Chapter M: L. G (1)

_Who has shared with me
the
Joys of “Knapsack Carrying”
along Life’s road_

_On Knapsack Carrying_

We are all knapsack carriers. And none of us travels far on the road of Life without discovering certain things which we would not be without,--things that seem indispensable to our happiness. These indispensable things we put, often unconsciously, into our knapsack to carry with us during the remainder of the journey.

The kinds of things we “tote” in our knapsack vary with the different stages of our journey. We begin by collecting pebbles for our sling shot, and in lieu of a literal knapsack we hide them in our boy’s pocket. A little farther along the journey we discover that marbles, or stamps, or arrowheads are the things that are indispensable to our happiness, and we gradually shift our knapsack load to meet the newer need.

Still later in life some of us accumulate coins and bank notes, stocks and mortgages, and other passing trifles that for the moment seem the only indispensable things to our happiness. We work ourselves sick, we sacrifice our friends, we succeed so well that soon our knapsack is too full for us to carry, and we go to some friendly banker and ask him to put it in his safety deposit vault where we may worry about it to our hearts’ content. And there it rests until we come to die, and the only joy it has brought us is the cheap joy of accumulation.

Some of us, however, by force of circumstance or by deliberate choice, begin early in life to collect in our knapsacks beautiful memories of sunsets, of cloud-capped hills and wind-swept plains, of deep-flowing rivers and talking brooks, memories of the infinite sky and the eternal sea, of bird songs and blossoms, of trembling trees and all the lovely things of nature. And after the first ecstasy of discovery, these things gradually become the indispensable things of our happiness and of our lives. Every spring these joys are reborn in us, and every autumn they flare up with the first reddening tree. Each month in the cycle of the year holds its unforgettable thrill, its reminder of ancient glories and happy memories.

Next to the recollection of beauties we have seen with our own eyes and carried long in the knapsack of our memory, there is no joy greater than walking afield with the poets, and spending an afternoon discovering new beauties and new meanings in Nature.

Soon or late every nature lover makes a collection of those poems that remind him of his own memories. These he treasures in his knapsack, and as the seasons come and go he takes them out to feed his soul and to refresh his spirit as he travels hopefully along the road of Life.

I would not for the world deprive any one of this pleasure. I only hope that this knapsack of nature poetry will be found a worthy travelling companion for every nature lover. It cannot be exhaustive, and it is in no sense a reference book. Its only purpose is to serve as a friendly guide to many of the most beautiful nature poems by English and American authors. They lead one over an unknown trail with here a glimpse of sea, there a racing cloud, now the patter of April rain, and the smell of apple blossoms. Open the book where you will, and it leads you off through field or forest, by babbling brook or singing sea.

An anthology necessarily implies an individual choice, and the selections within have been chosen almost without exception for the pleasure they have given me. Because I believe that Lyric poetry is the highest form of poetic expression, I have given the preference to poems that possess this singing quality.

In spite of the fact that in much of the poetry of the last twenty-five years the lyric note has been sadly absent, yet the book contains many exquisite lyrics by the “younger generation” which shows the persistence of this timeless quality of all great poetry.

I wish to acknowledge frankly my indebtedness to many who have preceded me in the making of anthologies; and to scores of authors and their publishers who have so generously given permission for me to include their poems. It is a goodly fellowship. If, after all, I have left out your favorite nature poem, please tell me so.

EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER

_What the Knapsack Holds_

_The Lure of the Road_

A Wanderer’s Song _John Masefield_ 3
The Singer’s Quest _Odell Shepherd_ 3
The Toil of the Trail _Hamlin Garland_ 4
Two Old Men _Louise Driscoll_ 5
The Best Road of All _Charles Hanson Towne_ 6
The Cry of the Dreamer _John Boyle O’Reilly_ 7
Highways _Leslie Nelson Jennings_ 8
Afoot and Light-Hearted _Walt Whitman_ 9
The Path that Leads to
Nowhere _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ 9
City-Weary _Edgar A. Guest_ 10
The Faun _Richard Hovey_ 12
The Call of the Wild _Robert W. Service_ 13
A City Voice _Theodosia Garrison_ 15
Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_ 16
Camping Song _Bliss Carman_ 17
The Green Inn _Theodosia Garrison_ 18
Wanderlust _Isabel Ecclestine Mackay_ 19
Song _Georgiana Goddard King_ 19
In City Streets _Ada Smith_ 20
Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit
Your Books _William Wordsworth_ 21
Road Song _James Stewart Montgomery_ 22
Walking at Night _Amory Hare_ 23
Road Song _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ 24
A Song of the Open Road _Louis J. McQuilland_ 25
A Maine Trail _Gertrude H. McGiffert_ 27
The Spell of the Pool _L. Burton Crane, Jr._ 28
The Lake _Eleanour Norton_ 29
The Great Outdoors _Maud Russell_ 29
Come, Spur Away! _Thomas Randolph_ 30
Hunting Song _Richard Hovey_ 31
The Call _Cora D. Fenton_ 31
The King’s Highway _John Steven McGroarty_ 32
God Made This Day For Me _Edgar A. Guest_ 34
The Country Faith _Norman Gale_ 35

_Green Things Growing_

Afoot _Charles G. D. Roberts_ 39
Grace for Gardens _Louise Driscoll_ 40
My Garden _Thomas E. Brown_ 41
April _John Vance Cheney_ 41
A Song the Grass Sings _Charles G. Blanden_ 42
The Young Dandelion _Dinah Mulock Craik_ 42
Sunflowers _Clinton Scollard_ 43
Wishing _William Allingham_ 44
Rain _Lucy Larcom_ 44
To the Dandelion _James Russell Lowell_ 45
The Grass _Walt Whitman_ 47
Buttercups _Wilfrid C. Thorley_ 47
The Lilac _Humbert Wolfe_ 48
The Hollyhocks _Ray Laurance_ 48
The Ragged Regiment _Alice Williams Brotherton_ 49
Marigolds _Bliss Carman_ 49
In a Garden _Theda Kenyon_ 50
The Dandelions _Helen Gray Cone_ 51
Rhodora _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 52
Daisies _Bliss Carman_ 53
Out in the Fields with God _Elizabeth Browning_ 53
The Blackbird _Humbert Wolfe_ 54
The Robin _Emily Dickinson_ 54
Clover _John B. Tabb_ 55
A Conversation _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 55
A Yellow Pansy _Helen Gray Cone_ 56
The Answer _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 57
A Prayer _Edwin Markham_ 57

