that springs, a little too boldly perhaps, -ahead of its years.</p> - -<p>Nathalia had been writing her verse for several months -before Mr. and Mrs. Crane came across it, writing it -without fuss or excitement and storing it in a small and -private album, content apparently with the reward of -whatever pleasure the rereading of it gave her. If she had, -even secretly, any concern with such a vanity as applause, -she certainly did not betray it. And when shortly before -Christmas of 1922, the little girl mailed some of her -poems to a Brooklyn newspaper and received immediate -acknowledgment from the editor, her parents were as much -astonished as, later on, was the editor of a newspaper -when, after having accepted a number of poems signed -Nathalia Crane, the author herself walked into the office -and proved to be a mite of a human being.</p> - -<p>I was one of the file of reporters that trailed into -Nathalia’s home the morning after her first publication, -bent less on nourishing and encouraging a young artist -than on getting a human-interest story. It was a file -that eventually included generous, vociferous, and indiscriminate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XVIII" id="Page_XVIII">[XVIII]</a></span> -eulogists, a file that threatened to demoralize -or spoil whatever young talents Nathalia had.</p> - -<p>Those kind-hearted newspaper folks showered her with -a shocking amount of almost unqualified praise, some of -it accurately placed but most of it merely blank fire. This -would have been very bad for her but for one thing—Nathalia -never read any of it.</p> - -<p>And so, unaffected, she maintained the same tenor of -her young days, playing with her dolls when she pleased -and retiring to her boudoir to make rhythms when she -pleased. She has always written, and still does write, only -when the fancy prompts her.</p> - -<p>What Nathalia has written is the kind of thing that -she can write, whatever its merits or demerits. She has -measured it against no other verse, youthful or adult. -The inspiration for most of it comes from books she -has read, which are mainly romantic in character. As -for the rest, it happens that she is an extraordinarily -articulate little girl, and if in some cases the conceits and -fancies which she crystallizes are no rarer than those that, -in all probability, throng the mysterious mind of every -imaginative child, the explanation is simply that she is -able to utter and clarify them, and these other children -are, for the most part, normally unable to do that. That -also they have, in Nathalia’s case, taken the form of -mature work, as evidenced, in one way, by the fact that -editors published her contributions for several months -before learning that she was so much below the accepted -age for serious consideration, is, I believe, another mark -of her high singularity.</p> - -<p>Others, unfortunately, will be less easily satisfied. A -cynicism concerning the future careers of precocious -children is one of the rigid fundamentals of nearly every -mind. It has, no doubt, a valid basis. But, for that -reason, Nathalia’s future, probably very dark in popular -prospect, threatens to shade her present. That is why I -offered at the outset, as a point of information, the comment -on Nathalia’s general attitude toward life. Nathalia,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIX" id="Page_XIX">[XIX]</a></span> -I am sure, sees no reason why anybody else should read -these poems with an eye any further ahead in time than -this afternoon’s sunset. She is content to leave the verdict, -so far as posterity is concerned, to her own grandchildren.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Nunnally Johnson</span></p> - - - -<p><i>Brooklyn, N. Y., May, 1924.</i></p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XX" id="Page_XX">[XX]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXI" id="Page_XXI">[XXI]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="xxlarge"><b>THE JANITOR’S BOY</b></span><br /> - -<span class="large"><b>AND OTHER POEMS</b></span></p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXII" id="Page_XXII">[XXII]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak"> -THE JANITOR’S BOY</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Oh</span> I’m in love with the janitor’s boy,</div> -<div class="indent">And the janitor’s boy loves me;</div> -<div class="verse">He’s going to hunt for a desert isle</div> -<div class="indent">In our geography.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">A desert isle with spicy trees</div> -<div class="indent">Somewhere near Sheepshead Bay;</div> -<div class="verse">A right nice place, just fit for two</div> -<div class="indent">Where we can live alway.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh I’m in love with the janitor’s boy,</div> -<div class="indent">He’s busy as he can be;</div> -<div class="verse">And down in the cellar he’s making a raft</div> -<div class="indent">Out of an old settee.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He’ll carry me off, I know that he will,</div> -<div class="indent">For his hair is exceedingly red;</div> -<div class="verse">And the only thing that occurs to me</div> -<div class="indent">Is to dutifully shiver in bed.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The day that we sail, I shall leave this brief note,</div> -<div class="indent">For my parents I hate to annoy:</div> -<div class="verse">“I have flown away to an isle in the bay</div> -<div class="indent">With the janitor’s red-haired boy.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">OH, ROGER JONES</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Oh,</span> Roger Jones! Oh, Roger Jones!</div> -<div class="indent">Oh, Prince! O, Knight! Ah me!</div> -<div class="verse">We used to play at keeping house,</div> -<div class="indent">Beneath an old oak tree.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Your hair was red, your eyes were brown,</div> -<div class="indent">You had a freckled nose;</div> -<div class="verse">You were the father of my dolls,</div> -<div class="indent">My husband—I suppose.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh, Roger! You were only nine,</div> -<div class="indent">And I was half-past eight;</div> -<div class="verse">It really was romantic, or</div> -<div class="indent">As good, at any rate.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE FLATHOUSE ROOF</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I linger</span> on the flathouse roof, the moonlight is divine.</div> -<div class="verse">But my heart is all a-flutter like the washing on the line.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I long to be a heroine, I long to be serene,</div> -<div class="verse">But my feet, they dance in answer to a distant tambourine.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And, oh! the dreams of ecstasy. Oh! Babylon and Troy.</div> -<div class="verse">I’ve a hero in the basement, he’s the janitor’s red-haired boy.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There’s the music of his mallet and the jigging of his saw;</div> -<div class="verse">I wonder what he’s making on that lovely cellar floor?</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He loves me, for he said it when we met upon the stair,</div> -<div class="verse">And that is why I’m on the roof to get a breath of air.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He said it! Oh! He said it! And the only thing I said</div> -<div class="verse">Was, “Roger Jones, I like you, for your hair is very red.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We parted when intruders came a-tramping through the hall;</div> -<div class="verse">He’s got my pocket handkerchief and I have got his ball.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And so it is I’m on the roof. Oh! Babylon and Troy!</div> -<div class="verse">I’m very sure that I’m in love with someone else’s boy.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Alone, upon the starry heights, I’m dancing on a green,</div> -<div class="verse">To the jingling and the jangling of a distant tambourine.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">To the stamping of a hammer and the jigging of a saw,</div> -<div class="verse">And the secret sort of feeling I’m in love forever more.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Do you think it’s any wonder, with the moonlight so divine,</div> -<div class="verse">That my heart is all a-flutter, like the washing on the line?</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">JOHN PAUL JONES</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">’Tis</span> John Paul Jones—the janitor’s boy,</div> -<div class="indent">He lives on the gun-deck floor,</div> -<div class="verse">Where all of the windows are action ports,</div> -<div class="indent">And the dumbwaiters rattle and roar.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The old trash tins are our hand grenades</div> -<div class="indent">And the rugs on the backyard lines—</div> -<div class="verse">Are the mains of the Britisher Serapis</div> -<div class="indent">That we fight with our bursting “Nines.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">’Tis John Paul Jones—my Admiral;</div> -<div class="indent">His hair is a glorious red;</div> -<div class="verse">And I am the maiden who serves as the mate</div> -<div class="indent">To see that the sawdust is spread.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He leans on the rail of the laundry tubs</div> -<div class="indent">As the Serapis lifts on our lee;</div> -<div class="verse">Our gun crews chant by the carronades</div> -<div class="indent">And the powder boys yell in their glee.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For he who stands in Colonial rags,</div> -<div class="indent">Is born to the gift of the game—</div> -<div class="verse">Of shaking the dust from a Serapis,</div> -<div class="indent">Or the dust from the halls of fame.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I whirl the wheel of the wash machine</div> -<div class="indent">In the spray of a soap-suds sea;</div> -<div class="verse">But I know in my heart that the daring Jones</div> -<div class="indent">Is winning the fight for me.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And I think it is sweet of John Paul Jones,</div> -<div class="indent">In playing the good old game,</div> -<div class="verse">To do all the fighting just for love—</div> -<div class="indent">With never a thought of fame.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE ROVERS</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">“Oh,</span> wilt thou go a-sailing,” said the janitor’s boy to me:</div> -<div class="verse">“It’s raining, but I’ve got a raft rigged with a canopy.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“We carry boisterous batteries, our cannon balls are stones,</div> -<div class="verse">But I’ll wager all your loveliness you’re safe with John Paul Jones.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I asked him very faintly was he competent to steer?