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diff --git a/77609-0.txt b/77609-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc2308d --- /dev/null +++ b/77609-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1072 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77609 *** + + + + +A WINTER HOLIDAY + + + + + BY BLISS CARMAN + + LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ $1.25 + + BEHIND THE ARRAS. A Book + of the Unseen 1.25 + + BALLADS OF LOST HAVEN + A Book of the Sea 1.25 + + BY THE AURELIAN WALL. A + Book of Elegies 1.25 + + + WITH RICHARD HOVEY + + SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA $1.00 + + MORE SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA 1.00 + + + Small, Maynard & Company + Boston + + + + + A WINTER HOLIDAY + + BLISS CARMAN + + [Illustration] + + Boston + Small, Maynard & Company + 1899 + + + + + _Copyright, 1899, by_ + SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY + (INCORPORATED) + + + THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. + + + + + _To_ T. B. M. + + Scituate, Massachusetts + October, 1899 + + + + +Contents + + + PAGE + + DECEMBER IN SCITUATE 3 + + WINTER AT TORTOISE SHELL 8 + + BAHAMAN 15 + + FLYING FISH 28 + + IN BAY STREET 31 + + MIGRANTS 35 + + WHITE NASSAU 38 + + + + +A Winter Holiday + +[Illustration] + + + + +DECEMBER IN SCITUATE + + + Under a hill in Scituate, + Where sleep four hundred men of Kent, + My friend one bobolincolned June + Set up his rooftree of content. + + Content for not too long, of course, + Since painter’s eye makes rover’s heart, + And the next turning of the road + May cheapen the last touch of art. + + Yet also, since the world is wide, + And noon’s face never twice the same, + Why not sit down and let the sun, + That artist careless of his fame, + + Exhibit to our eyes, off-hand, + As mood may dictate and time serve, + His precious, perishable scraps + Of fleeting color, melting curve? + + And while he shifts them all too soon, + Make vivid note of this and that, + Careful of nothing but to keep + The beauties we most marvel at. + + Selective merely, bent to save + The sheer delirium of the eye, + Which best may solace or rejoice + Some fellow-rover by and by; + + That stumbling on it, he exclaim, + “What mounting sea-smoke! What a blue!” + And at the glory we beheld, + His smouldering joy may kindle too. + + Merely selective? Bring me back, + _Verbatim_ from the lecture hall, + Your notes of So-and-so’s discourse; + The gist and substance are not all. + + The unconscious hand betrays to me + What listener it was took heed, + Eager or slovenly or prim; + A written character indeed! + + Much more in painting; every stroke + That weaves the very sunset’s ply, + Luminous, palpitant, reveals + How throbbed the heart behind the eye; + + How hand was but the cunning dwarf + Of spirit, his triumphant lord + Marching in Nature’s pageantry, + Elated in the vast accord. + + Art is a rubric for the soul, + Man’s comment on the book of earth, + The spellborn human summary + Which gives that common volume worth. + + So at the pictures of my friend,-- + His marginal remarks, as ’twere,-- + One cries not only, “What a blue!” + But, “What a human heart beat here!” + + And now, ten minutes from the train, + Over the right-hand easy swell, + We catch the sparkle of the sea + And the green roof of Tortoise Shell. + + (He guessed from slipshod excellence + What fable to his craft applied. + The tortoise for his monitor, + And _Cur tam cito_ for his guide.) + + Here is the slanting open field, + Where billow upon billow rolls + The sea of daisies in the sun, + When June brings back the orioles. + + All summer here the crooning winds + Are cradled in the rocking dunes, + Till they, full height and burly grown, + Go seaward and forget their croons. + + And out of the Canadian north + Comes winter like a huge gray gnome, + To blanket the red dunes with snow + And muffle the green sea with foam. + + I could sit here all day and watch + The seas at battle smoke and wade, + And in the cold night wake to hear + The booming of their cannonade. + + Then smiling turn to sleep and say, + “In vain dark’s banners are unfurled; + That ceaseless roll is God’s tattoo + Upon the round drum of the world.” + + And waking find without surprise + The first sun in a week of storm, + The southward eaves begin to drip, + And the faint Marshfield hills look warm; + + The brushwood all a purple mist; + The blue sea creaming on the shore; + As if the year in his last days + Had not a sorrow to deplore. + + Then evening by the fire of logs, + With some old song or some new book; + Our Lady Nicotine to share + Our single bliss; while seaward, look,-- + + Orion mounting peaceful guard + Over our brother’s new-made tent, + Under