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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist
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The Varied Thrush's silver bell chimes clear, 'Though rills are still and heavy snow lies deep, The forest folk rejoice, for Spring is near. The prowling bobcat quits his stealthy beat, The raccoon seeks his lofty, cedar sill, For when the Varied Thrush pipes long and sweet, Then day is breaking just beyond the hill. Each hemlock needle's tip is pearled with mist, The forest's steaming breath in cloudlets rise, From dripping depths the Thrush's promise rings Presaging shifting winds and clearing skies. Shy bird of silent flight and modest mien, Habitué of ferny glade and glen, Your minor, vibrant, bell-like call foretells The Dawn, the Spring, and Sunshine, loved by men.
The golden sun alone for company You ride the rushing torrents of the wind, A speck within the vastness of the sky, Buoyed by your broad and spreading wings you wheel In sweeping circles, far above the world, Master of space. Then, tired of sport, you dip And, turning earthward, mighty pinions furled, Begin that awesome, breathless, downward rush. A smoky, living meteor you flash Athwart the ice-encrusted cliffs. Across The canyon void, a thunderbolt, to dash, It seems, against the echoing lava wall. Then, just as it appears you must be hurled Upon the columned cliff, you spurn the rock, Triumphant flash aloft with wings unfurled To scream a strident challenge to the wind As out above the alpine meadow green You sweep. Across the flower-painted slopes Your shadow drifts, a silent specter seen, By tiny folk of field, portent of death. The marmot, squirrel, cony, e'en the goat, Call out their warnings shrill, as, far above, Oh undisputed King of Skies, you float.
It tells of summer, rain, and meadows green. 'Though all around you snow lies deep and chill, You stir, uneasy, waking from your dream. Once more the golden sun is swinging high. Each day it clears yon ridge's fir-fringed crest To smile upon you where, inert, you lie, And thrill you with a new and sweet unrest. The creviced cliff in whose recess you lie, Impatient, discards Winter's crystal rope. Now you may stretch your arms toward azure sky, And, with your eager fingers, feel and grope. Your scarlet mantle drapes the leaden wall, And paints a vivid, bright vermilion stain. Each slender, tender trumpet sounds the call That Spring is on The Mountain once again.
Where Time weaves her carpet of forest duff To muffle the step; and the verdant veil Of hemlock and fir screens the flanking bluff. Where the dogwood blankets with green and white The mouldering trunk of a once-proud tree, And the chalky form of a saprophyte Glows pale and ghostlike. The melody Of a tinkling stream bids the traveler pause To kneel at the brink of a moss-rimmed pool, For this is but one of the woods-trail laws Binding all that breathe with its ironclad rule. Then on, where the sunlight splashes through A break in the canopy overhead, Where the huckleberries are turning blue, And a glacial stream from its rocky bed Roars a boisterous shout to the shadowed trail; And far byond, 'neath a drooping bough, Like an unattainable Holy Grail, Is the gleam of the Mountain's hoary brow.
Sweet with the breath of the Catclaw in bloom, Bringing the call of the Owl and the Poorwill, Whispering low to the lush Desert Broom. All is at peace, let your warm breath caress me, The world is at rest as you sing to the moon. Come, let us play, oh wind of the Desert. Bet you can't catch me, try as you will; Pommel this Saltbush, prod that Bisnaga, Toss me a Tumbleweed, laughing so shrill. Whistle your call through the spines of Saguaros. Let's jostle that Yucca, then run for yon hill. Can't you be quiet, oh wind of the Desert? You've grounded the birds and you've hidden the sun. Lashing the Mesquites and pelting the Chollas, You've rattled and buffeted, rough as a Hun. Give us a rest from your boisterous gyrations. Call off your blasters! Come now, be done!
A passive bit of chipped obsidian. A careless glance revealed you to my eye. I stooped, and hold you in my questioning hand. How came you here? Lashed to a slender shaft Upon a path of murder were you sped? Or, at the games where people played and laughed, In distance contest did you fall ahead? Whose skill contrived your keenly-chiseled tip? Whose steady hand your balanced shaft pricked out? What care was used in flaking off each chip! To my eye perfect, are you true throughout? Oh arrowpoint, oh bit of glass-like stone! What facts you learned of men I'll never know, For time is nought to you, yet flesh and bone Of him who made you shriveled long ago. A pretty arrow tip is all we see, Another relic of a long-gone clan, Please let us know you, what you really be, The prized possession of some toiling man.