</div> -<div class="verse">He said he was authority on rafts and running gear.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then suddenly his voice sank low to slow and gentle tones,</div> -<div class="verse">And off I went a-sailing with my captain, John Paul Jones.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We drifted down the avenue that was our sweep of sea.</div> -<div class="verse">And never man or mermaid any happier than we.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We paused beside a paradise depicted on a sign;</div> -<div class="verse">We moored fast to the margin of its crimson border line.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We slipped our surf-filled sandals off, we waded to the knee,</div> -<div class="verse">And when I felt like swooning John Paul Jones supported me.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The darkness hesitated, fearing we might lose our way;</div> -<div class="verse">We counted all the street lamps ’ere we homeward sought to stray.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We counted corner lanterns, and the understanding stars</div> -<div class="verse">Saw we were linked by longings for the shining shell-strewn bars.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For the realms reserved for rovers, for the rafts and painted signs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></div> -<div class="verse">And the right to moor to ring-heads in the far-off border lines.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE VACANT LOT</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">They’re</span> going to build a flathouse on the lot next door to me;</div> -<div class="verse">And Roger Jones, the janitor’s boy, is mad as he can be.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">That lot was like a tropic isle, with weeds and rubbish fair,</div> -<div class="verse">The rusty cans and coffee pots, that looked like Roger’s hair.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">’Twas oft we strolled among the weeds, we were in love, you see,</div> -<div class="verse">And Roger Jones was going to build a bungalow for me.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We used to rest upon a rock just where the weeds were tall;</div> -<div class="verse">We were engaged, I think, until the builders spoiled it all.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But now they’ve ruined Roger’s plans, they’ve dug up all the lot;</div> -<div class="verse">With all the brick and mortar round, you’d never know the spot.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They came with carts and horses; tore our wilderness apart;</div> -<div class="verse">No wonder Roger Jones was wild; it nearly broke <i>my</i> heart.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We could have done some wondrous things if time were not so slow;</div> -<div class="verse">The weeds, they might have grown to trees, fit for a bungalow.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">With rusty cans and broken glass, we’d planned a home so nice;</div> -<div class="verse">But they dumped their brick and mortar in our little paradise.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They dumped their brick and mortar ’mid the smoky lakes of lime,</div> -<div class="verse">Yet we won’t forget, ’twas Eden—Eden, once upon a time.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Eden, where we dreamed supremely—rusty can and coffee pot;</div> -<div class="verse">Eden, with the weeds and rubbish, in a vacant city lot.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And now, we’re simply waiting, oh, that janitor’s boy and me,</div> -<div class="verse">Until the janitor’s boy grows up and finds himself quite free</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">To just discover areas where builders never go,</div> -<div class="verse">Where we may live forever in a little bungalow.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE SWINGING STAIR</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">From</span> the flotsam of a city street we built the Swinging Stair,</div> -<div class="verse">And latitude, or longitude, the least of all our care.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">A tilting board—an orange crate—the sparrows screamed with glee,</div> -<div class="verse">As we swung to port and starboard like a lugger on the sea.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We cruised without a compass, but with merchandise of worth,</div> -<div class="verse">To barter pins and needles at the portals of the Earth.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The helmsman was my hero brave, his hair as red could be;</div> -<div class="verse">Perhaps he was the janitor’s boy, but he belonged to me;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He was mine because I made him master of the Swinging Stair,</div> -<div class="verse">And because I liked the color of his very auburn hair.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The surf upon the sandbars called the price of sugar cane;</div> -<div class="verse">It was mounting every moment down upon the Spanish Main.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The trades were in the topsails, in the scuppers raced the foam,</div> -<div class="verse">But never did we get beyond the gateway of our home.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We have notions that the motions of a lugger ’neath a tree</div> -<div class="verse">Do not exactly tally with the leagues she makes at sea;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Yet the glory of the ocean lies in no far distant goal,</div> -<div class="verse">But reflections in the water, and the port to starboard roll.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE VESTAL</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Once</span> a pallid vestal</div> -<div class="indent">Doubted truth in blue;</div> -<div class="verse">Listed red as ruin,</div> -<div class="indent">Harried every hue;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Barricaded vision,</div> -<div class="indent">Garbed herself in sighs;</div> -<div class="verse">Ridiculed the birth marks</div> -<div class="indent">Of the butterflies.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Dormant and disdainful,</div> -<div class="indent">Never could she see</div> -<div class="verse">Why the golden powder</div> -<div class="indent">Decorates the bee;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Why a summer pasture</div> -<div class="indent">Lends itself to paint;</div> -<div class="verse">Why love unappareled</div> -<div class="indent">Still remains the saint.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Finally she faltered;</div> -<div class="indent">Saw at last, forsooth,</div> -<div class="verse">Every gaudy color</div> -<div class="indent">Is a bit of truth.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then the gates were opened;</div> -<div class="indent">Miracles were seen;</div> -<div class="verse">That instructed damsel</div> -<div class="indent">Donned a gown of green;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Wore it in a churchyard,</div> -<div class="indent">All arrayed with care;</div> -<div class="verse">And a painted rainbow</div> -<div class="indent">Shone above her there.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE BLIND GIRL</h2></div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">In</span> the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose,</div> -<div class="verse">Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care,</div> -<div class="verse">If the odor of the roses and the winged things were there.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In the darkness who would cavil o’er the question of a line.</div> -<div class="verse">Since the darkness holds all loveliness, beyond the mere design.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh night, thy soothing prophecies companion all our ways,</div> -<div class="verse">Until releasing hands let fall the catalogue of days.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose,</div> -<div class="verse">Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care,</div> -<div class="verse">If the odor of the roses and the better things were there.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">PRESCIENCE</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">A precious</span> place is Paradise and none may know its worth,</div> -<div class="verse">But Eden ever longeth for the knickknacks of the earth.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The angels grow quite wistful over worldly things below;</div> -<div class="verse">They hear the hurdy-gurdies in the Candle Maker’s Row.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They listen for the laughter from the attics of the earth;</div> -<div class="verse">They lower pails from heaven’s walls to catch the milkmaids’ mirth.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">By turns they scan the shadow of the dial on the wall;</div> -<div class="verse">The rams’ heads of that drawbridge never lowered since the fall.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They sway with sweet misgivings, that on rising somewhat late</div> -<div class="verse">They may hear unusual noises by the battlemented gate.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">See warders at each windlass, every rusty chain a-cry;</div> -<div class="verse">See a ponderous portcullis rise, a drawbridge downward fly.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Perchance some summer morning and with no one on the wall,</div> -<div class="verse">The warders may get orders and the drawbridge swiftly fall.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">A wingless one may be the first to stumble on the scene</div> -<div class="verse">And vision earth and heaven, with a rustic bridge between.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">LOVE</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Now</span> Marjory is seven years,</div> -<div class="indent">And I am nine and more.</div> -<div class="verse">We went a-strolling after cream</div> -<div class="indent">Into a Flatbush store.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The handsome clerk said “Ladies, yes,</div> -<div class="indent">I’ll serve you with a rush.”</div> -<div class="verse">He looked so very scrumptious that</div> -<div class="indent">We both began to blush.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He smiled at us, we smiled at him.</div> -<div class="indent">And then we went away:</div> -<div class="verse">We were so captivated, yes,</div> -<div class="indent">That we forgot to pay.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Of course we could have sauntered back,</div> -<div class="indent">And settled, don’t you see,</div> -<div class="verse">But oh, we could not stain romance</div> -<div class="indent">With monetary fee.