The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 62

And thus it came to pa.s.s, you know, that maids without a nickel, And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle, And every man that's fatherly, and every kindly matron, In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.

He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to giving; He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the living; He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation; He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation.

Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each December, And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remember.

Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human features, And said, "_Be good! But not too good to love your fellow-creatures!_"

December 6, 1907.

ARS AGRICOLARIS

An Ode for the "Farmer's Dinner," University Club, New York, January 23, 1913

All hail, ye famous Farmers!

Ye vegetable-charmers, Who know the art of making barren earth Smile with prolific mirth And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth!

Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil, And h.o.r.n.y-handed sons of toil!

To-night from all your arduous cares released, With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled, Ye hold your annual feast, And like the Concord farmers long ago, Ye meet above the "Bridge" below, And draw the cork heard round the world!

What memories are yours! What tales Of triumph have your tongues rehea.r.s.ed, Telling how ye have won your first Potatoes from the stubborn mead, (Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!) And how the luscious cabbages and kails Have bloomed before you in their bed At seven dollars a head!

And how your onions took a prize For bringing tears into the eyes Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slew The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke!

And how ye broke, Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies!

And how ye did not quail Before th' invading armies of San Jose Scale, But met them bravely with your little pail Of poison, which ye put upon each tail O' the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail!

And how ye did acquit yourselves like men In fields of agricultural strife, and then, Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease And gently to your gardener said, "Let us have _Pease_!"

But _were_ there Pease? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no!

The course of Nature is not ordered so.

For when we want a vegetable most, She holds it back; And when we boast To our week-endly friends Of what we'll give them on our farm, alack, Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends.

O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-gra.s.s in jars, How often have ye saved from scars Of shame, and deep embarra.s.sment, The disingenuous farmer-gent, To whom some wondering guest has cried, "How _do_ you raise such Pease and Sparrow-gra.s.s?"

Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied The compliment, but smiling has replied, "To raise such things you must have lots of gla.s.s."

From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof; Accept no praise unless you have the proof.

If n.i.g.g.ard Nature should withhold the green And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean.

Even the easy Radish, and the Beet, If grown by your own toil are extra sweet.

Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons; But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford.

Say to Maecenas, when he is your guest, "No peaches! try this turnip, 'tis my best."

Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field What honesty a farmer's life may yield, And like G. Washington in early youth, Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth.

But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough; Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow.

In January when the world is drear, And bills come in, and no results appear, And snow-storms veil the skies, And ice the streamlet clogs, Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies And revel in the seedsmen's catalogues!

What visions and what dreams are these Of cauliflower obese,-- Of giant celery, taller than a mast,-- Of strawberries Like red pincushions, round and vast,-- Of succulent and spicy gumbo,-- Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,-- Of high-strung beans without the strings,-- And of a host of other wild, romantic things!

Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare That modern habits mental force impair?

And why should H. Marquand complain That jokes as good as his will never come again?

And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien About the lack of fiction for his Magazine?

The seedsman's catalogue is all we need To stir our dull imaginations To new creations, And lead us, by the hand Of Hope, into a fairy-land.

So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will; And let your fancy all your garners fill With wondrous crops; but always recollect That Nature gives us less than we expect.

Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth That, spent upon your farms, renews your health; And tell your wife, whene'er the bills have shocked her, "A country-place is cheaper than a doctor."

May roses bloom for you, and may you find Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.

[Transcriber's note: "fertilizers" above was "fetilizers"

in the original.]

ANGLER'S FIRESIDE SONG

Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way, And his road through the world is bright; For he lives with the laughing stream all day, And he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny And likewise well-a-day!

The angler's life is a very jolly life And that's what the anglers say!

Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game, And his creel may be full or light, But the tale that he tells will be just the same When he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny And likewise well-a-day!

We love the fire and the music of the lyre, And that's what the anglers say!

To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913.

HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM

I never seen no "red G.o.ds"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure; An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks, To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.

It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring, But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing; The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high, But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.

It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes, Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!

Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign; But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.

She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow; Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,-- A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail,-- But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.

She's loopin' down the hillside,--the driffs is fadin' out.

She's runnin' down the river,--d'ye see them risin' trout?

She's loafin' down the canyon,--the squaw-bed's growin' blue, An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.

A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between, Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green; With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick, An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick!

The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around, Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground; A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink; So saddle up, my sonny,--it's time to ride, I think!

We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge; We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge; We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire, An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.

We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear; An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer; But nary a heathen G.o.ddess or G.o.d 'ill meet our eyes; For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!