_The Kinship of the Trees_

Tree Feelings _Charlotte Perkins Gilman_ 61
A B C’s in Green _Leonora Speyer_ 62
O Dreamy, Gloomy, Friendly
Trees! _Herbert Trench_ 62
God, When You Thought of a
Pine Tree _Unknown_ 63
The House of the Trees _Ethelwyn Wetherald_ 64
Trees _Bliss Carman_ 65
The Trees and the Master _Sidney Lanier_ 66
The Trees _Samuel Valentine Cole_ 67
Three Trees _Christopher Morley_ 68
What Do We Plant? _Henry Abbey_ 69
Trees _Henry van Dyke_ 70
The Trees _Lucy Larcom_ 71
Good Company _Karl Wilson Baker_ 71
The Green Tree in the Fall _Jessie B. Rittenhouse_ 72

_The Call of the Sea_

Sea-Fever _John Masefield_ 75
A Son of the Sea _Bliss Carman_ 75
Dreams of the Sea _William H. Davies_ 76
Going Down in Ships _Harry Kemp_ 77
The Waves of Breffny _Eva Gore-Booth_ 78
Short Beach _Richard Hovey_ 79
Sea Call _Margaret Widdemer_ 79
Ship-Love _Ethel E. Mannin_ 80
The Sea _Nora Hopper_ 81
Coquette _Keith Stuart_ 82
The Deep-Water Man _James Stuart Montgomery_ 82
Sea Longing _Harold Vinal_ 84
Had I the Choice _Walt Whitman_ 84
Gray _Oscar Williams_ 85
A Pagan Hymn _John Runcie_ 85
As the Tide Comes In _Cale Young Rice_ 86
A Wet Sheet and a
Flowing Sea _Allan Cunningham_ 87
The Undersong _Fiona Macleod_ 88
Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea _Charles G. D. Roberts_ 89
The Sea _Bryan Waller Procter_ 89
The Sea Road _Martha Haskell Clark_ 91
The Sea _Richard Hovey_ 92
The World is Too Much
With Us _William Wordsworth_ 94
Sunrise _Robert Browning_ 94
Song of the Sea _Richard Burton_ 95
Farewell _Katherine Tynan_ 96
The Return _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 97
The Port o’ Heart’s Desire _John Steven McGroarty_ 99
Sea-Urge _Unknown_ 100
The Ocean _Lord Byron_ 100
A Song of Desire _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_ 102
A Sea Change _Dorothy Peace_ 103
Twilight At Sea _Amelia C. Welby_ 103
Sea-Song _Martha Haskell Clark_ 104
Deep Down _James Stuart Montgomery_ 104

_The Winds of Heaven_

Do You Fear the Wind? _Hamlin Garland_ 109
Hark to the Shouting Wind _Henry Timod_ 109
Who Has Seen the Wind? _Christina Rossetti_ 110
Wind _John Galsworthy_ 110
The Sea-Wind _Arthur Ketchum_ 111
I Meant to Do My Work
Today _Richard Le Gallienne_ 111
That Wind is Best _Caroline Atherton Mason_ 112
Happy Wind _William H. Davies_ 112
Wind-Litany _Margaret Widdemer_ 113
A Morning _Theodosia Garrison_ 114
The Wind’s Life _Harry Kemp_ 115
The Mystic _Cale Young Rice_ 115

_The Hill-born_

The Cry of the Hillborn _Bliss Carman_ 119
Up a Hill and a Hill _Fannie Stearns Davis_ 120
Hills _Arthur Guiterman_ 121
Again Among the Hills _Richard Hovey_ 122
Hill Hunger _Joseph Auslander_ 124
Afternoon on a Hill _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 125
The Hills _Theodosia Garrison_ 125
On a Hill _Irene Rutherford McLeod_ 126

_Traveller’s Joy_

Traveller’s Joy _Arthur Ketchum_ 131
Ellis Park _Helen Hoyt_ 132
Afoot _C. Fox-Smith_ 133
The Going of His Feet _Harry Kemp_ 134
Down East and Up Along _Edwin Osgood Grover_ 135
The Joys of the Road _Bliss Carman_ 136
Song of the Open _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 139
Rebellion _Stephen Chalmers_ 140
The Tree-Top Road _May Riley Smith_ 142
Early Morning at Bargis _Hermann Hagedorn_ 143
Denial _Lancaster Pollard_ 144
“A la Belle Étoile” _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 144
Journey _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 145
The Sojourner _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 146
Traveller’s Rest _C. Fox-Smith_ 147
Far From the Madding Crowd _Nixon Waterman_ 148
Streams _Clinton Scollard_ 149
The Call _Edgar A. Guest_ 150
The Road that Leads to
Home _Ethel E. Mannin_ 150

_Echoes from Vagabondia_

Wanderthirst _Gerald Gould_ 155
The Vagabond _Edgar A. Guest_ 155
Gipsy Song _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 156
The Road to Vagabondia _Dana Burnet_ 157
Gipsy Feet _Fannie Stearns Davis_ 158
A Strip of Blue _Lucy Larcom_ 160
Black Ashes _Martha Haskell Clark_ 161
The Wander Lure _Kendall Banning_ 162
Comrades of the Trail _Mary Carolyn Davies_ 163
The Vagrant _Pauline Slender_ 164
The Gipsy Wedding _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 165
The Vagabond at Home _Ruth Wright Kauffman_ 165
The Gipsy Trail _Rudyard Kipling_ 166
St. Bartholomew’s on
the Hill _Bliss Carman_ 168
Fishing _Edgar A. Guest_ 169
A Vagabond Song _Bliss Carman_ 171
Have You? _Harry M. Dean_ 171
Gypsy-Heart _Katherine Lee Bates_ 172
A More Ancient Mariner _Bliss Carman_ 173
Vagabonds _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 175
The Gypsying _Theodosia Garrison_ 175
The Mendicants _Bliss Carman_ 176
The Beloved Vagabond _W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_ 177
The Secret Voices _Ethel E. Mannin_ 178