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">WHAT EVERY GIRL KNOWS</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">In</span> my bedroom, in my boudoir,</div> -<div class="indent">There’s a box I ope no more;</div> -<div class="verse">It is packed with all my treasures</div> -<div class="indent">From the ten cent store.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Saturday, a longing seizes—</div> -<div class="indent">Grips me so I scarce can speak,</div> -<div class="verse">And I ask for my allowance,</div> -<div class="indent">Mostly thirty cents a week.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then I call on Margie Lynam,</div> -<div class="indent">And we hasten from the door;</div> -<div class="verse">And we go inspecting counters</div> -<div class="indent">In the ten cent store.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We get flushed most every visit</div> -<div class="indent">When we lay our money down;</div> -<div class="verse">There are no expert advisors—</div> -<div class="indent">Mr. Woolworth’s out of town.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Homeward, purchases we carry,</div> -<div class="indent">And examine them with care;</div> -<div class="verse">Then we pile them in the play-box,</div> -<div class="indent">And we always leave them there.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Riches never will be ours,</div> -<div class="indent">We have said it o’er and o’er,</div> -<div class="verse">Till they make things all “One Dollar”</div> -<div class="indent">In the ten cent store.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">JEALOUSY</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="indent2"><span class="smcap">Flatbush!</span> Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah!</div> -<div class="indent2">See the bobbed-head riding</div> -<div class="indent2">On the bob-tailed car.</div> -<div class="indent2">Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah!</div> -<div class="indent2">I saw a big girl staring at my Pa.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She was standing in the corner, she was turning in her toes.</div> -<div class="verse">She must have been a senior—by the powder on her nose.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Her hair was bobbed and blond-like and she was someone’s pet,</div> -<div class="verse">But I went into action with the battlefield all set.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Rah! Rah! Flatbush! my mother wasn’t there,</div> -<div class="verse">But some papas are rather young and need a daughter’s care.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And that is why in Flatbush we have organized a guard,</div> -<div class="verse">Made up of little daughters of the men who work so hard.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Some day, of course, I will mature and know a little more,</div> -<div class="verse">But now I am content to be my mother’s Signal Corps.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And mother knows when I go out with Pa, things are O. K.,</div> -<div class="verse">For I belong to the Flatbush Guards—we don’t let father stray.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="indent2">Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah!</div> -<div class="indent2">I hold on to father’s hand</div> -<div class="indent2">When we go very far.</div> -<div class="indent2">Flatbush! Flatbush! Rah! Rah! Rah!</div> -<div class="indent2">See the bobbed-head riding on the bob-tailed car.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">MOTHER’S BONNET</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">This</span> is her bonnet, with ribbons arrayed,</div> -<div class="verse">Clearly a calico ambuscade;</div> -<div class="verse">It dates from the days of the bricks of straw—</div> -<div class="verse">This is the bonnet my mother wore.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">This is the bonnet my mother donned</div> -<div class="verse">When she walked with a youth by Plymouth Pond;</div> -<div class="verse">’Twas the night she wore her beads of jade,</div> -<div class="verse">And father fell into the ambuscade.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">This is the bonnet I found in a chest,</div> -<div class="verse">Daisies and bows in a lavender nest;</div> -<div class="verse">It looks like the plumes the Persians wore,</div> -<div class="verse">But it must have had wonderful power to draw.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE RAG BAG</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">When</span> we went down to grandma’s</div> -<div class="indent">To visit our dearest kin,</div> -<div class="verse">We asked for grandma’s rag bag</div> -<div class="indent">That hangs in the garret bin.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh, grandma’s frugal minded</div> -<div class="indent">From an old New England day,</div> -<div class="verse">But you ought to see that rag bag</div> -<div class="indent">And the things she threw away.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There were gloves that had no fingers,</div> -<div class="indent">And hose of Highland clans;</div> -<div class="verse">There were petticoats from Paris</div> -<div class="indent">And Pekin’s painted fans.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Our fingers flew at random</div> -<div class="indent">Like bees at a flower stall,</div> -<div class="verse">And we found that gown of grandma’s</div> -<div class="indent">That she wore at the governor’s ball.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We carried it down from the garret,</div> -<div class="indent">The Florentine flounces set;</div> -<div class="verse">And we made our grandma show us</div> -<div class="indent">How she danced the minuet.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh, grandma’s frugal minded,</div> -<div class="indent">And sometimes her foot goes down,</div> -<div class="verse">But her riches she puts in the rag bag</div> -<div class="indent">When we are coming to town.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE FIRST SNOW STORM</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> very first snow of the year, Mama,</div> -<div class="indent">And the drifts must be ten feet high;</div> -<div class="verse">So I’ve come home to get dry, Mama,</div> -<div class="indent">And this is the reason why:</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We were on our way from school, Mama,</div> -<div class="indent">Betty and Margie and Nan,</div> -<div class="verse">When someone gave us a terrible push</div> -<div class="indent">And into a drift we ran.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And we sat down in the snow, Mama,</div> -<div class="indent">It wasn’t as cold as you’d think;</div> -<div class="verse">And we thought we would sit for a while, Mama.</div> -<div class="indent">And we did, till we grew quite pink.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I feel that my shoes are wet, Mama,</div> -<div class="indent">And I fear the same for my hose:</div> -<div class="verse">And I fancy I’m rather damp, Mama,</div> -<div class="indent">Around in my underclothes.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">SUFFERING</h2></div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I sat</span> down on a bumble bee</div> -<div class="indent">In Mrs. Jackson’s yard:</div> -<div class="verse">I sat down on a bumble bee:</div> -<div class="indent">The bee stung good and hard.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I sat down on a bumble bee,</div> -<div class="indent">For just the briefest spell,</div> -<div class="verse">And I had only muslin on,</div> -<div class="indent">As any one could tell.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I sat down on a bumble bee,</div> -<div class="indent">But I arose again;</div> -<div class="verse">And now I know the tenseness of</div> -<div class="indent">Humiliating pain.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE MAP MAKERS</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a man who made a map</div> -<div class="indent">Of all you see at night;</div> -<div class="verse">He made the moon and all the stars</div> -<div class="indent">And comets in their flight.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He worked for twenty years or more</div> -<div class="indent">And extra ink he bought,</div> -<div class="verse">And then he mapped the Milky Way</div> -<div class="indent">As sort of an afterthought.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I read the story to Margaret,</div> -<div class="indent">She said that it must be true,</div> -<div class="verse">For she herself could draw a map</div> -<div class="indent">Of Ocean avenue.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She made a dot for Prospect Park,</div> -<div class="indent">A blot for Sheepshead Bay,</div> -<div class="verse">And then she ruled a line between</div> -<div class="indent">To show the right of way.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">It took her just five minutes just,</div> -<div class="indent">But I have my private fears,</div> -<div class="verse">That it isn’t quite up to the moon-man’s map,</div> -<div class="indent">For it never took twenty years.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">DIANA</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Diana,</span> out of Italy, my sister’s protge,</div> -<div class="verse">She came to us, with letters, for a little summer stay.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Diana, she was beautiful, and yet she made me laugh—</div> -<div class="verse">Forever and forever taking one eternal bath.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She had lost her bow and arrow, she had lost her lingerie,</div> -<div class="verse">But she was far from Venice and my sister’s protge.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And because of her distinction, and the wonder of design,</div> -<div class="verse">Her color and her contour, surpassing any line,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I braved a frowning family, I offered her my best,</div> -<div class="verse">And worshipped her in silence as my sister’s chosen guest.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">As the flowers seek the sunlight, as the birds adore the air,</div> -<div class="verse">So Diana loved the water, loved to comb her Titian hair.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The neighbors talked of nothing but my sister Mary’s taste—</div> -<div class="verse">Of vagaries and vanities, and time that went to waste.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But when my sister came at last to claim our protge,</div> -<div class="verse">I was her only confidante, and comfort’s only ray;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I was her only confidante in all the good old town,</div> -<div class="verse">And she whispered: “Our Diana never owned a dressing gown;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Never owned a beaded bodice, never owned a veil of tulle;</div> -<div class="verse">“Her gowns are made from sparkles of the waters of a pool;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“And those who cry for draperies, arouse the gods of wrath,</div> -<div class="verse">“For the gods possess their copies of ‘Diana at the Bath!’”