a hill in Scituate + Where sleep so sound those men of Kent. + + + + +WINTER AT TORTOISE SHELL + + + “What wondrous life is this I lead! + Ripe apples drop about my head.” + + But as I read, that couplet seems + The merest metaphor of dreams,-- + + A parable from Arcady + Refuted by this wintry sea. + + The summer was so long ago, + I hardly can believe it so. + + Did we once really live outdoors, + With leafy walls and grassy floors, + + Through sultry morns and dreamy noons + And red October in the dunes, + + With butterflies and bees and things + That roamed the air on roseleaf wings? + + There’s not a leaf on any bough + To prove the truth of summer now; + + There’s not an apple left on high + To bear the red sun company. + + The sun himself is gone away, + A vagabond since yesterday, + + And left the maniac wind to moan + Through his deserted house alone. + + Over the hills we watched him forth + From the low lodges of the North; + + And then a hand we did not know + Dropped the tent-curtain of the snow. + + This morning all outdoors is gray + And bleak as dead Siberia. + + But what is that to lucky me? + Who would not love captivity, + + Where safe beneath their Tortoise Shell + The Lady and the Tortoise dwell? + + The Tortoise is the Lady’s son; + He makes procrastination + + A fine art in this hurrying age + Of grudging work and greedy wage. + + An open air impressionist, + He swims his landscape in a mist, + + And likes to paint his shadows blue, + If it is all the same to you. + + If not, he does not call you blind; + He waits for you to change your mind. + + His cunning knows how color lies + Eluding the untutored eyes. + + Perhaps within a year or two + You may believe his pictures true. + + The Tortoise, for a pseudonym, + Is very suitable to him. + + At Tortoise Shell the rafters green + Mimic a shady orchard screen, + + The kindly half-light of the leaves, + And June songs running round the eaves. + + The walls are hung with tapestries + Of gold flowers bending to the breeze, + + And paintings, drenched in light and sun, + Of Scituate shore and Norman town,-- + + A mute, unfading fairyland, + The glad work of a wizard hand,-- + + A small bright summer world of art + The winter cherishes at heart. + + Look, through the window, where the seas, + A million strong, ride in with ease! + + The mad white stallions in stampede. + This is your wintry world, indeed. + + But summertime and gladness dwell + Under the roof of Tortoise Shell. + + Color, imperishably fair, + Is mistress of the seasons there. + + And, ah, to-night the Gallaghers + Will come in all their mitts and furs, + + Across the fields to visit us. + Then Boston _urbs_ may envy _rus_! + + We’ll let the hooting blizzard shout; + We’ll pull the little table out; + + And Andrew Usher, ever blessed, + Shall comfort us beneath the vest. + + So trim the light, and build the fire; + Bring out your oldest, sweetest briar. + + For half an hour, if you please, + We’ll listen to _The Seven Seas_; + + Or Mr. Gallagher will sing-- + An opera or anything-- + + About the Duke of Seven Dials, + About his Dolly and her wiles. + + Then we will sit, but not for tea, + Around the smooth mahogany, + + And watch while houses full of kings + Are overthrown by knaves and things; + + And hear the pleasant clicking noise + Of triple-colored ivories. + + And Time may learn another trick + To better his arithmetic, + + When wise content subtracts a notch + For fuming weed and foaming Scotch. + + To-morrow, by the early train, + Light-hearted mirth will come again + + To race across-lots with a crew + Of St. Bernards,--contagious Lou. + + Who would not quit, for joys like these, + All idle Southern vagrancies, + + By purple cove and creamy beach, + And gold fruit hung within the reach? + + Since friendship is a thing that grows + To sturdy height in Northern snows, + + Who would not choose December weather, + Where love and cold thrive well together, + + And bide his days, content to dwell + Under the eaves of Tortoise Shell? + + + + +BAHAMAN + + + In the crowd that thronged the pierhead, + come to see their friends take ship + For new ventures in seafaring, + when the hawsers were let slip + And we swung out in the current, + with good-byes on every lip, + + Midst the waving caps and kisses, + as we dropped down with the tide + And the faces blurred and faded, + last of all your hand I spied + Signalling, Farewell; Good fortune! + then my heart rose up and cried, + + “While the world holds one such comrade, + whose sweet durable regard + Would so speed my safe departure, + lest home-leaving should be hard, + What care I who keeps the ferry, + whether Charon or Cunard!” + + Then we cleared the bar, and laid her + on the course, the thousand miles + From the Hook