_The Changing Year_

Turn O’ The Year _Katherine Tynan_ 183
April Music _Clinton Scollard_ 183
The Year’s Awakening _Thomas Hardy_ 184
Spring’s Answer _Edwin Osgood Grover_ 185
Morning Song _Lancaster Pollard_ 186
April Weather _Bliss Carman_ 186
The Runaway _Cale Young Rice_ 188
Spring Market _Louise Driscoll_ 189
Song in March _Clinton Scollard_ 190
Flower Chorus _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 191
April’s Coming _Lancaster Pollard_ 192
The Secret _John Richard Moreland_ 193
Spring _Norman Gale_ 193
April Weather _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 194
Renewal _Charles Hanson Towne_ 195
April _Theodosia Garrison_ 195
The Immortal _Cale Young Rice_ 196
Spring _Richard Hovey_ 196
Blind _Harry Kemp_ 199
Spring Song _Bliss Carman_ 200
The Sweet, Low Speech of
the Rain _Ella Higginson_ 203
Early Spring _Alfred Tennyson_ 205
Spring _Henry Timrod_ 206
April, April _William Watson_ 208
April Rain _Robert Loveman_ 209
April _Emily Dickinson_ 210
April Morning _George Elliston_ 210
May-Lure _Richard Burton_ 211
Sunrise _Robert Browning_ 212
The Throstle _Alfred Tennyson_ 212
Tell All the World _Harry Kemp_ 213
Sorrow in a Garden _May Riley Smith_ 213
The Naturalist on a
June Sunday _Leonora Speyer_ 215
Summer _Richard Burton_ 216
Autumn _Emily Dickinson_ 218
Overtones _William Alexander Percy_ 218
Carouse _Charles Hanson Towne_ 219
A Song in Autumn _Theodosia Garrison_ 219
An Autumn Garden _Bliss Carman_ 220
September _Sara Hamilton Birchall_ 223
Days Like These _Ella Elizabeth Egbert_ 224
Indian Summer _Emily Dickinson_ 225
The Deserted Pasture _Bliss Carman_ 226
The Coming of Dawn _Grace Atherton Dennen_ 227
Alms in Autumn _Rose Fyleman_ 228
November in England _Thomas Hood_ 228
The Hound _Babette Deutsch_ 229

_Sky-Born Music_

Let Me Go Where’er I Will _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 233
Pippa’s Song _Robert Browning_ 233
The Whisper of Earth _Edward J. O’Brien_ 234
Sunrise _Edgar A. Guest_ 234
Prayer Before Poems _Ann Blackwell Payne_ 235
How Miracles Abound _Clinton Scollard_ 236
Little Things _Orrick Johns_ 236
Clouds and Sky _Lancaster Pollard_ 237
My Heart Leaps Up When
I Behold _William Wordsworth_ 238
The Marshes _Sidney Lanier_ 238
Song _John Vance Cheney_ 239
Out-of-Doors _Ethel E. Mannin_ 239
The Whole Duty of Berkshire
Brooks _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 240
A Word with A Skylark _Sarah Piatt_ 241
The Perilous Light _Eva Gore-Booth_ 241
Folly _Vivian Yeiser Laramore_ 243
One Blackbird _Harold Monro_ 243
A Rune of Riches _Florence Converse_ 244
The Picture _Frederick O. Sylvester_ 245
“Sic Vita” _William Stanley Braithwaite_ 245
A Blackbird Suddenly _Joseph Auslander_ 246
Credo _Vera Wheatley_ 247
Gospel of the Fields _Arthur Upson_ 247
The Welcome _Arthur Powell_ 248
Angels of the Spring _Robert Stephen Hawkes_ 249
God’s World _Edna St. Vincent Millay_ 249
Rain _Kenneth Slade Alling_ 250
The Lark _Lizette Woodworth Reese_ 250
Farewell _Harry Kemp_ 251
The Comfort of the Stars _Richard Burton_ 251
The Last Hour _Ethel Clifford_ 252
Wasted Hours _Medora Addison_ 253
God is at the Anvil _Lew Sarett_ 253

_The End of The Trail_

Hesperides _Harry Kemp_ 257
Changeless _Martha Haskell Clark_ 257
Homesick _Julia C. R. Dorr_ 258
If All the Skies _Henry van Dyke_ 259
“Gratias Ago” _Geoffrey Howard_ 260
Song of Ballyshannon _Jeanne Robert Foster_ 261
A Song of the Road _Fred G. Bowles_ 263
After Sunset _Grace Hazard Conkling_ 263
The Wanderer _Zoe Akins_ 264
The Trumpet of the Dawn _Clinton Scollard_ 265
Shared _Lucy Larcom_ 265
Up-Hill _Christina Rossetti_ 266
The Epitaph _Katherine Tynan_ 267

_Copyright Acknowledgments_

The editor expresses his keen appreciation to the many poets and their publishers, who have so generously coöperated in the preparation of this volume by granting permission to include copyright material.

All rights to the poems are reserved by the legal holders of the copyrights.

To D. Appleton & Company for “Spring on the Off-Trail,” from _Songs of the Stalwart_, by Grantland Rice.

To _The Atlantic Monthly_, for “Hill Hunger,” and “A Blackbird Suddenly,” by Joseph Auslander.

To Richard A. Badger for “Traveller’s Joy,” “The Sea Wind,” “Countersign,” by Arthur Ketchum.

To Barse & Hopkins for “The Call of the Wild,” by Robert Service.

To Alfred Bartlett, for “September,” “The Gipsy Wedding,” “Gipsy Song,” “Upon Us Vagabonds,” “Song of the Open,” “The Sojourner,” “A la Belle Étoile,” “A Conversation,” “Lavender for Old Loves,” by Sara Hamilton Birchall.

To Ernest Benn, Limited, (London), for “The Blackbird,” “The Lilac,” by Humbert Wolfe.