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE READING BOY</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">He</span> is carved in alabaster, he is called the Reading Boy,</div> -<div class="verse">A cross-legged little pagan, pondering o’er the Siege of Troy;</div> -<div class="verse">He’s a miniature Adonis, with a bandeau round his head,</div> -<div class="verse">And he’s reading late and early when he ought to be in bed.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He cons an ancient manuscript, he scanneth as a sage,</div> -<div class="verse">But with all his mighty reading, never yet hath turned a page;</div> -<div class="verse">Never alabaster side glance at the turtle in the bowl,</div> -<div class="verse">Never alabaster wiggle, ’though I know he has a soul.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I have watched him late and early, just an image out of Rome,</div> -<div class="verse">And politely offered bookmarks to divert him from that tome;</div> -<div class="verse">Yea, with aggravating gestures sought to turn aside his face,</div> -<div class="verse">But not for pots of honey could you make him lose his place.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There he sits in sweet perfection that the chisel did unveil,</div> -<div class="verse">With the rapture of an angel up against a lively tale.</div> -<div class="verse">But I’d give an old maid’s ransom, just to see that little wretch,</div> -<div class="verse">Discard that Trojan magazine, and give a real good stretch.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE BATTLE ON THE FLOOR</h2></div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">My</span> father was a soldier, so</div> -<div class="indent">Some nights he talks of war;</div> -<div class="verse">He tells of guns at “action right,”—</div> -<div class="indent">The battlefield’s the floor.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He says: “My little daughter Nan,</div> -<div class="indent">“There’s art in every fight,</div> -<div class="verse">“So push the chairs and rugs around</div> -<div class="indent">“And set the battle right.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Put down the vase and candlesticks,</div> -<div class="indent">“And throw the books around—</div> -<div class="verse">“We want to show a town in France,</div> -<div class="indent">“With shell-holes in the ground.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Here’s infantry and batteries,</div> -<div class="indent">“And outposts, out before;</div> -<div class="verse">“That piece of string will do for wires</div> -<div class="indent">“Laid by the Signal Corps.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The enemy’s upon the rug,</div> -<div class="indent">“We’ve fathomed their design;</div> -<div class="verse">“So now we’ll bring the doughboys up</div> -<div class="indent">“And charge the whole darn line.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The captains, on the carpet, shout—</div> -<div class="indent">“Reserves are back too far”—</div> -<div class="verse">But the guns go into action with</div> -<div class="indent">The smoke of Pa’s cigar.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then Ma gets mad, and says that Pa</div> -<div class="indent">Was shell-shocked once in War,</div> -<div class="verse">Or else he wouldn’t want to play</div> -<div class="indent">At battles on the floor.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -<div class="verse">She says that war is bad enough,</div> -<div class="indent">And pretty rough, to boot,</div> -<div class="verse">Without a battlefield at home,</div> -<div class="indent">Or teaching girls to shoot.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then Pa, he stops the battle, and</div> -<div class="indent">We put things in their place;</div> -<div class="verse">We know when we have fought enough,</div> -<div class="indent">By the look on Mother’s face.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But I’d just as soon be shell-shocked some,</div> -<div class="indent">To know what father knows;</div> -<div class="verse">I’d just as soon stay out at night—</div> -<div class="indent">In France—and wet my clothes,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For I’d like to see a battle fierce,</div> -<div class="indent">With star shells up at night,</div> -<div class="verse">With regiments upon the move,</div> -<div class="indent">And guns at “action right.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">With cunning ammunition mules</div> -<div class="indent">A-trotting to and fro,</div> -<div class="verse">And personal friends a-shouting in</div> -<div class="indent">The dark, “Let’s Go.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I think that Father’s quite correct</div> -<div class="indent">Describing things to me,</div> -<div class="verse">And all that war in rainy France</div> -<div class="indent">That lies across the sea;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For Father feels that every girl</div> -<div class="indent">Should have some nerve and tone,</div> -<div class="verse">And know just how to manage in</div> -<div class="indent">A battle all her own.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">MID-DAY AT TRINITY</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> pigeons perch on Trinity,</div> -<div class="indent">From cowls of saints they croon;</div> -<div class="verse">In pious patience preen their wings</div> -<div class="indent">Till Trinity strikes noon.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They make their vows to visions fair,</div> -<div class="indent">The maids with mid-day smiles;</div> -<div class="verse">They wait their own communion sweet—</div> -<div class="indent">The crumbs along the aisles.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And presently from Wall Street strolls</div> -<div class="indent">A princess past a gate;</div> -<div class="verse">She pries apart a paper box</div> -<div class="indent">As if she scarce could wait.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She sinks upon an old settee,</div> -<div class="indent">Her luncheon in her lap;</div> -<div class="verse">And other maidens follow her—</div> -<div class="indent">A score or more, mayhap.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The pigeons peer from pinnacles,</div> -<div class="indent">They see their tables spread;</div> -<div class="verse">The sugar and the spices strewn,</div> -<div class="indent">The crusts of creamy bread.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The saints upon the walls maintain</div> -<div class="indent">Their attitudes benign;</div> -<div class="verse">But conquered by confusing quests,</div> -<div class="indent">The doves drift down to dine.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">CASTLE “BILL”</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Down</span> on Gov’nors Island,</div> -<div class="indent">Ivy etched and chill,</div> -<div class="verse">Hollow as a halo,</div> -<div class="indent">There is Castle “Bill.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Once the pride of outfits—</div> -<div class="indent">Prisoners under guard,</div> -<div class="verse">Form for evening roll-call</div> -<div class="indent">In the castle yard.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Sentries with their side arms,</div> -<div class="indent">Counting, one by one,</div> -<div class="verse">While the twilight tarries</div> -<div class="indent">For the sunset gun.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Miles away the music</div> -<div class="indent">Soundeth at parade</div> -<div class="verse">Chanting of Cochita,</div> -<div class="indent">Filipino maid;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Chanting of Cochita</div> -<div class="indent">Of Corregidor;</div> -<div class="verse">Piping of the palm trees</div> -<div class="indent">’Long Lunetta shore.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Dusty gunners listen,</div> -<div class="indent">Lead and chain and wheel;</div> -<div class="verse">Long ago Manila</div> -<div class="indent">Held them all to heel;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Boys from all battalions,</div> -<div class="indent">Saberless and still,</div> -<div class="verse">Waiting on a sunset—</div> -<div class="indent">Down in Castle “Bill.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">CASTLE WILLIAM</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Where</span> Buttermilk Channel doth seek to beguile</div> -<div class="verse">Diffident margins of Governor’s Isle,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There is a fortress all bastioned and chill,</div> -<div class="verse">Known to the army as old “Castle Bill.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There are occasions when soldiers may smile;</div> -<div class="verse">Not in that castle on Governor’s Isle;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Not in the cloisters where sentries abound;</div> -<div class="verse">Not where a gun butt leaps up from the ground.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh! There are many—the old cannoneers,</div> -<div class="verse">Infantry sergeants and grave grenadiers;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They have gone onward to zones of desire,</div> -<div class="verse">Scorning all theories of musketry fire;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They have advanced to civilian vales,</div> -<div class="verse">Building new barracks for sweet nightingales.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Yet they revert in their leisure sedate,</div> -<div class="verse">Seeing in visions that old castle gate;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Still they remember their days in the mill—</div> -<div class="verse">Down in the casemates of old “Castle Bill.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE ROLL OF THE ROSES</h2></div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">We</span> called the roll of the roses</div> -<div class="indent">And all of the front rank red,</div> -<div class="verse">Were present and ready for duty,</div> -<div class="indent">To serve with the living or dead.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We called the roll of the roses,</div> -<div class="indent">But where were the yellow and white?</div> -<div class="verse">With the troubadours on a terrace—</div> -<div class="indent">Somewhere secure in the night.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We break no pledge to the poppies</div> -<div class="indent">Or the culls of a country lane;</div> -<div class="verse">Our own were alone in denying</div> -<div class="indent">The levies we sought in vain.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Now who shall match us a color</div> -<div class="indent">In the talk of a kinship fair,</div> -<div class="verse">When none of the white or the yellow,</div> -<div class="indent">But only the red were there.