On the frowning, scarred Takhoma, Girt about by cliff and glacier, By the glistening, crumbling ice walls; Far above the cloud-drenched valleys, Far above the twisted-tree line, Far above the haunts and pastures Of the wise and wily white goat Of Mazama, the sure-footed, By a lake of molten lava Dwelt the Chieftain of Creation, Dwelt Tamanous, the Great Spirit. All alone upon Takhoma, All alone sat old Tamanous, And his heart lay heavy in him Like a stone his aged tumtum, For he knew his days were numbered; And the seething, spouting lavas Which had roared with frenzied fury, Which had darkened all the heavens, Which had terrified the wild things, Which had torn the earth asunder, Lay about him, cold and lifeless, Solid stone before his doorway. Then Tamanous summoned to him, Summoned Ptarmigan, the fleet wing, Said to him with eager pleading, "Go my friend and bear these tidings, Take this message to the Eagle, To the Bear, the Grouse, the Beaver, To the Deer, the bounding Mowich, To the Indian and the white man, To the Fir, and Pine, and Hemlock, To the Lily and the Squawgrass, Tell them all to heed my orders, Tell them all that I have spoken." Then the bird on silent pinions Glided downward from the summit Told the Bear, the Grouse, the Lily, Told the Deer, the gentle Mowich, Told the white man, and the Indian That Tamanous, the Great Spirit, Had commanded from his death-bed, From his frozen lake of lava, That they all should live as brothers, Live as happy, carefree children In the meadows of the Mountain, On his grave that is Takhoma.
For ever-swelling tides of travel sail, And Man is on the march. His peanut shells Defile the hills, and clutter up the dells; And harried wildlife, refuge seeks in vain Beyond the roar of cars and smoke of train. It rests with us, the future of the Wild; The duty ours to keep it undefiled! Should we feel hurt if travelers pass us by? More roads! More trails! Should that call be our cry? Is it our boast that travel grows? For shame! For greed of numbers would we sell our name "Primeval Wilderness"? The world will build Its highways to our doors. Our home is filled With treasures, year by year grown rich and rare. More citizens thus claim a shrinking share. Let's keep our trusted faith forever hence As guardians of the Parks and Monuments.
Did boyhood's dreams of fame beguile his mind? One firm resolve took root, and grew and grew. Cibola's Seven Cities he would find! Did he don robes to better seek his goal? Or, trusting God, in faith set out alone With Courage in his heart, and Hope his soul Into an unknown land of sand and stone? Spurred by his life's resolve, he struggled on With Thirst, and Heat, and Hardship at his side. The Cross his symbol, marking whence had gone Moor Estevan, his friend and faithful guide. Who knows the pulse of joy that swelled his breast When Cibola, at last, before him lay? Who knows what thoughts his tortured soul oppressed When Coronado proved its gold was clay? First of his race to know the great Southwest, His pilgrimage of Hope, a hard race run, Brought him dark disappointment, bleak unrest; But gave the world The Empire Of The Sun.
What magic word has swept the land Of mesquite, cholla, saltbush, sand? What voice, or spark, unknown to us Has waked each sleeping Cereus? This is your night! No sooner has the red sun dropped Behind the mountains, basalt-topped, Than on the Desert, near and far, Each many-pointed, perfumed star Unfolds, and spreads its petals white. You've heard the call! This is your night! And as the moon rides calm and high, Unmasked by cloud, across the sky, Your earth-stars open, one by one In pristine glory 'wait the sun. For when the Night has given o'er, And Day takes up the race once more, Each gray-green plant, so plain, severe, Will fold its flowers for the year. But while the hours of Night prevail, You rule, oh blossoms fragrant, pale; You rule with glorious, fragile might. It is your right! This is your night!
The smouldering fires of the day burn low, Reflecting on the cloud-smoke, far above, The dying embers' rich and ruddy glow. Fanned by the evening breeze, a restless spark Flares up to send a shaft of orange fire Across the shadowed earth. Far to the east It paints a cloud and gilds a mountain spire. Night settles down on silent, velvet wings Releasing bats and crickets on her way, Swings shut the western doors, adjusts the drafts, And banks the fires for another day.