To Brentano’s, Inc., for “Behind the Closed Eye,” “Farewell,” “The Winds of Life,” “Blind,” “Tell All the World,” “The Going of His Feet,” by Harry Kemp.

To Jonathan Cape, Limited, (London) for “Happy Wind,” “Dreams of the Sea,” by W. H. Davies.

To The Century Company, for “The Immortal,” “As the Tide Comes in,” “The Runaway,” by Cale Young Rice.

To _Christian Endeavor World_ for “Changeless,” by Martha Haskell Clark.

To _The Churchman_, for “Traveller’s Joy,” and “Sea Wind,” by Arthur Ketchum.

To _Cincinnati Times-Star_, for “April Morning,” by George Elliston.

To _Contemporary Verse_, for “Wasted Hours,” by Medora Addison; “Walking at Night,” by Amory Hare; “Rain,” by Kenneth Slade Alling; “Sea Longing,” by Harold Vinal; “Two Old Men,” by Louise Driscoll.

To the Cornhill Publishing Company, for “The House of the Trees,” by Ethelwyn Wetherald.

To _Country Life_ (London) for “Dawn,” by Isabel Butchart.

To Dodd, Mead & Company, for “The Sea,” by Nora Hopper; “I Meant to Do My Work Today,” by Richard Le Gallienne; “Walking at Night,” by Amory Hare.

To George H. Doran Company, for “Traveller’s Rest,” from _Sailor Town_ by C. Fox-Smith, copyright 1919, by George Doran Company, publishers; “Carouse,” “The Best Road of All,” “Renewal,” from _World of Windows_ by Charles Hanson Towne.

To Dorrance & Company for “Deep-Water Men,” “Deep Down,” from _Songs of Men_, by James Stuart Montgomery.

To E. P. Dutton & Company for “The Dandelions,” by Helen Gray Cone; “The Naturalist on a June Sunday,” “ABC’s in Green,” by Leonora Speyer.

To Federal National Bank, Boston, for “The Cry of the Dreamer,” by John Boyle O’Reilly.

To Forbes & Company for “Far From the Madding Crowd,” by Nixon Waterman.

To _Good Housekeeping_ for “The Sea Road,” and “Sea Song,” by Martha Haskell Clark.

To Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. for “Sea Call” from _Cross Currents_ by Margaret Widdemer, copyright 1921, by Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc.

To Harper Bros. for “Afternoon on a Hill,” “God’s World,” “Journey,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

To Hodder & Stoughton, Limited, (London), for “Credo,” by Vera Wheatley.

To Henry Holt & Company for “Wind Litany,” by Margaret Widdemer; “God Is At His Anvil,” by Lew Sarett; “The Whole Duty of Berkshire Brooks,” “After Sunset,” by Grace Hazard Conkling.

To Houghton Mifflin Company for “A Strip of Blue” and “Is It Raining, Little Flower,” by Lucy Larcom; “The Singer’s Quest” by Odell Shepard; “Rhodora,” “Flower Chairs,” “Let Me Go Where’er I Will,” by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

To B. W. Huebsch, Inc., for “On the Hill,” by Irene Rutherford McLeod.

To Mitchell Kennerly for “The Wanderer,” by Zoe Atkins.

To Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. for “Little Things,” by Orrick Johns; “The Early Gods,” by Witter Bynner.

To J. L. Lippincott Company, for “April Rain,” by Robert Loveman.

To Little, Brown & Company, for “Autumn,” “The Robin,” “April,” “Indian Summer,” by Emily Dickinson.

To Longmans, Green & Co. (London) for “A Word With a Skylark,” by Sarah Piatt.

To Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. for “May-Lure,” “Dumb in June,” “Comfort of the Stars,” and “Song of the Sea,” by Richard Burton.

To _The Lyric West_ for “The Coming of Dawn,” by Grace C. Dennen.

To The Macmillan Company for “Grace for Gardens,” by Louise Driscoll; “Sea-Fever,” “A Wanderer’s Song,” by John Masefield; “Up a Hill and a Hill,” “Gipsy Feet,” by Fannie Stearns Davis; “The Sweet, Low Speech of the Rain,” by Ella Higginson.

To Macmillan & Co. Ltd. (London) for “My Garden,” by T. E. Brown.

To McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, Limited, for “Wanderlust,” by Isabel Mackay.

To Thomas B. Mosher for “Birds of the Air They Sing it,” and “The Charm is Working Now,” by John Vance Cheney, “The Undersong,” by Fiona Macleod, “The Lark” and “April Weather,” by Lizette Woodworth Reese.

To L. C. Page & Company for “Gray Rocks and Grayer Sea,” “Afoot,” by Charles G. D. Roberts.

To _Poetry_ for “Early Morn at Barges,” by Hermann Hagedorn; “Ellis Park,” by Helen Hoyt.

To G. P. Putnam’s Sons, for “The Country Faith,” “Spring,” “All the Lanes are Lyric,” from _The Country Muse_ by Norman Gale; “April,” “The Gipsying,” “The Green Inn,” “A Song of Autumn,” “A City Voice,” “The Poplars,” “The Hills,” “A Morning,” by Theodosia Garrison.

To Reilly & Lee Co., for “The Call,” “God Made This Day For Me,” “Fishing,” “City Weary,” “The Vagabond,” by Edgar A. Guest.

To _The Roycroft Magazine_ for “The Road that Leads to Home,” by Ethel E. Mannin.

To Charles Scribner’s Sons for “The Road That Leads to Nowhere,” by Corrinne Roosevelt Robinson; “Homesick,” by Julia C. R. Dorr; “The Wind,” by John Galsworthy; “The Trees and the Master” and “Marshes of Glynn” (Extract), by Sidney Lanier; “Trees,” “Of All the Skies,” by Henry van Dyke.

To Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. (London), for “Farewell,” “The Turn of the Year,” and “The Epitaph,” by Katherine Tynan; “Wanderthirst,” by Gerald Gould.

