A Summer in a Canyon Part 12

V. THE CAMP POETESS ADDS HER STORE OF MENTAL RICHES TO THE GENERAL FUND.

My darling,--I have a thousand things to tell you, but I cannot possibly say them in rhyme, merely because the committee insists upon it. I send you herewith all the poetry which has been written in camp since last Monday, and it has been a very prosy week.

I have given them to papa, and he says that the best of my own, which are all bad enough, is the following hammock-song.

I thought it out while I was swinging Margery, and here it is! -

To--fro, Dreamily, slow, Under the trees; Swing--swing, Drowsily sing The birds and the bees; Sleep--rest, Slumber is best, Wakefulness sad; Rest--sleep, Forget how to weep, Dream and be glad!

Papa says it is all nonsense to say that slumber is best and wakefulness sad; and that it is possible to tell the truth in poetry.

Perhaps it is, but why don't they do it oftener, then? And how was he to know that Polly and Jack had just gone through a terrible battle of words in which I was peacemaker, and that d.i.c.ky had been as naughty as--Nero--all day? These two circ.u.mstances made me look at the world through blue gla.s.ses, and that is always the time one longs to write poetry.

I send you also Geoff's verses, written to mamma, and slipped into the box when we were playing Machine Poetry:-

I know a woman fair and calm, Whose shining tender eyes Make, when I meet their earnest gaze, Sweet thoughts within me rise.

And if all silver were her hair, Or faded were her face, She would not look to me less fair, Nor lack a single grace.

And if I were a little child, With childhood's timid trust, I think my heart would fly to her, And love--because it must!

And if I were an earnest man, With empty heart and life, I think--(but I might change my mind) - She'd be my chosen wife!

Isn't that pretty? Oh, Elsie! I hope I shall grow old as beautifully as mamma does, so that people can write poetry to me if they feel like it! Here is Jack's, for Polly's birthday; he says he got the idea from a real poem which is just as silly as his:-

A pollywog from a wayside brook Is a goodly gift for thee; But a milk-white steed, or a venison sheep, Will do very well for me.

For you a quivering asphodel (Two ducks and a good fat hen), For me a withering hollyhock (For seven and three are ten!).

Rose-red locks and a pug for thee (The falling dew is chill), A dove, a rope, and a rose for me (Oh, pa.s.sionate, pale-blue pill!).

For you a greenery, yallery gown (Hath one tomb room for four?), Dig me a narrow gravelet here (Oh, red is the stain of gore!!).

I told Jack I thought it extremely unhitched, but he says that's the chief beauty of the imitation.

I give you also some verses intended for Polly's birthday, which we shall celebrate, when the day arrives, by a grand dinner.

You remember how we tease her about her love for tea, which she cannot conceal, but which she is ashamed of all the same.

Well! I have printed the poem on a card, and on the other side Margery has drawn the picture of a cross old maid, surrounded by seven cats, all frying to get a drink out of her tea-cup. Then Geoff is going to get a live cat from the milk ranch near here, and box it up for me to give to her when she receives her presents at the dinner-table. Won't it be fun?

OWED TO POLLY BECAUSE OF HER BIRTHDAY.

She camps among the untrodden ways Forninst the 'Mountain Mill'; A maid whom there are few to praise And few to wish her ill.

She lives unknown, and few could know What Pauline is to me; As dear a joy as are to her Her frequent cups of tea.

A birthday this dear creature had, Full many a year ago; She says she is but just fifteen, Of course she ought to know.

But still this gift I bring to her, Appropriate to her age, Regardless of her stifled scorn, Or well conceal-ed rage!

She smiles upon these tender lines, As you all plainly see, But when she meets me all alone, How different it will be!

Now comes Geoff's, to be given with a pretty little inkstand:-

There was a young maiden whose thought Was so airy it couldn't be caught; So what do you think?

We gave her some ink, And captured her light-winged thought.

Here is Jack's last on Polly:-

There's a pert little poppet called Polly, Who frequently falls into folly!

She's a terrible tongue For a 'creetur' so young, But if she were dumb she'd be jolly!

I helped Polly with a reply, and we delivered it five minutes later:-

I'd rather be deaf, Master Jack, For if only one sense I must lack, To be rid of your voice I should always rejoice, Nor mourn if it never came back!

And now good-night and good-bye until I am allowed to write you my own particular kind of letter.

The girls and boys are singing round the camp-fire, and I must go out and join them in one song before we go to bed.

Yours with love, now and always, BELL.

P. S--Our 'Happy Hexagon' has become a sort of 'Obstreperous Octagon.' Laura and Scott Burton are staying with us. Scott is a good deal of a bookworm, and uses very long words; his favourite name for me at present is Calliope; I thought it was a sort of steam- whistle, but Margery thinks it was some one who was connected with poetry. We don't dare ask the boys; will you find out?

VI.

CAMP CHAPARRAL, July 13, 188-.

STUDIO RAPHAEL.

Dear Little Sis,--The enclosed sketches speak for themselves, or at least I hope they do. Keep them in your private portfolio, and when I am famous you can produce them to show the public at what an early age my genius began to sprout.