Read Ebook: The woods by Malloch Douglas

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Ebook has 329 lines and 25649 words, and 7 pages

POSSESSION

There's some of us has this world's goods, An' some of us has none-- But all of us has got the woods, An' all has got the sun. So, settin' here upon the stoop, This patch o' pine beside, I never care a single whoop-- Fer I am satisfied.

Now, take the pine on yonder hill: It don't belong to me; The boss he owns the timber--still, It's there fer me to see. An', 'twixt the ownin' of the same An' smellin' of its smell, I've got the best of that there game, An' so I'm feelin' well.

The boss in town unrolls a map An' proudly says, "It's mine." But he don't drink no maple sap An' he don't smell no pine. The boss in town he figgers lands In quarter-sections red; Lord! I just set with folded hands An' breathe 'em in instead.

The boss his forest wealth kin read In cent an' dollar sign; His name is written in the deed-- But all his land is mine. There's some of us has this world's goods, An' some of us has none-- But all of us has got the woods, An' all has got the sun!

WHEN THE GEESE COME NORTH

Their faint "honk-honk" announces them, The geese when they come flying north; Above the far horizon's hem From out the south they issue forth.

They weave their figures in the sky, They write their name upon its dome, And, o'er and o'er, we hear them cry Their cry of gladness and of home.

Now lakes shall loose their icy hold Upon the banks, and crocus bloom; The sun shall warm the river's cold And pierce the Winter's armored gloom;

The vines upon the oaken tree Shall shake their wavy tresses forth, The grass shall wake, the rill go free-- For, see! The geese are flying north!

SPRING FEVER

Not exactly lazy-- Yet I want to sit In the mornin' hazy An' jest dream a bit. Haven't got ambition Fer a single thing-- Regaler condition Ev'ry bloomin' Spring.

Want to sleep at noontime , But along at moontime Hate to go to bed. Find myself a-stealin' Fer a sunny spot-- Jest that Springy feelin', That is what I've got.

Like to set a-wishin' Fer a pipe an' book, Like to go a-fishin' In a meadow-brook With some fish deceiver, Underneath a tree-- Jest the old Spring fever, That's what's ailing me!

MARCH

In what a travail is our Springtime born!-- 'Mid leaden skies and garmenture of gloom. Wild waves of cloud the drifting stars consume And shipless seas of heaven greet the morn. The forest trees stand sad and tempest-torn, Memorials of Summer's ended bloom; For unto March, the sister most forlorn, No roses come her pathway to illume. Yet 'tis the month the Winter northward flies With one last trumpeting of savage might. Now stirs the earth of green that underlies This other earth enwrapped in garb of white. And while poor March, grown weary, droops and dies The little Springtime opens wide its eyes.

CHILDREN OF THE SPRING

What means the Spring to you?-- The tree, the bloom, the grass; Wide fields to wander through; A primrose path to pass; Bright sun, and skies of blue;

The songs of singing streams; The rippling riverside Awakening from dreams; Fair-browed and azure-eyed-- Oh, thus the Springtime seems.

Yet not for such as you She comes with song and voice, 'Tis not for such as you She makes the heart rejoice, She comes with skies of blue.

Spring's children are the ill-- 'Tis these she comes to cheer; Upon the window-sill, Within the chamber drear, She sits her song to trill.

On narrow cots they lie Within the quiet room, Their sky a square of sky Cut from the inner gloom, From dreary walls and high.

Spring means so much to these, The prisoners abed!-- The perfume of the breeze, The birdsong overhead, The echoed melodies.

The window open wide-- Behold, the Spring is here! No more the countryside Is dim and dark and drear; Now stronger runs the tide.

The pale and patient wife, Her babe upon her breast, Forgets the night, the knife, And sleeps the sleep of rest, Awakening to life.

The old, the very old, Behold in budding Spring Another year unfold-- And life, a tinsel thing, Is turned again to gold.

And e'en the empty cot, Whose Spring has come too late, The one who now is not, The one who could not wait, The Spring has not forgot.

For, see! the Springtime stands Our drooping eyes to raise To fair and shining strands; The Springtime comes and lays A lily in his hands.

"LIFE"

Man, thrust upon the world, awakes from sleep, Knowing not whence he came nor how nor why. His earliest impulse is an infant cry, His final privilege is that to weep.

A combatant although he sought no strife, A guest unwelcome come unwillingly, Given his vision that he may not see, He names this unnamed paradox his life.

He learns to walk the forest and to love Its green and brown, its song and season's change, Yet will not taste a berry that is strange Or tread a pathway that he knows not of.

Skeptic and doubter of the flow'r and tree, He questions this and that investigates-- Yet drinks the beaker offered by the fates And leaves unsolved the greater mystery.

THE PASSENGER PIGEONS

Where roam ye now, ye nomads of the air, The old-time heralds of our old-time Springs? Once, when we heard the thunder of your wings, We looked upon the world--and Spring was there.

One time your armies swept across the sky, Your feathered millions in a mighty march Filling with life and music all the arch Where now a lonely swallow flutters by.

Where roam ye now, ye nomads of the air? In what far land? What undiscovered place? Ye may have found the refuge of the race That mortals visit but in dream and prayer.

Perhaps in some blest land ye wing your flight, Now undisturbed by murder and by greed, And there await the coming of the freed Who shall emerge, like ye, from earth and night.

JUNE

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming! Among the alders by the stream I heard a partridge drumming; I heard a partridge drumming, June, a welcome with his wings, And felt a softness in the air half Summer's and half Spring's.

I knew that you were nearing, June, I knew that you were nearing-- I saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing; The roses in the clearing, June, were blushing pink and red, For they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread.

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming, For ev'ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming. I know that you are here, June, I know that you are here-- The fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year!

THE BIGGER THING

Jest yesterday I watched an ant A-totin' in the summer sun; I saw him puff an' pull an' pant With little burdens, one by one. A wisp of straw acrost his way Once kept him busy fer an hour, An' ant-miles long he walked that day To git around a bloomin' flower. The sand he carried grain by grain-- Great boulders thet he had to lift-- An', with his engineerin' brain, He sunk his shaft an' run his drift. An' then at night a Bigger Thing, To which the Little Thing must kneel, Creation's self-appointed king, Wiped out the anthill with its heel. O self-made boss of things thet creep An' walk an' fly, an' yet are mute, When I consider how you keep Your kingdom of the bird an' brute, When I consider how you speak Your will among the smaller folk An' send your message to the weak In flyin' lead an' flamin' smoke, When I consider how you stalk The quiet wood with evil breath An' leave behind you, as you walk, A path of pain an' trail of death, I wonder how 'twould seem to you, The silent people's lord an' king, To tremble when you heard it, too-- The comin' of some Bigger Thing?

THE CHICKADEE

There's somethin' 'bout the chickadee Thet's, somehow, awful cheerin'; Around the shanty door it bums An' gethers up the crusts an' crumbs Cook scatters in the clearin'.

It gethers up the crusts an' crumbs An' jest as glad it chatters As if it fed on biscuit fine All soaked in milk er dipped in wine An' served on silver platters.

My share of life is crusts an' crumbs I find somehow er other; An' how I wish thet I could be Like you are, Mr. Chickadee, My cheerful little brother!

JIM

SETTIN' IN THE SUN

I reckon the party who sets on a throne Has a perfectly miser'ble time; There always is someone a-pickin' a bone With a king or a monarch sublime. Some calculate maybe that bein' a king Is a job that is gen'ally fun-- Well, well, it may be, But the best thing, to me, Is jest settin' right here in the sun.

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