To Small, Maynard & Co., for “The Whisper of Earth,” by Edward J. O’Brien; “Clover,” by John B. Tabb; “Camping Song,” “Trees,” “April Weather,” “An Autumn Garden,” “The Cry of the Hillborn,” “Daisies,” “The Joys of the Road,” “A Vagabond’s Song,” “Spring Song,” “Marigolds,” “A More Ancient Mariner,” “The Mendicants,” “A Song of the Sea,” “St. Bartholomew’s on the Hill,” “The Deserted Pasture,” by Bliss Carman; “Comrades” (Extracts), “Spring” (Extracts), “The Faun,” “Short Beach,” “Hunting Song,” “Seaward” (Extracts), by Richard Hovey.

To the _Boston Evening Transcript_ for “Prayer Before Poems,” by Anne Blackwell Payne.

To _The Christian Century_ for “Spring’s Answer,” by Edwin Osgood Grover.

To _Country Life in America_ for “Down East and Up Along,” by Edwin Osgood Grover.

To _The Chicago Tribune_ for “Sea Magic.”

To Yale University Press, for “Overtones,” from _In April Once_, by William Alexander Percy; and “Good Company,” from _Blue Smoke_ by Karle Wilson Baker.

To Jonathan Cape, Ltd. for “Happy Wind” and “Dreams of the Sea,” by W. H. Davies.

The following individuals have also given their permission for the use of copyright material, and the editor’s thanks are due them personally.

To Joseph Auslander for “Hill-Hunger,” “A Blackbird Suddenly.”

To Kendall Banning for “Wander-Lure.”

To Katherine Lee Bates for “Gipsy-Heart.”

To C. G. Blanden for “A Song the Grass Sings.”

To William Stanley Braithwaite for “Sic Vita” from _The House Of Falling Leaves_.

To Dana Burnet for “The Road to Vagabondia.”

To Richard Burton for “May-Lure,” “Dumb in June,” (Extracts) “Comfort of the Stars,” “Song of the Sea.”

To Witter Bynner for “The Early Gods” and “A Phœbe Bird.”

To Stephen Chalmers for “The Tree-Top Road.”

To Eugene F. Clark for “The Sea Road,” “Changeless,” “Black Ashes,” “Sea Song,” by Martha Haskell Clark.

To Mary Carolyn Davies for “Comrades of the Trail.”

To Babette Deutsch for “The Hound.”

To Louise Driscoll, for “The Spring Market” and “Two Old Men.”

To Ella Elizabeth Egbert for “Days Like These.”

To George Elliston for “April Morning.”

To Jeanne Robert Foster for “Song of Ballyshannon.”

To Hamlin Garland for “The Toil of the Trail,” “Do You Fear the Wind?”

To Charlotte Perkins Gilman for “Tree-Feelings.”

To Eva Gore-Booth, “The Perilous Light,” from manuscript; “The Waves of Breffny.”

To Gerald Gould for “Wanderthirst.”

To Arthur Guiterman for “The Hills” from _The Mirthful Lyre_.

To Hermann Hagedorn, for “Early Morning at Bargis.”

To Ella Higginson for “The Sweet Low Speech of the Rain.”

To Julian Hovey for “Seaward,” (Extracts) by Richard Hovey.

To Arthur Ketchum for “The Sea-Wind,” “Traveller’s Joy.”

To Leslie Nelson Jennings for “Highways.”

To Orrick Johns, for “Little Things.”

To Ruth Kauffman for “Vagabond.”

To Theda Kenyon for “In the Garden.”

To Georgiana Goddard King for “Song.”

To Louis Loveman for “April Rain” by Robert Loveman.

To Ethel E. Mannin for “Ship-Love,” “The Road that Leads to Home,” “The Secret Voices,” “Out-of-Doors.”

To Edwin Markham for “A Prayer.”

To John Steven McGroarty for “The Port o’ Heart’s Desire” and “The King’s Highway.”

To Edward J. O’Brien for “The Whisper of Earth.”

To Lancaster Pollard for “Denial,” “Morning Song,” “April’s Coming,” “Clouds and Sky.”

To Lizette Woodworth Reese for “The Lark.”

To Cole Young Rice for “As the Tide Comes In,” “The Mystic,” “The Runaway,” “The Immortal.”

To Jessie B. Rittenhouse for “The Green Tree in the Fall.”

To Clinton Scollard for “Streams,” “Sunflowers,” “April Music,” “Song in March,” “The Trumpet of the Dawn.”

To May Riley Smith for “Sorrow in a Garden,” “The Tree-Top Road.”

To Leonora Speyer for “A B C’s in Green,” and “The Naturalist on a June Sunday.”

To W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez for “Road Song,” “The Beloved Vagabond.”

To Charles Hanson Towne for “Carouse,” “The Best Road of All,” “Renewal.”

To Katherine Tynan for “Farewell,” “The Turn of the Year” and “The Epitaph.”

To Vera Wheatley for “Credo.”

To Humbert Wolfe for “The Lilac,” “The Blackbird.”

To William Watson for “April, April.”

_The Lure of the Road_

_I, too, have heard the insistent call of bird and wind and sun;
I, too, have heard the little brooks low calling as they run;
I, too, have heard the summons far, of sea gulls in the rain--
And lo, my heart is home once more, here on the coast of Maine._

E. O. G.

_A Wanderer’s Song_

A wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;
I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limits of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

Oh, I’ll be going, leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;
To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh, I’ll be going, going, until I meet the tide.

And first I’ll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan in the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me’ll know I’m there or thereabout.

Oh, I’m tired of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick,
For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick;
And I’ll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,
For a wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels.

_John Masefield_

_The Singer’s Quest_

I’ve been wandering, listening for a song,
Dreaming of a melody, all my life long....
The lilting tune that God sang to rock the tides asleep,
And crooned above the cradled stars before they learned to creep.

Oh, there was laughter in it and many a merry chime,
Before He had turned moralist, grown old before His time,
And He was happy, trolling out His great blithe-hearted tune,
Before He slung the little earth beneath the sun and moon.

But I know that somewhere that song is rolling on,
Like flutes along the midnight, like trumpets in the dawn;
It throbs across the sunset and stirs the poplar tree
And rumbles in the long low thunder of the sea.