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We called the roll of the roses</div> -<div class="indent">On the field where the roses fell;</div> -<div class="verse">And a distant down made answer</div> -<div class="indent">With a troubadour tolling a bell.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE GOSSIPS</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> rose bud that grew by the settle,</div> -<div class="indent">Bowed low to the gossiping thrusts;</div> -<div class="verse">The poet was praising the nettle,</div> -<div class="indent">The nettle that nobody trusts.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The pansies were painted in postures,</div> -<div class="indent">The poppies have stood on their toes;</div> -<div class="verse">But long before mention of Moses</div> -<div class="indent">Her rivals have flouted the rose.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh! Sweetness a-sway by the settle,</div> -<div class="indent">Be still on thy beautiful stem;</div> -<div class="verse">For love never clung to the nettle—</div> -<div class="indent">The nettle that burns to condemn.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Fear not for a moment’s defection,</div> -<div class="indent">Though pansies and poppies may pose;</div> -<div class="verse">For after a bit of reflection</div> -<div class="indent">The rover returns to the rose.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">TO-MORROW</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> sun shall shine in ages yet to be,</div> -<div class="indent">The musing moon illumine pastures dim,</div> -<div class="verse">And afterward a new nativity</div> -<div class="indent">For all who slept the dreamless interim.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The starry brocade of the summer night</div> -<div class="indent">Is linked to us as part of our estate;</div> -<div class="verse">And every bee that wings its sidelong flight</div> -<div class="indent">Assurance of a sweeter, fairer fate.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The blazoned humming-bird hath made it plain—</div> -<div class="indent">It seeks ravines where wildings wreathe each wall;</div> -<div class="verse">And there succeeding broods are marked again</div> -<div class="indent">By rainbows o’er a rambling waterfall.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">When you return, the youngest of the seers,</div> -<div class="indent">Released from fetters of ancestral pose,</div> -<div class="verse">There will be beauty waiting down the years—</div> -<div class="indent">Revisions of the ruby and the rose.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE ROSE OF REST</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">From</span> the water-gate of Pekin, where the latticed lanterns glow,</div> -<div class="verse">Eastward to the Cherry Gardens in the heart of Tokio,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There is none who may outrank her, none who answers love’s behest,</div> -<div class="verse">None of all my seven daughters like the little Rose of Rest.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Her eyes are questing colors, matchless mirrors of delight,</div> -<div class="verse">The turquoise dawn of China and the duskiness of night.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Her lips are pouting poppies by love’s tender tempests blown,</div> -<div class="verse">They tremble with the secrets only Buddha could have known.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She cometh in the twilight with the tamarinds and tea;</div> -<div class="verse">She kneeleth near to serve me in the sweet obscurity.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She sayeth not a single word, but ever I am blest,</div> -<div class="verse">And I fall asleep caressing her, the little Rose of Rest.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE SYMBOLS</h2></div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> sign work of the Orient it runneth up and down,</div> -<div class="verse">The Talmud stalks from right to left, a rabbi in a gown;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The Roman rolls from left to right from Maytime unto May,</div> -<div class="verse">But the gods shake up their symbols in an absent-minded way.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Their language runs to circles like the language of the eyes,</div> -<div class="verse">Emphasized by strange dilations and with little panting sighs.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There are symbols set as signals for unbarricaded lips,</div> -<div class="verse">Emblems manifesting merits thrilling to the finger tips.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The very serpents bite their tails; the bees forget to sting,</div> -<div class="verse">For a language so celestial setteth up a wondering.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And the touch of absent-mindedness is more than any line,</div> -<div class="verse">Since direction counts as nothing when the gods set up a sign.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE SALAMANDER ISLES</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Snaring</span> lights surmount the sand-dunes of the Salamander Isles;</div> -<div class="verse">The chime buoys chant new tunes each tide, false soundings run for miles.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And yet, for lures like these we set such sail as we could make;</div> -<div class="verse">We steered by stars that sorrowed, with the moonlight in our wake.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We dipped or rose supremely as we shook our freeboard clear;</div> -<div class="verse">We clung, but smiled serenely when the head seas swept our gear.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We were captives of the currents, we were harried by the flaw,</div> -<div class="verse">Or the red mists from the marshes mocked the navigator’s law.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Glimpsed we evanescent channels, marked by flares upon a wreck,</div> -<div class="verse">But the channels shoaled to shallows ere the tops could hail the deck.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Yet we won to realization that the ports long sought in vain,</div> -<div class="verse">Were illusive as the May moths or the madrigals of Spain;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And that only charts from China, drawn by wizards full of wiles,</div> -<div class="verse">Would give the proper bearings for the Salamander Isles.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE CHESS GAME</h2></div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">My</span> king, my queen, the castle twain, each bishop, pawn and knight,</div> -<div class="verse">I led them into battle by the flick’ring candle light.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I led them into combat ’gainst a genius at the game,</div> -<div class="verse">And the candles all were laughing as I sought to hide my shame.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But the little silver chessmen that were wrought in Samarcand</div> -<div class="verse">Caught the spirit of crusaders there upon the teakwood stand.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The warriors all murmured, while the monarch moved to lean</div> -<div class="verse">And voice his plan of action to his understanding queen:</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“For the sake of all the trumpeters who had to sound retreat—</div> -<div class="verse">For the sake of all beginners who have gone down to defeat;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“We will fight, no human guiding, for a lovely lady’s fame,</div> -<div class="verse">And we’ll run our counter-gambit to a checkmate in the game.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh, the glory of that battle, thunder marching in the ranks;</div> -<div class="verse">The castles staunchly standing, and the proud pawns on the flanks.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The queen with her litter and the king upon the right</div> -<div class="verse">Spurred on each knight and bishop in the fury of the fight</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -<div class="verse">’Mid the stone piles of his slingers surged my men of Samarcand,</div> -<div class="verse">And we conquered our opponent on that polished teakwood stand.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Thus reality was riven by the wisdom of a wraith,</div> -<div class="verse">By the images inanimate that fought for love and faith;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">By the images inanimate that came from Samarcand</div> -<div class="verse">To show their knightly courtesy upon a teakwood stand.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE DINOSAURS’ EGGS</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">One</span> morn in old Mongolia,</div> -<div class="indent">In Asia’s arid lands,</div> -<div class="verse">Men found the eggs of dinosaurs</div> -<div class="indent">Upon the Gobi sands.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The one-time myths in miniature,</div> -<div class="indent">The seeds that turned to stone;</div> -<div class="verse">The mirage of forgotten things</div> -<div class="indent">Upon the sands were strown.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Fate left them to strange lassitudes,</div> -<div class="indent">The lonely and the still,</div> -<div class="verse">That could have tusked creation’s flanks</div> -<div class="indent">But for some sudden chill.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The roses pined in weary wastes</div> -<div class="indent">Yet won to garden wall;</div> -<div class="verse">The honey-loving humming-birds</div> -<div class="indent">Outlived a waterfall;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The does a-down the centuries</div> -<div class="indent">Soft nosed each little fawn;</div> -<div class="verse">The robin’s breast was o’er her brood,</div> -<div class="indent">All gentle things were born.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">With sweet significance the bowers</div> -<div class="indent">Gave beckonings and smiles,</div> -<div class="verse">And then came Eden’s wistful mates</div> -<div class="indent">To walk in Eden’s aisles.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But in the Gobi solitudes,</div> -<div class="indent">The tombs time left unlatched—</div> -<div class="verse">There lay in wind-blown shrouds of sand</div> -<div class="indent">The eggs that never hatched.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE FIRST STORY</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Mid</span> seaweed on a sultry strand, ten thousand years ago,</div> -<div class="verse">A sun-burned baby sprawling lay, a-playing with his toe.