to the Bahamas, + from midwinter to the isles + Where frost never laid a finger, + and eternal summer smiles. + + Three days through the surly storm-beat, + while the surf-heads threshed and flew, + And the rolling mountains thundered + to the trample of the screw, + The black liner heaved and scuffled + and strained on, as if she knew. + + On the fourth, the round blue morning + sparkled there, all light and breeze, + Clean and tenuous as a bubble + blown from two immensities, + Shot and colored with sheer sunlight + and the magic of those seas. + + In that bright new world of wonder, + it was life enough to laze + All day underneath the awnings, + and through half-shut eyes to gaze + At the marvel of the sea-blue; + and I faltered for a phrase + + Should half give you the impression, + tell you how the very tint + Justified your finest daring, + as if Nature gave the hint, + “Plodders, see Imagination + set his pallet without stint!” + + Cobalt, gobelin, and azure, + turquoise, sapphire, indigo, + Changing from the spectral bluish + of a shadow upon snow + To the deep of Canton china,-- + one unfathomable glow. + + And the flying fish,--to see them + in a scurry lift and flee, + Silvery as the foam they sprang from, + fragile people of the sea, + Whom their heart’s great aspiration + for a moment had set free. + + From the dim and cloudy ocean, + thunder-centred, rosy-verged, + At the lord sun’s _Sursum Corda_, + as implicit impulse urged, + Frail as vapor, fine as music, + these bright spirit-things emerged; + + Like those flocks of small white snowbirds + we have seen start up before + Our brisk walk in winter weather + by the snowy Scituate shore; + And the tiny shining sea-folk + brought you back to me once more. + + So we ran down Abaco; + and passing that tall sentinel + Black against the sundown, sighted, + as the sudden twilight fell, + Nassau light; and the warm darkness + breathed on us from breeze and swell. + + Stand-by bell and stop of engine; + clank of anchor going down; + And we’re riding in the roadstead + off a twinkling-lighted town, + Low dark shore with boom of breaker + and white beach the palm-trees crown. + + In the soft wash of the sea air, + on the long swing of the tide, + Here for once the dream came true, + the voyage ended close beside + The Hesperides in moonlight + on mid-ocean where they ride. + + And those Hesperidian joy-lands + were not strange to you and me. + Just beyond the lost horizon, + every time we looked to sea + From Testudo, there they floated, + looming plain as plain could be. + + Who believed us? “Myth and fable + are a science in our time.” + “Never saw the sea that color.” + “Never heard of such a rhyme.” + Well, we’ve proved it, prince of idlers,-- + knowledge wrong and faith sublime. + + Right were you to follow fancy, + give the vaguer instinct room + In a heaven of clear color, + Where the spirit might assume + All her elemental beauty, + past the fact of sky or bloom. + + Paint the vision, not the view,-- + the touch that bids the sense good-bye, + Lifting spirit at a bound + beyond the frontiers of the eye, + To suburb unguessed dominions + of the soul’s credulity. + + Never yet was painter, poet, + born content with things that are,-- + Must divine from every beauty + other beauties greater far, + Till the arc of truth be circled, + and her lantern blaze, a star. + + This alone is art’s ambition, + to arrest with form and hue + Dominant ungrasped ideals, + known to credence, hid from view, + In a mimic of creation,-- + To the life, yet fairer too,-- + + Where the soul may take her pleasure, + contemplate perfection’s plan, + And returning bring the tidings + of his heritage to man,-- + News of continents uncharted + she has stood tiptoe to scan. + + So she fires his gorgeous fancy + with a cadence, with a line, + Till the artist wakes within him, + and the toiler grows divine, + Shaping the rough world about him + nearer to some fair design. + + Every heart must have its Indies,-- + an inheritance unclaimed + In the unsubstantial treasure + of a province never named, + Loved and longed for through a lifetime, + dull, laborious, and unfamed, + + Never wholly disillusioned. + _Spiritus_, read, _hæres sit + Patriæ quæ tristia nescit_. + This alone the great king writ + O’er the tomb of her he cherished + in this fair world she must quit. + + Love in one farewell forever, + taking counsel to implore + Best of human benedictions + on its dead, could ask no more. + The heart’s country for a dwelling, + this at last is all our lore. + + But the fairies at your cradle + gave you craft to build a home + In the wide bright world of color, + with the cunning of a gnome; + Blessed you so above your fellows + of the tribe that still must roam. + + Still