While both your youngsters dash about the room, One mounted on a wild, careening cycle, The other on the handle of a broom; If you can mold a verse, or scribble fiction On days the wife is shopping in the town, And not neglect the 'phone, nor meals, nor baby, Nor knock a single front-door peddler down — If you can start another gripping feature With snap and sparkle, anecdote, or pun, When, in the mail, you've just found three rejections; One manuscript the best you've ever done; If you can wait a week to get an audience, And work like sin to put the stuff in shape, Then have the fellow 'phone and say "forget it!" Else he'll involve you in some legal scrape — If you can try all day to get a photo, Then finally snap the thing you most require, That evening, in your darkroom, spoil the picture, Next day repeat the whole thing, without ire; If you can plan and write a bit of plather, And send it out, and send it out again, Then, when you've burned it, read, in some best seller, The same idea from someone else's pen — If you can get a printed slip rejection, Yet thank the ed. for looking at your stuff; Can find your photos bent, and script all rumpled, And never squawk or get into a huff! If you can keep this up spring, fall, and summer, And winter too; I think, my friend, some day You'll wake to find yourself a full-fledged writer, And what is more, perhaps you'll make it pay.
Yet find new objects worthy of delight, Then give a sparkling lecture after supper, And answer questions halfway through the night, If you can write a nature note or feature, Cut stencils, run the mimeograph, and draw A picture, both descriptive and artistic, If you can wield an axe or one-man saw — If you can skin and mount a bird or mammal, Throw on a pack or saddle, and can ride. If you can take a photo — still or movie — Develop, print, enlarge, and make a slide, If you can hobnob with a man of science On subjects where his life's work knowledge lies, And then, next moment, greet a little youngster And watch the light of interest flood his eyes — If you know how to fight a forest fire, To use an ice ax, tie your party in, If you can cook a meal, and lug a packsack, Know when to sympathize and when to grin, If you can bind a sprain or pad a blister, Call flowers by their scientific name, Treat every girl as if she were your sister, And rain, or sleet, or tired, still be game — If you can write and give a radio program, Lead singing when the campfire hour's begun, Can be good natured with officious arguers And still be friendly after you have won, If you can talk on subjects scientific In such a way that laymen get the gist, If you love Nature, of her never tire, Some day, you'll be a ranger-naturalist.
Can organize and tape a cavalry charge, Can supervise a major research project And make a science movie, small or large; If you can run a crew of screwball seasonals All summer long without a single fight, Prepare a budget, "sell" it to your super By making changes taking half the night — If you can organize a naturalists' conference, MC the meetings, stay on scheduled time; If you can manage an association, Keep all the books, and rarely lose a dime; If you can get a full interp'tive program Adopted by a Recreation man, Lay out the project, adequate with staffing, And con the boss to "buy" your final plan — If you can write a natural history handbook, Lay out and build a loop self-guiding trail, If you can plan and write a park prospectus And get it past Ralph Lewis without fail; If you can draft exhibits right for children, Know when to fight and when to just "confer", Keep always on the good side of old WASO, Some day you'll be a Park Interpreter.
The scattered bones of old giants lie. Stone bones which once were resilient wood That, as graceful trees in a forest stood. Was the forest razed, as geologists dream? Were the trunks spread far by a lazy stream? Then Nature and Time did their work, 'though slow, And preserved the wood with the rainbow's glow.
And tall Saguaro dons her crown of white, When Cereus puts on her gray-green down In preparation for the party night, When Bats across the carmen sunset dance, When Ocotillo lights her candle flame, When verdure carpets Desert's wide expanse, Then Spring is in the Southwest once again. The Finches in their scarlet vests and caps Are first to answer Spring's insistent call, While Gambel's Sparrows scan their travel maps, Discussing details of the coming ball. Then Thrashers practice every morn and eve. The songs they'll sing upon that night of nights, While Phainopeplas, in their haste to leave, Dash back and forth in short, impatient flights. The Desert halls glow bright as time draws near. Each cactus wears her frilled and perfumed dress. Ground squirrels, for this happiest time of year, Sport their best furs. The rabbits do no less. From far and near the Desert folk have come To 'wait their hostess, Spring, who, very soon Will lift stars o'er the skyline, one by one, And then turn on the glorious golden moon.
Their bent to wander, love of freedom; strong And fierce attachment to their wide domain. He knew the Whites invading it were wrong. A leader wise, foreseeing that White tide Engulfing all the West, he did not fight But offered friendship, until forced too far. Cochise was great, and time has proved him right. |
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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist dodge/sec3.htm — 19-May-2007 | ||