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The babe was dreaming of the day that he might swing a club,</div> -<div class="verse">When lo! He saw a fishy thing, a-squirming in the mud.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The creature was an octopus, and dangerous to pat,</div> -<div class="verse">But the prehistoric infant never stopped to think of that.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The baby’s fingernails were sharp, his appetite was prime,</div> -<div class="verse">He clutched that deep-sea monster, for ’twas nearing supper-time,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh! Suddenly, from out the pulp a fluid black did flow,</div> -<div class="verse">’Twas flavored like a barberry wine and gave a sort of glow;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">It squirted in the baby’s eyes; it made him gasp and blink,</div> -<div class="verse">But to that octopus he held, and drank up all the ink.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The ink was in the baby—he was bound to write a tale;</div> -<div class="verse">So he wrote the first of stories with his little fingernail.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE THREE-CORNERED LOT</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Said</span> the farmer to his daughter: “When I die, as like as not,</div> -<div class="verse">I’ll leave to you the title to the old three-cornered lot.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“’Tis the vale beyond the pastures, never any good to me,</div> -<div class="verse">With the huckleberry bushes and the silver maple-tree.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Fair scenery for song birds, but too small to cultivate;</div> -<div class="verse">Yet there’s a wall around it, like a foolish man’s estate.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Fell a blight upon the corn fields; stood an empty barn and cot;</div> -<div class="verse">The farmer’s holdings dwindled to the old three-cornered lot.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He saw his home dismantled; learned that permanence, alas,</div> -<div class="verse">Is the portrait of a swallow painted on the shadow grass.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Came his daughter as a seeress, and she said: “As like as not,</div> -<div class="verse">I’m giving back the title to the old three-cornered lot.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“’Tis just a bit of scenery too sweet to cultivate,</div> -<div class="verse">Yet there’s a wall around it, like a nobleman’s estate;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“There are huckleberry bushes and a length of garden loam,</div> -<div class="verse">And the stone walls of the foolish man wherewith to build a home.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE HISTORY OF HONEY</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">“The</span> History of Honey”—by an aged mandarin,</div> -<div class="verse">And I bought it for the pictures of the burnished bees therein.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For the dainty revelations, masquerading up and down,</div> -<div class="verse">For the odor of the sandalwood that talked of China-town.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">According to the mandarin, the Oriental bees</div> -<div class="verse">Were the first to hoard their honey in the mountain cavities.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In the ages of antiquity, each summer afternoon,</div> -<div class="verse">They flew in golden convoys to the mountains of the moon.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And there, in caves by cataracts, where nothing could annoy,</div> -<div class="verse">Poured gallons in the caverns when Confucius was a boy.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Many mountains bulged with honey stored before the days of Ming,</div> -<div class="verse">From each crevice dripped the essence of a very precious thing.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Imprisoned in this honey, aging as the ons wane,</div> -<div class="verse">Are the souls of all the flowers, waiting to be born again.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Every lotus, every poppy, every tulip, every rose,</div> -<div class="verse">And those who sip the honey slip beyond all human woes.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Dream again of youth’s digressions, index misty ways of joy,</div> -<div class="verse">Turn unto the pagan pastimes of Confucius—as a boy.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Doubtless there are yet secreted some divine distilleries</div> -<div class="verse">Overflowing with the wonder worth a dozen dynasties.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But the mandarin, he made no map, contented in old age</div> -<div class="verse">To draw the clinging love scenes of the bees on every page.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There he found an inspiration antedating all the Mings,</div> -<div class="verse">And he got the ancient essence of the very sweetest things.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE HISTORY OF PAINTING</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">A shadow</span> and reflection quarelled once upon a time,</div> -<div class="verse">Disputing o’er the setting for a woodland pantomime.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">One claimed that color dominates and waved to heaven’s blue;</div> -<div class="verse">The other held that outline makes an angel worth the view.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The tumult shook the thrushes’ nests, the fledglings joined their cries;</div> -<div class="verse">Forth came the fauns from forest gloom with wistful enterprise.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Reflection flung her florid robes o’er gneiss and dolomite;</div> -<div class="verse">The shadow bowed to everything that stood within the light.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But color lacked the candor and the certainty divine;</div> -<div class="verse">The shadow clung forever to the flatness of a line.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Spake suddenly an oracle, gray-feathered, blindly wise:</div> -<div class="verse">“The absence of the sunlight worketh wonders in the eyes;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“For light and shades are synonyms of things that stand apart</div> -<div class="verse">Till love creates a question and a longing in each heart.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The fledglings caught the utterance, the fauns were there to see;</div> -<div class="verse">They stayed to watch a shadow kiss a rose light recklessly.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Thereafter there was artistry, the brooks began to paint;</div> -<div class="verse">The ferns were willing models and the lilacs lost restraint;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -<div class="verse">The lakes were filled with sunsets and the birth-marked butterflies</div> -<div class="verse">On balanced wings were cruising ’cross the mirrors of the skies.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The granite learned to glisten and the rocks that held the rain</div> -<div class="verse">Awoke to truer technique, tempting visions back again.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Thus from a bickering were born the painter’s art and lore</div> -<div class="verse">That beauty might be glorified by love forever more.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE ROAD TO ROSLYN</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Upon</span> the road to Roslyn Town,</div> -<div class="indent">The road that skirts the bay;</div> -<div class="verse">Upon the road to Roslyn Town,</div> -<div class="indent">Upon a summer’s day;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I met a dark-haired Gypsy girl,</div> -<div class="indent">’Twas afternoon, and late;</div> -<div class="verse">With haunting eyes she halted me</div> -<div class="indent">By Thomas Clapham’s gate.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She was bent upon the business of</div> -<div class="indent">A very ancient race;</div> -<div class="verse">But no mercenary motive marred</div> -<div class="indent">That sombre Gypsy face.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Oh, maiden beautiful,” she said,</div> -<div class="indent">“Let’s tarry on the green—</div> -<div class="verse">What luck upon the Roslyn Road</div> -<div class="indent">To meet a Gypsy queen.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">With amber eyes she read my palm,</div> -<div class="indent">Then raised them to a stare,</div> -<div class="verse">“You wed for love, for wealth, for power,</div> -<div class="indent">And thrice three sons will bear.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She asked me for a silver piece,</div> -<div class="indent">The amber eyeballs glowed;</div> -<div class="verse">I gave her all the change I had,</div> -<div class="indent">Upon the Roslyn Road.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She begged from me my hosiery,</div> -<div class="indent">My gloves, and named my beau;</div> -<div class="verse">She slipped the Solway sandals from</div> -<div class="indent">The infantry below;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -<div class="verse">She got from me my garnet ring,</div> -<div class="indent">She cozened off my gown;</div> -<div class="verse">She left me like Godiva on</div> -<div class="indent">The Road to Roslyn Town.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh, I went home across the lots</div> -<div class="indent">In the gloaming and in tears,</div> -<div class="verse">But she didn’t get my earrings, for</div> -<div class="indent">The bobbed hair hid my ears.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE ARMY LAUNDRESS</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Beside</span> a somber sally port upon a bastioned isle</div> -<div class="verse">There dwells a bare-armed laundry girl to serve the rank and file.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Her name is Sheila Shanahan, she reigns in Soap Suds Row,</div> -<div class="verse">The lane that won to luster in the army long ago.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She bendeth o’er a wash tub while the sentries walk the walls,</div> -<div class="verse">And pyramids are builded from the brooding cannon balls.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She elevates an army post without the least design,</div> -<div class="verse">The belle of all the barracks hanging clothes upon a line.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Fate ransacked ancient reveries to dower youth’s desire,</div> -<div class="verse">Unrolled the scrolls of Sidon and the tapestries of Tyre;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She pilfered from Parnassus till the gods ran to and fro,</div> -<div class="verse">Then gave her golden gleanings to the girl in Soap Suds Row.