* * * * *

First-love sang me one note and heart-break taught me two,
A child has told me three notes, and soon I’ll know it through;
And when I stand before the Throne I’ll hum it low and sly,
Watching for a great light of welcome in His eye, ...

“Put a white raiment on him and a harp into his hand,
And golden sandals on his feet and tell the saints to stand
A little farther off unless they wish to hear the truth,
For this blessed lucky sinner is going to sing about my youth!”

_Odell Shepard_

_The Toil of the Trail_

What have I gained by the toil of the trail?
I know and know well.
I have found once again the lore I had lost
In the loud city’s hell.

I have broadened my hand to the cinch and the axe,
I have laid my flesh to the rain;
I was hunter and trailer and guide;
I have touched the most primitive wildness again.

I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer,
No eagle is freer than I;
No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall,
I defy the stern sky.
So long as I live these joys will remain,
I have touched the most primitive wildness again.

_Hamlin Garland_

_Two Old Men_

_Sit-by-the-Fire_:

Men travel far and far away
To come home on a happy day;
And even they whom the roads call
Who never know a home at all,
They dream, I think, of roads that end
At four walls with a fire and friend!

_Foot-loose_:

I’ve never seen a hill but I
Have dreamed a hill behind it,
Nor ever watched a falling star
Without the hope I’d find it,
And all the islands of the sea
Have known my name and called to me!

_Sit-by-the-Fire_:

I have planted apple trees
And eaten at my pleasure,
My house is full of memories
For an old man to treasure.
This I have and that I have,
And you may see them standing,
Silver in the dining room,
An old clock on the landing!

_Foot-loose_:

I have neither house nor tree,
Nor heirs alert and knowing,
The four roads of eternity
Are ways I would be going.
Vagabonding in the skies
I will not ask for Paradise!

_Louise Driscoll_

_The Best Road of All_

I like a road that leads away to prospects white and fair,
A road that is an ordered road, like a nun’s evening prayer;
But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where.

You come upon it suddenly--you cannot seek it out;
It’s like a secret still unheard and never noised about;
But when you see it, gone at once is every lurking doubt.

It winds beside some rushing stream where aspens lightly quiver;
It follows many a broken field by many a shining river;
It seems to lead you on and on, forever and forever!

You tramp along its dusty way beneath the shadowy trees,
And hear beside you chattering birds or happy booming bees,
And all around you golden sounds, the green leaves’ litanies.

And here’s a hedge and there’s a cot; and then, strange, sudden turns--
A dip, a rise, a little glimpse where the red sunset burns;
A bit of sky at evening time, the scent of hidden ferns.

A winding road, a loitering road, the finger mark of God,
Traced when the Maker of the world leaned over ways untrod.
See! Here He smiled His glowing smile, and lo, the goldenrod!

I like a road that wanders straight; the King’s highway is fair,
And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you here and there;
But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where.

_Charles Hanson Towne_

_The Cry of the Dreamer_

I am tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded hives of men,
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again,
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming,
Of life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by;
From the sleepless thought’s endeavor
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a thinker dies in a day.

I can feel no pride, but pity,
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skillful,
And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter’s heart grown willful
And the father’s heart that bleeds!

No! No! from the streets’ rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the wood’s low rustle
And the meadows’ kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for my dreams alway;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

_John Boyle O’Reilly_

_Highways_

Who’s learned the lure of trodden ways,
And walked them up and down,
May love a steeple in a mist,
But cannot love a town.

Who’s worn a bit of purple once
Can never, never lie
All smothered in a little box
When stars are in the sky.

Who’s sipped old port in Venice glass
May thirst for better brew--He’s
drunk an amber wine of sun
And wet his mouth with dew!

Who’s ground the grist of trodden ways--
The gray dust and the brown--
May love red tiling two miles off--
But cannot love a town.

_Leslie Nelson Jennings_

_Afoot and Light-Hearted_

Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune--I myself am good-fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

_Walt Whitman_

_The Path that Leads to Nowhere_

There’s a path that leads to Nowhere
In a meadow that I know,
Where an inland island rises
And the stream is still and slow;
There it wanders under willows
And beneath the silver green
Of the birches’ silent shadows
Where the early violets lean.

Other pathways lead to Somewhere,
But the one I love so well
Had no end and no beginning--
Just the beauty of the dell,
Just the windflowers and the lilies
Yellow striped as adder’s tongue,
Seem to satisfy my pathway
As it winds their sweets among.

There I go to meet the Springtime,
When the meadow is aglow,
Marigolds amid the marshes,--
And the stream is still and slow.--
There I find my fair oasis,
And with care-free feet I tread
For the pathway leads to Nowhere,
And the blue is overhead!

All the ways that lead to Somewhere
Echo with the hurrying feet
Of the Struggling and the Striving,
But the way I find so sweet
Bids me dream and bids me linger,
Joy and Beauty are its goal,--
On the path that leads to Nowhere
I have sometimes found my soul!

_Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_

_City-Weary_

Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the din of it,
Out of the bickering, out of the sin of it,
Out of the smoke of it, out of the noise of it,
Out of the pitiful, lean, leering joys of it.
Come on, let’s go
To a hilltop I know,
Where the air is washed clean,
And the trees are a-gleam
With the gold of the sun,
And there’s naught to be done
Save to lie there and look
At life’s beauties and dream.

Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the stress of it,
Out of the paint and the powder and dress of it,
Out of the cry at the loss or the gain of it,
Out of the hurt and the grief and the pain of it.
Let’s slip away
To the fields for a day,
Where there is nothing
On counters and shelves,
Nothing to strive for,
To work or contrive for,
Let’s leave the city
And just be ourselves.

Come, let’s get out of here! Out of the crush of it,
Out of the bedlam and out of the rush of it,
Out of the sham of it, out of the heat of it,
Out of the withering, scornful conceit of it.
Come on! Let’s go
Where the clean breezes blow,
Out where the splendors
Are all that they seem;
Let’s merely walk awhile,
Ponder and talk awhile,
Giving our souls
The full sweep of a dream.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_The Faun_

I will go out to grass with that old King,
For I am weary of clothes and cooks.
I long to paddle with the throats of brooks,
To lie down with the clover
Tickling me all over,
And watch the boughs above me sway and swing.
Come, I will pluck off custom’s livery,
Nor longer be a lackey to old Time.
Time shall serve me, and at my feet shall fling
The spoil of listless minutes. I shall climb
The wild trees for my food, and run
Through dale and upland as a fox runs free,
Laugh for cool joy and sleep i’ the warm sun,--
And men will call me mad, like that old King.