across the world they go, + tormented by a strange unrest, + And the unabiding spirit + knocks forever at their breast, + Bidding them away to fortune + in some undiscovered West; + + While at home you sit and call + the Orient up at your command, + Master of the iris seas + and Prospero of the purple land. + Listen, here was one world-corner + matched the cunning of your hand. + + Not, my friend, since we were children, + and all wonder-tales were true,-- + Jason, Hengest, Hiawatha, + fairy prince or pirate crew,-- + Was there ever such a landing + in a country strange and new? + + Up the harbor where there gathered, + fought and revelled many a year, + Swarthy Spaniard, lost Lucayan, + Loyalist, and Buccaneer, + “Once upon a time” was now, + and “far across the sea” was here. + + Tropic moonlight, in great floods + and fathoms pouring through the trees + On a ground as white as sea-froth + its fantastic traceries, + While the poincianas, rustling + like the rain, moved in the breeze, + + Showed a city, coral-streeted, + melting in the mellow shine, + Built of creamstone and enchantment, + fairy work in every line, + In a velvet atmosphere + that bids the heart her haste resign. + + Thanks to Julian Hospitator, + saint of travellers by sea, + Roving minstrels and all boatmen,-- + just such vagabonds as we,-- + On the shaded wharf we landed, + rich in leisure, hale and free. + + What more would you for God’s creatures, + but the little tide of sleep? + In a clean white room I wakened, + saw the careless sunlight peep + Through the roses at the window, + lay and listened to the creep + + Of the soft wind in the shutters, + heard the palm-tops stirring high, + And that strange mysterious shuffle + of the slipshod foot go by. + In a world all glad with color, + gladdest of all things was I; + + In a quiet convent garden, + tranquil as the day is long, + Here to sit without intrusion + of the world or strife or wrong,-- + Watch the lizards chase each other, + and the green bird make his song; + + Warmed and freshened, lulled yet quickened + in that Paradisal air, + Motherly and uncapricious, + healing every hurt or care, + Wooing body, mind, and spirit + firmly back to strong and fair; + + By the Angelus reminded, + silence waits the touch of sound, + As the soul waits her awaking + to some _Gloria_ profound; + Till the mighty Southern Cross + is lighted at the day’s last bound. + + And if ever your fair fortune + make you good Saint Vincent’s guest, + At his door take leave of trouble, + welcomed to his decent rest, + Of his ordered peace partaker, + by his solace healed and blessed; + + Where this flowered cloister garden, + hidden from the passing view, + Lies behind its yellow walls + in prayer the holy hours through; + And beyond, that fairy harbor, + floored in malachite and blue. + + In that old white-streeted city + gladness has her way at last; + Under burdens finely poised, + and with a freedom unsurpassed, + Move the naked-footed bearers + in the blue day deep and vast. + + This is Bay Street broad and low-built, + basking in its quiet trade; + Here the sponging fleet is anchored; + here shell trinkets are displayed; + Here the cable news is posted daily; + here the market’s made, + + With its oranges from Andros, + heaps of yam and tamarind, + Red-juiced shadducks from the Current, + ripened in the long trade-wind, + Gaudy fish from their sea-gardens, + yellow-tailed and azure-finned. + + Here a group of diving boys + in bronze and ivory, bright and slim, + Sparkling copper in the high noon, + dripping loin-cloth, polished limb, + Poised a moment and then plunged + in that deep daylight green and dim. + + Here the great rich Spanish laurels + spread across the public square + Their dense solemn shade; and near by, + half within the open glare, + Mannerly in their clean cottons, + knots of blacks are waiting there + + By the court-house, where a magistrate + is hearing cases through, + Dealing justice prompt and level, + as the sturdy English do,-- + One more tent-peg of the Empire, + holding that great shelter true. + + Last the picture from the town’s end, + palmed and foam-fringed through the cane, + Where the gorgeous sunset yellows + pour aloft and spill and stain + The pure amethystine sea + and far faint islands of the main. + + Loveliest of the Lucayas, + peace be yours till time be done! + In the gray North I shall see you, + with your white streets in the sun, + Old pink walls and purple gateways, + where the lizards bask and run, + + Where the great hibiscus blossoms + in their scarlet loll and glow, + And the idling gay bandannas + through the hot noons come and go, + While the ever stirring sea-wind + sways the palm-tops to and fro. + + Far from stress and storm forever, + dream behind your