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh, there are many lovers of sweet Sheila Shanahan,</div> -<div class="verse">The seagulls and the sundown breeze upon the barbican;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The pigeons on the parapets, the disappearing guns,</div> -<div class="verse">The sign-boards on the magazines, the Colonel’s rompered sons,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And while the sunset tarrieth and while an army waits,</div> -<div class="verse">The children from the post school storm the dusty barrack gates;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They wander into Soap Suds Row with laughter in the van</div> -<div class="verse">The bravest of the cavaliers of Sheila Shanahan.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">REGINA MENDOSENA</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I’m</span> Regina Mendosena, queen of all of Shanty Town;</div> -<div class="verse">Just behold me in me sport dress with me stockings hanging down;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Just behold me with me sceptre, Mither Grady’s washing stick,</div> -<div class="verse">A sunflower for a coronet—me foot upon a brick.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I’m Regina Mendosena, and I’m Irish if you please,</div> -<div class="verse">Me mither was an actress and me faither sailed the seas;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And for culture and for travel, it was hard to beat the pair—</div> -<div class="verse">I’m Regina Mendosena and ’tis me that is their heir.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They made me Queen of Ireland when mither flew the town;</div> -<div class="verse">They gave me Madden’s old shebang when faither’s ship went down;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They gave me Crazy Mary’s goats when Crazy Mary died,</div> -<div class="verse">And they’re going to kape me going till I gits to be a bride.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I’m Regina Mendosena, queen of all of Shanty Town,</div> -<div class="verse">Me pus’nal friends admiring all the contour of me gown;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Me pus’nal friends remarking on the browness of me eyes,</div> -<div class="verse">I’m Regina Mendosena—but I wonder if they lies?</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I’m Regina Mendosena, and ’tis when to Mass I go,</div> -<div class="verse">I gown meself discreetly with me braidings in a bow;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I’m Regina Mendosena, I’m the same and not the same,</div> -<div class="verse">For I lay aside me titles and me very ancient name.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE GIRL FROM SOAP SUDS ROW</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Oh!</span> Mistress Margaret Esther Snow,</div> -<div class="indent">She lived way down in Soap Suds Row;</div> -<div class="verse">She came to school in a gingham frock,</div> -<div class="indent">With breakfast stains upon her smock.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Oh! Mistress Margaret Esther Snow</div> -<div class="indent">Is rather poor as we all know;</div> -<div class="verse">Her socks are a most unusual sight,</div> -<div class="indent">And her shoes are never quite watertight.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She missed her lessons most every day;</div> -<div class="indent">She seemed too sad to want to play;</div> -<div class="verse">So Miss McHugh, our teacher grave,</div> -<div class="indent">Said she was meeker than any slave.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She so admonished poor Mistress Snow,</div> -<div class="indent">That the little girl longed for Soap Suds Row;</div> -<div class="verse">And lastly, the teacher, to make her bright,</div> -<div class="indent">Gave her a piece to learn to recite.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For three whole days we didn’t know</div> -<div class="indent">The piece she had given to Mistress Snow;</div> -<div class="verse">But on Monday morning Miss McHugh</div> -<div class="indent">Said: “Margaret will speak for the 2-A-2.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then Mistress Margaret Esther wailed,</div> -<div class="indent">And all of us girls in sympathy paled;</div> -<div class="verse">But all of a sudden she walked right out,</div> -<div class="indent">She tossed her head as she turned about.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">She made a most wonderful Grecian bow</div> -<div class="indent">That someone had taught her in Soap Suds Row;</div> -<div class="verse">Her eyes were shining—she wasn’t afraid,</div> -<div class="indent">And she spoke “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Did she speak that piece? Well, I guess she did.</div> -<div class="indent">’Twas a fight to a finish—she took off the lid;</div> -<div class="verse">The up-stairs classes—they heard her shout,</div> -<div class="indent">And the principal came to see what ’twas about.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But Mistress Margaret—she never stayed—</div> -<div class="indent">She gave us the whole of “The Light Brigade.”</div> -<div class="verse">You could smell the smoke, you could see each gun;</div> -<div class="indent">You could hear the galloping horses run.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And we sat stunned in the 2-A-2.</div> -<div class="indent">When we saw what Soap Suds Row could do;</div> -<div class="verse">For she told of the battle and everything done,</div> -<div class="indent">With everyone dead and the glory won.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Sometimes her voice was like sugar plums,</div> -<div class="indent">And then it shook with the noise of drums;</div> -<div class="verse">And the girls upstairs, they thought ’twas true</div> -<div class="indent">That there was a fight in the 2-A-2.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Well, when it was over, so sweet was her face</div> -<div class="indent">That she seemed as if dressed in velvet and lace;</div> -<div class="verse">And she made that wonderful bow once more,</div> -<div class="indent">Till her rather scant petticoat touched the floor.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">We clapped our hands, and we made them smart,</div> -<div class="indent">And we were happy around the heart,</div> -<div class="verse">For the way that the teachers crowded in</div> -<div class="indent">Added a lot to the lovely din.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Poor Miss McHugh was pleased till she cried,</div> -<div class="indent">While the 2-A-2 just swelled with pride;</div> -<div class="verse">And so excited was Miss McHugh</div> -<div class="indent">That she didn’t know just the thing to do.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -<div class="verse">But she kissed our beauty of Soap Suds Row,</div> -<div class="indent">Till Margaret’s face was all aglow;</div> -<div class="verse">She mentioned that Marge was a human lute—</div> -<div class="indent">She was glad that her bread was bearing fruit.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then the principal said in his stately way</div> -<div class="indent">That for 1-3-9 ’twas a very proud day,</div> -<div class="verse">And that close alignment to classroom rules</div> -<div class="indent">Made genius flourish in public schools.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But somehow the girls in the 2-A-2,</div> -<div class="indent">They get things just a bit askew;</div> -<div class="verse">And they surmise that Mistress Snow</div> -<div class="indent">Found most of her genius in Soap Suds Row.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">EVA</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Eva,</span> the first of the fair ones,</div> -<div class="indent">Taught all her daughters to paint;</div> -<div class="verse">Using indelible colors,</div> -<div class="indent">Seeress and siren and saint.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Banished them all to the brook brims,</div> -<div class="indent">There in benign ambuscade,</div> -<div class="verse">Taught them the art of portraying</div> -<div class="indent">Beauty that never may fade.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Voiced she the values of the shadows</div> -<div class="indent">Moored to the moss-mantled crags;</div> -<div class="verse">Primed them to pose by the dwarf palms</div> -<div class="indent">And mid the cat-tails and flags.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Thus by each crevice and cavern,</div> -<div class="indent">Thus in the lunettes and glades,</div> -<div class="verse">There are depicted all damsels,</div> -<div class="indent">Eva’s most wonderful maids.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Traceries tender and dimpled,</div> -<div class="indent">Intricate art of design;</div> -<div class="verse">Shadowy ideals of Eden,</div> -<div class="indent">Even of Eva, divine.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Breathe but a name in the bowers,</div> -<div class="indent">Pour out her praise as a prayer;</div> -<div class="verse">Forth from the fronds floats a presence,</div> -<div class="indent">Vestured in loveliness rare.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Thus, since the first of the fair ones,</div> -<div class="indent">All of the daughters of Eve,</div> -<div class="verse">Portray in permanent colors,</div> -<div class="indent">Making men see and believe.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">OLD MAID’S REVERIE</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I’m</span> tired of mirthless mirrors and their hostile heresies,</div> -<div class="verse">Of musing in a mansion hung with mildewed memories;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Of the silence of the stairways, of the statuary wan,</div> -<div class="verse">Of the alabaster angel riding on the fountain swan;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I’m irked by isolation and the lawns kept so and so—</div> -<div class="verse">I’d trade an old maid’s theories for a rood of Soap Suds Row;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For the sunflowers and the shanties where the shadows sit at ease,</div> -<div class="verse">For the horde of baby banshees and the swing-scarred apple-trees;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Therefore methinks I’ll venture to a disarrayed domain,</div> -<div class="verse">And shoonless dance the saraband in some assuaging lane.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">No sandals wrought in Sybaris, or girdle bossed with gold,</div> -<div class="verse">But beauty in a barefoot mood, revising edicts old.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There cupids turn the calendars to Michael Angelo,</div> -<div class="verse">The goya needs no gabardine, the rose no kimono;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And me, a maiden mendicant may ask an alms, forsooth,</div> -<div class="verse">As one who missed the rubrics in the litanies of youth.