For I am woodland-nurtur’d, and have made
Dryads my bedfellows,
And I have played
With the sleek Naiads in the splash of pools
And made a mock of gowned and trousered fools.
And I am half Faun now, and my heart goes
Out to the forest and the crack of twigs,
The drip of wet leaves, and the low soft laughter
Of brooks that chuckle o’er old mossy jests
And say them over to themselves, the nests
Of squirrels, and the holes the chipmunk digs,
Where through the branches the slant rays
Dapple with sunlight the leaf-matted ground,
And th’ wind comes with blown vesture rustling after,
And through the woven lattice of crisp sound
A bird’s song lightens like a maiden’s face.

Oh, goodly damp smell of the ground!
Oh, rough sweet bark of the trees!
Oh, clear sharp cracklings of sound!
Oh, life that’s a-thrill and a-bound
With the vigor of boyhood and morning and the noontide’s rapture of ease!
Was there ever a weary heart in the world?
A lag in the body’s urge, or a flag of the spirit’s wing?
Did a man’s heart ever break
For a lost hope’s sake?
For here there is lilt in the quiet and calm in the quiver of things.
Ay, this old oak, gray-grown and knurled,
Solemn and sturdy and big,
Is as young of heart, as alert and elate in his rest,
As the oriole there that clings to the tip of the twig
And scolds at the wind that it buffets too rudely his nest.

_Richard Hovey_

_The Call of the Wild_[1]

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream
streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert’s little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the wild--it’s calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild--it’s wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, grovelled down,
yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
“Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
(You’ll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things--
Then listen to the Wild,--it’s calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching--
But can’t you hear the Wild?--it’s calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling ... let us go.

_Robert W. Service_

[1] From “The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses” by Robert W. Service. Copyright by Barse & Hopkins, Newark, N. J.

_A City Voice_

Outside here in the city the burning pavements lie,
There’s heat and grime and blown black dust to help the day go by,
There’s the groaning of the city like a goaded, beaten beast;--
I know a place where God’s great trees go up to meet His sky--
Like an army green with banners, and a happy wind released,
Goes swinging like a merry child among the branches high.

Outside here in the city there’s a poison in the air--The
fevered, heavy hand o’ heat that smites and may not spare;
There’s little comfort in the night--there’s torment in the day;--
I know a place where cool and deep the quiet lake lies bare,
All day about its shaded brink the wild birds dart and play,
And willows dip their finger-tips like dainty ladies there.

Oh, the heart of me is hungering for my own, own place!
I’m tortured with the slaying heat, the dizzy headrace.
Oh, for the soft, cold touch of grass about my tired feet,
The breath of pine and cedar blown against my weary face,
The lip-lap of the water like a little song and sweet,
And God’s green trees and God’s blue skies above me for a space.

_Theodosia Garrison_

_Fishing_

A day to dream
Along a stream,
The song of birds
Instead of words,
And pictures rare
Flung everywhere.

Instead of smoke
To blind and choke,
An atmosphere
That’s sweet and clear,
The trees instead
Of chimneys red.

A patch of sky
To rest the eye;
Instead of noise,
A thousand joys;
Instead of greed,
A kindlier creed.

A day to dream
Along the stream,
To think and plan,
Restores a man,
And this he knows
Who fishing goes.

_Edgar A. Guest_

_Camping Song_

Has your dinner lost its savor?
Has your greeting lost its cheer?
Is your daily stunt a burden?
Is your laughter half a sneer?
There’s a medicine to cure you,
There’s a way to lift your load,
With a horse and a saddle and a mile of open road.

Is your eyeball growing bilious?
Is your temper getting short?
Is this life a blind delusion,
Or a grim, unlovely sport?
There’s a world of health and beauty,
There’s a help that cannot fail,
In a day behind the burros
On a dusty mountain trail.

Come out, old man, we’re going
To a land that’s free and large,
Where the rainless skies are resting
On a snowy mountain marge.
When we camp in God’s own country,
You will find yourself again,
With a fire and a blanket and the stars upon the plain!

_Bliss Carman_

_The Green Inn_

The roof is high and arched and blue,
The floor is spread with pine;
On my four walls the sunlight falls
In golden flecks and fine;
And swift and fleet on noiseless feet
The Four Winds bring me wine.

Here none may mock an empty purse
Or ragged coat and poor,
But Silence waits within the gates,
And Peace beside the door;
The weary guest is welcomest,
The richest pays no score.

* * * * *

Oh, you who in the House of Strife
Quarrel and game and sin,
Come out and see what cheer may be
For starveling souls and thin
Who come at last from drought and fast
To sit in God’s Green Inn.

_Theodosia Garrison_

_Wanderlust_

The highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all,
And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call;
Only the call of the long white road to the far horizon’s wall.

The glad seas and the mad seas, the seas on a night of June,
And never a hand to beckon back from the path of the new-lit moon;
Never a night that lasts too long or a dawn that breaks too soon!

The shrill breeze and the hill breeze, the sea breeze fierce and bold,
And never a breeze that gives the lie to a tale that a breeze has told;
Always the tale of the strange and new in the countries strange and old.

_Isabel Ecclestone Mackay_

_Song_[2]

Something calls and whispers, along the city street,
Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet,
And makes my blood to quicken and makes my flesh to pine.
The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine.

Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near
The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear.
Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree,
The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea.

Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close,
On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose,
But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world,
The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled.

_Georgiana Goddard King_

[2] From “The Way of Perfect Love.”

_In City Streets_

Yonder in the heather there’s a bed for sleeping,
Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat;
Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping,
And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet.
Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways,
(Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!)
Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways,
Homeless in the City, poor among the poor!