jalousies, + While the long white lines of breakers + crumble on your reefs and keys, + And the crimson oleanders + burn against the peacock seas. + + + + +FLYING FISH + + + Where the Southern liners go, + In the push of the purple seas, + When sky and ocean merge + Their blue immensities, + + A creature novel and fine + Will break from the foam and play, + Swift as a leaf on the wind, + Part of the light and spray. + + Will scud like a gust of snow, + Silver diaphanous things, + As if, when the sun gave will, + The sea for his part gave wings. + + For æons the Titan deep + Forged and fashioned and framed, + In the great water-mills, + Forms that no man has named. + + With hammer of thunderous seas, + With smooth attrition of tides, + Shaping each joint and valve, + Putting the heart in their sides, + + Blindly he labored and slow, + With patience ungrudging and vast, + Moulding the marvels he wrought + Nearer some purpose at last. + + Not his own. Those creatures of his + Were endowed with an alien spark, + And a hint of groping mind + That made for an unseen mark. + + For part was the stroke of force, + Fortuitous, blind, and fell, + And part was the breath of soul + Inhabiting film and cell. + + Finer and frailer they grew; + Must dare and be glad and aspire, + Out of the nether gloom + Into the pale sea-fire, + + Out of the pale sea-day + Into the sparkle and air, + Quitting the elder home + For the venture bright and rare. + + Ah, Silver-fin, you too + Must follow the faint ahoy + Over the welter of life + To radiant moments of joy! + + + + +IN BAY STREET + + + “What do you sell, John Camplejohn, + In Bay Street by the sea?” + “Oh, turtle shell is what I sell, + In great variety: + + “Trinkets and combs and rosaries, + All keepsakes from the sea; + ’Tis choose and buy what takes the eye, + In such a treasury.” + + “’Tis none of these, John Camplejohn, + Though curious they be, + But something more I’m looking for, + In Bay Street by the sea. + + “Where can I buy the magic charm + Of the Bahaman sea, + That fills mankind with peace of mind + And soul’s felicity? + + “Now, what do you sell, John Camplejohn, + In Bay Street by the sea, + Tinged with that true and native blue + Of lapis lazuli? + + “Look from your door, and tell me now + The color of the sea. + Where can I buy that wondrous dye, + And take it home with me? + + “And where can I buy that rustling sound, + In this city by the sea, + Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; + Or the stately poise and free + + “Of the bearers who go up and down, + Silent as mystery, + Burden on head, with naked tread, + In the white streets by the sea? + + “And where can I buy, John Camplejohn, + In Bay Street by the sea, + The sunlight’s fall on the old pink wall, + Or the gold of the orange-tree?” + + “Ah, that is more than I’ve heard tell + In Bay Street by the sea, + Since I began, my roving man, + A trafficker to be. + + “As sure as I’m John Camplejohn, + And Bay Street’s by the sea, + Those things for gold have not been sold, + Within my memory. + + “But what would you give, my roving man + From countries over-sea, + For the things you name, the life of the same, + And the power to bid them be?” + + “I’d give my hand, John Camplejohn, + In Bay Street by the sea, + For the smallest dower of that dear power + To paint the things I see.” + + “My roving man, I never heard, + On any land or sea + Under the sun, of any one + Could sell that power to thee.” + + “’Tis sorry news, John Camplejohn, + If this be destiny, + That every mart should know that art, + Yet none can sell it me. + + “But look you, here’s the grace of God: + There’s neither price nor fee, + Duty nor toll, that can control + The power to love and see. + + “To each his luck, John Camplejohn, + Say I. And as for me, + Give me the pay of an idle day + In Bay Street by the sea.” + + + + +MIGRANTS + + + Hello, whom have we here + Under the orange-trees, + Where the old convent wall + Looks to the turquoise seas? + + In his jacket of olive green + He slips from bough to bough, + With a familiar air + No venue could disavow. + + Good-day to you, quiet sir! + We have been friends before, + When lilacs were in bloom + By the lovely Scituate shore. + + When the surly hordes of snow + Came down on the trains of the wind, + Two sojourners, it seems, + Were of a single mind. + + Both from the storm and gray, + The stress of the northern year, + Seeking the peace of the world, + Found tranquillity here. + + Here where there is no haste, + Lead we, each in his way, + Undistracted a while, + The slow sweet life of a day. + + Busy, contented, and shy, + Through the green shade you go; + So unobtrusive and fair + A mien few mortals know. + + It needs not the task be hard, + Nor the achievement