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE COMMONPLACE</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">By</span> the steps of the paper-box factory,</div> -<div class="indent">Or the gates where the Seraphim nod,</div> -<div class="verse">In the time and the place that’s appointed,</div> -<div class="indent">You will meet with your commonplace god.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And then you’ll be glad and forever,</div> -<div class="indent">For the queens of the East and the West,</div> -<div class="verse">With the sets of the Garden of Eden</div> -<div class="indent">Have failed in a commonplace quest.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">So to you who have dreamed in the starlight,</div> -<div class="indent">And to you who have drudged in the town,</div> -<div class="verse">And to you of the commonplace vision,</div> -<div class="indent">With the beauty the Greeks handed down,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Doubt not that the time is appointed,</div> -<div class="indent">That the chart with a quester is girt,</div> -<div class="verse">But remember that star-dust is star-dust</div> -<div class="indent">And ranks not the commonest dirt;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">That the gods of Olympus were beggars</div> -<div class="indent">Or ever they burned to create,</div> -<div class="verse">And that rags ripple down into samite</div> -<div class="indent">For a Venus who swings on a gate;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">That the steps of the paper-box factory,</div> -<div class="indent">As well as the gardens of kings,</div> -<div class="verse">Are only the blue-print devices</div> -<div class="indent">Of love, and the commonplace things.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">BERKLEY COMMON</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Summer</span> broods o’er Berkley Common, o’er the fields of everlasting,</div> -<div class="indent">And around the common cluster homes no one would ever rent;</div> -<div class="verse">The people that once lived there, long have gone to other places,</div> -<div class="indent">Dusty heirlooms in the garrets give a clue to where they went.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Like a manuscript, all yellow, and with many things deleted,</div> -<div class="indent">Yet a manuscript completed, with embellishments most rare,</div> -<div class="verse">Berkley Common lies forgotten, with its fields of everlasting,</div> -<div class="indent">And the sunlight on the windows of the empty houses there.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">It is off the line of travel; to the present unrelated;</div> -<div class="indent">Only peddlers down from Dighton go that way to Taunton Weir;</div> -<div class="verse">They haste by Berkley Common, by the fields of everlasting,</div> -<div class="indent">For the empty houses fill them with a feeling like to fear.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHOICE</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Cloud-made</span> mountains towered,</div> -<div class="indent">Beckoning to me;</div> -<div class="verse">Visionary triremes</div> -<div class="indent">Talked about the sea....</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">There were strings of camels</div> -<div class="indent">On the Tunis sands....</div> -<div class="verse">There were certain cities</div> -<div class="indent">Holding out their hands....</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Mine the choice that fettered</div> -<div class="indent">Lips to fountain brim;</div> -<div class="verse">Timed the droning transits—</div> -<div class="indent">Bees in gardens dim.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Thus I pay no tribute,</div> -<div class="indent">Heed no tallier’s call;</div> -<div class="verse">Only sound of kisses</div> -<div class="indent">From a waterfall.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Only honey dripping</div> -<div class="indent">In a hollow tree;</div> -<div class="verse">First of hour glasses</div> -<div class="indent">Keeping time for me.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Only broken whispers,</div> -<div class="indent">Tracing themes unsaid;</div> -<div class="verse">Soft as tread of visions</div> -<div class="indent">O’er a poppy bed....</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE FIRE VASE</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Said</span> the potter to the flower pots: “It’s a question of design—</div> -<div class="verse">Must I hold my hands forever from the images divine?”</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He ran a royal pattern and he shaped a wondrous vase,</div> -<div class="verse">From the peach-bloom drew his color, from the rose-blend drew his glaze.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Came collectors of ceramics, connoisseurs who stayed to yearn;</div> -<div class="verse">Something wonderful was hidden ’neath the cover of that urn.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Some said ’twas filled with roses, others wagered it was wine,</div> -<div class="verse">One said it might be empty as a part of the design.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Nearly all of the appraisers for the outside made their bid,</div> -<div class="verse">But the one who bought the beauty dreamed of what was ’neath the lid.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He set it on his cottage hearth, the vase beside the fire,</div> -<div class="verse">And the cover rose in answer to a very old desire,</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And through the peach-bloom color and the rose-blend of the glaze,</div> -<div class="verse">He saw love’s lost illusions safe within the potter’s vase.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">MY HUSBANDS</h2></div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I hear</span> my husbands marching</div> -<div class="verse">The ons all adown:</div> -<div class="verse">The shepherd boys and princes—</div> -<div class="verse">From cavern unto crown.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I hear in soft recession</div> -<div class="verse">The praise they give to me;</div> -<div class="verse">I hear them chant my titles</div> -<div class="verse">From all antiquity.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But never do I answer,</div> -<div class="verse">I might be overheard;</div> -<div class="verse">Lose Love’s revised illusions</div> -<div class="verse">By one unhappy word.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I sit, a silent siren,</div> -<div class="verse">And count my cavaliers;</div> -<div class="verse">The men I wed in wisdom,</div> -<div class="verse">The boys who taught me tears.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">To some I gave devotion,</div> -<div class="verse">To some I kinked the knee;</div> -<div class="verse">But there was one old wizard</div> -<div class="verse">Who laid his spells on me.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He showed me like a master</div> -<div class="verse">That one rose makes a gown;</div> -<div class="verse">That looking up to Heaven</div> -<div class="verse">Is merely looking down.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He marked me for the circle,</div> -<div class="verse">Made magic in my eyes;</div> -<div class="verse">He won me by revealing</div> -<div class="verse">The truth in all his lies.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -<div class="verse">So, when I see that wizard</div> -<div class="verse">Among the marchers dim,</div> -<div class="verse">I make the full court curtsy</div> -<div class="verse">In fealty to him.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">AFTERWORD</h2></div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> a maze of contributions such as the poetry editor -of a large metropolitan newspaper printing daily two -or three poems receives there came to me unheralded one -morning in the mail a little poem which bore the name -of an author of whom I had never heard—Nathalia -Crane. It was a whimsical piece of verse such as an -editor rarely receives, a rhythmical, lilting production -that would gladden the heart of any one. It was called -<i>The History of Honey</i>. Needless to say it was accepted -for publication. Subsequently others submitted by -Nathalia Crane also found a place in <i>The Sun</i>.</p> - -<p>Then followed some correspondence in regard to -various other poems but a call at the office made by the -author in answer to a letter about the poem <i>The Army -Laundress</i> disclosed to my amazement that the writer was -none other than a little girl—a shy, unassuming youngster -who was as embarrassed during the interview as I -was myself. For I must admit I was embarrassed—or -rather taken aback.</p> - -<p>My surprise is excusable. So many times I had received -“poems” from youngsters who were careful to -give their ages in addition to their names; so often I -had received visits from doting parents or relatives requesting -publication of verses by their children or sisters -or cousins that I had never dreamed any child would -ever submit any work from his or her pen without adding -the words “Aged — years.” But little Nathalia was -the exception—and there was nothing in her poems that -I received to indicate her age.</p> - -<p>The poems bought were accepted on their merits and -on their merits alone, and many a poet of greater years<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -and of recognized standing would not despise being -known as the author of <i>The Reading Boy</i>, <i>The Three -Cornered Lot</i> and <i>The Commonplace</i>.</p> - -<p>Nathalia Crane is a little girl who plays with dolls -and toys and Roger Jones, whom she has glorified in -some of her poems, when she is not busy at a typewriter -giving expression to dreams and visions. She is also an -author of delightful verse who obtained wide recognition -of her work not because it was written by a child but -because it was in itself worth while reading. For this -alone, if for nothing else, she deserves all the success that -is hers, all the laurels with which her friends and readers -are glad to crown her and none more than the writer -of this “Afterword” who came to know Nathalia Crane -through her poetry which did not disclose her years.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Edmund Leamy.</span></p> - - - -<p><i>New York, May, 1924.</i></p></blockquote> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="transnote"> - - -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.</p> -</div> - - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Janitor's Boy, by Nathalia Crane - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JANITOR'S BOY *** - -***** This file should be named 62146-h.htm or 62146-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/1/4/62146/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. 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