Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 1

Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems.

by James Whitcomb Riley.

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS

Ho! green fields and running brooks!

Knotted strings and fishing-hooks Of the truant, stealing down Weedy backways of the town.

Where the sunshine overlooks, By green fields and running brooks, All intruding guests of chance With a golden tolerance,

Cooing doves, or pensive pair Of picnickers, straying there-- By green fields and running brooks, Sylvan shades and mossy nooks!

And--O Dreamer of the Days, Murmurer of roundelays All unsung of words or books, Sing green fields and running brooks!

A COUNTRY PATHWAY.

I come upon it suddenly, alone-- A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, I take the path that leads me as it may-- Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare-- A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and--is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow b.u.t.terflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother ail the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night.

O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes!

So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- My _avant-courier_ must be obeyed!

Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there awhile

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- "You dog our country-walks

And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- We will not suffer tamely what you do And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sic Our b.u.mble-bees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast--

Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands:

Or, the path climbs a boulder--wades a slough-- Or, rollicking through b.u.t.tercups and flags, Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge, And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my somber way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows--till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of s.p.a.ce, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, Where, like a gem in costly setting held, The old log cabin gleams.

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on Adown your valley way, and run before Among the roses crowding up the lawn And thronging at the door,--

And carry up the echo there that shall Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay The household out to greet the prodigal That wanders home to-day.

ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK.

On the banks o' Deer Crick! There's the place fer me!-- Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be:-- See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky, And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by; Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees-- And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze!

Well--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea: On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!

On the banks o' Deer Crick--mild er two from town-- 'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down,-- Like to git up in there--'mongst the sycamores-- And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours: Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line, Where the fish is jes so thick you kin see 'em shine As they flicker round yer bait, _coaxin_' you to jerk, Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as _work_!

On the banks o' Deer Crick!--Allus my delight Jes to be around there--take it day er night!-- Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day-- Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way!-- Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight; And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at night-- Stars up through the tree-tops--er in the crick below,-- And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from the old b'y-o!

Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to "Johnson's Hole,"

And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin' pole; Have yer "dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut-and-dry"-- Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye,-- Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade-- Like the Good Book tells us--"where there're none to make afraid!"

Well!--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea-- On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!

A DITTY OF NO TONE.

_Piped to the Spirit of John Keats._