London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting
’Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun!
London water’s wine, poured out for all unstinting--
God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run!

Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing,
Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells!
Oh, my eye’s an ache to see the brown burns flowing
Through the peaty soil and tinkling heatherbells.

_Ada Smith_

“_Up! Up! My Friend, and Quit Your Books_”

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings,
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

_William Wordsworth_

_Road Song_

It’s home for me and a snug roof-tree
When frosts hold the earth in thrall,
But it’s hey, I say, for the broad highway,
When the young year’s voices call.
’Tis then I would be rolling off,
A-bowling off, a-strolling off--
An errant leaf bound whitherward
The wind of fancy wills;
’Tis then I would be going off,
A-whirling off, a-blowing off
Along the road that leads away
Beyond the purple hills.

’Twas hearth and home when the sky’s gray dome
Hung low and the north wind skirled;
Now it’s hey for the reel of the out-bound keel,
And it’s ho for the great round world.
’Tis now I would be roving off
A-shoving off, a-moving off
To where the far horizon shows
Mysterious and dim;
It’s time that I was shipping off
A-rising and a-dipping off
To strange and unknown ports that lie
Below the round world’s rim.

Oh, some were made for peaceful shade
Of their vine and their own fig tree,
But marked of fate with the gipsy trait,
It’s the open road for me.
And so I would be pushing on,
A-trekking on, a-mushing on,
And leave the old well-trodden trails
Long merry miles behind.
’Tis joyful I’d go swinging off,
A-whooping and a-singing off,
As goal-less as a vagrant crow
A-winging down the wind.

_James Stuart Montgomery_

_Walking at Night_

My face is wet with the rain
But my heart is warm to the core,
For I follow at will again
The road that I loved of yore;
And the dim trees beat the dark,
And the swelling ditches moan,
But my heart is a singing, soaring lark
For I travel the road alone.
Alone in the living night
Away from the babble of tongues;
Alone with the old delight
Of the night wind in my lungs;
And the wet air on my cheeks
And the warm blood in my veins,
Alone with the joy he knows who seeks
The thresh of the young spring rains,
With the smell of the pelted earth,
The tearful drip of the trees,
Making him dream of the sound of mirth
That comes with the clearing breeze.
’Tis a rare and wondrous sight
To tramp the wet awhile
And watch the slow delight
Of the sun’s first pallid smile,
And hear the meadows breathe again
And see the far woods turn green,
Drunk with the glory of wind and rain
And the sun’s warm smile between!
I have made me a vagrant song,
For my heart is warm to the core,
And I’m glad, oh, glad that the night is long
For I travel the road once more.
And the dim trees beat the dark
And the swelling ditches moan,
With the joy of the singing, soaring lark
I travel the road, alone!

_Amory Hare_

_Road Song_

Give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet,
And the winds of heaven to winnow me through, and a
brother tramp to greet,
With an Inn at the end of day for rest, and the world may
keep its bays--
For these are the gifts of the wayside gods, and the gifts
that I would praise.

Come from the murk of your city streets to the tent of all the world,
When your final word on Art is said, and your flag of Faith is furled,
When your heart no longer gives a throb at the first faint
breath of Spring--
Ah, turn your feet to the ribbon-road with a chorus all may sing!

* * * * *

Then give me the clear blue sky overhead, and the long road to my feet,
And a dog to tell my secrets to, and a brother tramp to meet--
And the years may take their toll of me till I come to the weary West,
And I lodge for good in the world’s own Inn, a wayworn, waiting guest!

_W. G. Tinckom-Fernandez_

_A Song of the Open Road_

The old Earth-Mother calls us,
And we hearken unto her cry,
For we dare not question her bidding
Lest we sicken and droop and die.
The spirit of change is burning
As a fever in heart and brain.
In the ranks of the Free Companions
We must take to the road again.

We have lain in the tents of the dwellers;
We have ta’en of their drink and food;
We, that were weary, have slumbered,
Have slumbered and found rest good.
We have kissed the lips of their maidens,
From their kin we have chosen our brides;
But the summons has come from the Mother,
And no one who hears it abides.

We do the will of the Mother,
We bow to the Word she sends,
Though we know not whither we journey,
Nor the goal where the journey ends.
On the quest of the Strange Adventure
We sally, hand-in-hand,
As the men of the days nomadic
When the hunter was lord in the land.

The winds a-sweep through the forests
Shall brace our souls for the march,
The balm of the dews descending
Shall chasten the heats that parch.
Through vista of brakes entangled
The stars shall guide, in the night,
By day the sun shall quicken
The pulse of our life’s delight.

Ho! for the zest of travel,
The wayfarer’s romance,
The joy of the unexpected,
The hope of the noble chance.
We have girded our feet with sandals,
We carry the pilgrim’s load.
In the ranks of the Free Companions
We take to the open road.

_Louis J. McQuilland_

_A Maine Trail_

Come follow, heart upon your sleeve,
The trail, a-teasing by,
Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay,
Trim barns and farm-house shy,
Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep,
Through pastures bare and wild,
Oh come, let’s fare to the heart-o’-the-wood
With the faith of a little child.

Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp
Where late the laurel shone,
An intimate close where you meet yourself
And come unto your own,
By bouldered brook to the hidden spring
Where breath of ferns blows sweet
And swift birds break the silence as
Their shadows cross your feet.

Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse
To garner the woodland glee,
To weave a garment of warm delight,
Of sun-spun ecstasy;
’Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes,
’Twill shield your heart from cold;
Such greens!--how the Lord Himself loves green!
Such sun!--how He loves the gold!

Then on till flaming fireweed
Is quenched in forest deep;
Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss
Is spread for Dryads’ sleep;
And list ten thousand thousand spruce
Lift up their voice to God--We
can a little understand,
Born of the self-same sod.

Oh, come, the welcoming trees lead on,
Their guests are we to-day;
Shy violets smile, proud branches bow,
Gay mushrooms mark the way;
The silence is a courtesy,
The well-bred calm of kings;
Come haste! the hour sets its face
Unto great Happenings.

_Gertrude Huntington McGiffert_

_The Spell of the Pool_