sublime, + If only the soul be great, + Free from the fever of time. + + And your glad being confirms + The ancient _Bonum est + Nos hic esse_ of earth, + With serene, unanxious zest, + + Whether far North you fare, + When too brief spring once more + Visits the stone-walled fields + Beside the Scituate shore, + + Or here in an endless June + Under the orange-trees, + Where the old convent wall + Looks to the turquoise seas. + + + + +WHITE NASSAU + + + There is fog upon the river, there is mirk upon the town; + You can hear the groping ferries as they hoot each other down; + From the Battery to Harlem there’s seven miles of slush, + Through looming granite canyons of glitter, noise, and rush. + + Are you sick of phones and tickers and crazing cable gongs, + Of the theatres, the hansoms, and the breathless Broadway throngs, + Of Flouret’s and the Waldorf and the chilly, drizzly Park, + When there’s hardly any morning and five o’clock is dark? + + I know where there’s a city, whose streets are white and clean, + And sea-blue morning loiters by walls where roses lean, + And quiet dwells; that’s Nassau, beside her creaming key, + The queen of the Lucayas in the blue Bahaman sea. + + She’s ringed with surf and coral, she’s crowned with sun and palm; + She has the old-world leisure, the regal tropic calm; + The trade winds fan her forehead; in everlasting June + She reigns from deep verandas above her blue lagoon. + + She has had many suitors,--Spaniard and Buccaneer,-- + Who roistered for her beauty and spilt their blood for her; + But none has dared molest her, since the Loyalist Deveaux + Went down from Carolina a hundred years ago. + + Unmodern, undistracted, by grassy ramp and fort, + In decency and order she holds her modest court; + She seems to have forgotten rapine and greed and strife, + In that unaging gladness and dignity of life. + + Through streets as smooth as asphalt and white as bleaching shell, + Where the slip-shod heel is happy and the naked foot goes well, + In their gaudy cotton kerchiefs, with swaying hips and free, + Go her black folk in the morning to the market of the sea. + + Into her bright sea-gardens the flushing tide-gates lead, + Where fins of chrome and scarlet loll in the lifting weed; + With the long sea-draft behind them, through luring coral groves + The shiny water-people go by in painted droves. + + Under her old pink gateways, where Time a moment turns, + Where hang the orange lanterns and the red hibiscus burns, + Live the harmless merry lizards, quicksilver in the sun, + Or still as any image with their shadow on a stone. + + Through the lemon-trees at leisure a tiny olive bird + Moves all day long and utters his wise assuring word; + While up in their blue chantry murmur the solemn palms, + At their litanies of joyance, their ancient ceaseless psalms. + + There in the endless sunlight, within the surf’s low sound, + Peace tarries for a lifetime at doorways unrenowned; + And a velvet air goes breathing across the sea-girt land, + Till the sense begins to waken and the soul to understand. + + There’s a pier in the East River, where a black Ward Liner lies, + With her wheezy donkey-engines taking cargo and supplies; + She will clear the Hook to-morrow for the Indies of the West, + For the lovely white girl city in the Islands of the Blest. + + She’ll front the riding winter on the gray Atlantic seas, + And thunder through the surf-heads till her funnels crust and freeze; + She’ll grapple the Southeaster, the Thing without a Mind, + Till she drops him, mad and monstrous, with the light ship far behind. + + Then out into a morning all summer warmth and blue! + By the breathing of her pistons, by the purring of the screw, + By the springy dip and tremor as she rises, you can tell + Her heart is light and easy as she meets the lazy swell. + + With the flying fish before her, and the white wake running aft, + Her smoke-wreath hanging idle, without breeze enough for draft, + She will travel fair and steady, and in the afternoon + Run down the floating palm-tops where lift the Isles of June. + + With the low boom of breakers for her only signal gun, + She will anchor off the harbor when her thousand miles are done, + And there’s my love, white Nassau, girt with her foaming key, + The queen of the Lucayas in the blue Bahaman sea! + + + + + _This first edition of_ A WINTER HOLIDAY + _is printed for Small, Maynard & + Company at The University Press in + Cambridge, U. S. A., November, 1899_ + + + + +Transcriber’s Note + + + • Italics represented with surrounding _underscores_. + + • Small caps converted to ALL CAPS. + + • Obvious typographic errors silently corrected. + + • Variations in hyphenation kept as in the original. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77609 *** |