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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist
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Say three, or four, or maybe five When Mother took me out to "Gramp's," I was the pleasedest kid alive; For then I knew I'd have my way, They'd let me tumble in the hay, But best of all I'd always play With Grandpa's whiskers. He used to take me on his knee And trot, and bounce me up and down, And then he'd toss me 'way up high, And growl at me, and maybe frown, And I — I knew it was a bluff, I'd pat his cheek all leather tough, I'll ne'er forget how stiff and rough Were Grandpa's whiskers. I'd rub my hand across his chin, And then I'd try without avail To scratch his face. How funny felt His bristles 'neath my finger nail. And then he'd hold me close, and snatch My hands away, and gently scratch My face with his. I've found no match For Grandpa's whiskers. And sometimes in the mellow dusk, When crickets chirped around the well, He'd hold me in his arms and sing In that rough voice I loved so well, And as I lay there on his breast, Ambition swelled within my chest, I'd be a man above the rest With Grandpa's whiskers. But many years have passed since then, And I'm a man, in age at least. Ambition still swells in my breast, But childhood's wants and thoughts have ceased, I laugh, and think of that small tyke, And wish my beard would go on strike, For now I have a crop just like My Grandpa's whiskers.
Kiss me good night; If I'm uncovered, please Tuck me in tight. I'll be asleep and not Know that you're there, Seems that I feel your rough Cheek on my hair. See that my windows are Opened up wide; Fairies from Dreamland all Come from outside. Leave my door open out Into the hall So Mother'll hear if I'm Frightened and call. Now don't forget, Daddy, 'Twouldn't be right If you'd come home and not Kiss me good night.
As the shadows stretch out long, And the sun, with lingering light, Graciously gives place to night Home he comes all tired from play; "Daddy — put my trike away?" Summer wanes and winter goes, Suns, and winds, and rains, and snows; Roller skates, and truck, and gun Swell the long parade of fun Gone forever is that day, "Daddy — put my trike away?" When life's sunset time draws near, In my memory I shall hear Childish laughter from the street, On the walk the scuff of feet, And that small voice, weary, say, "Daddy, put my trike away?"
Nod their welcome from the grass, And they spread their golden carpet So that Spring may gaily pass. Then they lift their open faces To the sun, in gesture vain, But turn up their pointed collars When the wind is filled with rain. Oh, the daffodils of Raymond Gild the ridges and the dales. A lot they care for freezes Or for March's southwest gales, So when Spring comes to the Willapa And settles on the hills, I've a rendezvous at Raymond With a million daffodils.
My peapod navy goes, It skirts the rocky shoreline In the shadow of the rose. It has a sheltered harbor In behind an iris clump. Now it's sailing to investigate A mole-made earthquake dump. To the rescue! To the rescue! A poor bee has fallen in. She spins, and kicks, and struggles But the silly thing can't swim. Give your best, men! Pull your hardest! Each imaginary oar. Lift the drowning one from danger, Put her, safe again, on shore. The lily pond's an ocean Where the tide is always high. But once when Daddy drained it All my ships were grounded dry, And once when Mommy called me For an errand up the street, A robin came, and took a bath, And sank my peapod fleet.
Against yon western sky your rigging weaves A lacy web of shroud, and stay, and boom, As, at your feet, the quiet water sings A happy lay of peace, and rest, and home The while you dream Of roaring surf upon a rocky coast, Of golden moons above an oily sea Of murky skies, of reeking wharves, of bilge, Of rushing tide-rips eddying in your lea; Of whistling wind and humming ropes aloft, Of sturdy masts and yards, resistant, strong; Rush of the gale, pull of the straining sails, Lift of the rolling sea and then the long, Strong surge and swing and drop of mighty swells; Of tropic suns and toppling, billowy clouds, Of inky nights that breathe a sullen threat, Of men that cling to wildly swaying shrouds While hissing seas lift hungry, clutching hands And dash themselves to spray against your side. Proud of your strength you spurned with foaming foot The raging waves, and took them all in stride. And then came steam! Among your comrades, year by year, you lay An old man drowsing in the summer sun. The wreckers came and towed them down the tide, Pride of a vanquished race and, one by one, Their smoking ashes strewed upon the sand. But you, from all that noble band, live on. What glory yours! What pride! What heritage! Reclaimed, renewed, refreshed! The rest are gone. To you alone 'tis left to tell the tale To sons of men. But when the velvet night Descends on silent decks, dream on! Dream on! It is your right old ship, it is your right. Dream on! About 1935, the old St. Paul was acquired by the Washington Academy of Sciences and converted to a marine museum.
Where fire-scarred skeletons of a forest stand Like old men drowsing in the summer sun, Your flame-hued cohorts cover all the land A billion strong! A splendid victory won. When fire swept beneath its murky pall, The virgin growth of cedar, spruce, and fir To leave, 'midst smoking ruin, not a spot Of green to shield the ragged, new made scar Your vanguard came while ashes yet were hot. Then, as the seasons passed, the soft-voiced rain, The summer drouth, the soothing mists of fall — Behold! Your armies hold the land, their flags Of lavender and orchid-pink hid all The fire-charred stumps, the fallen blackened snags. Your far flung flanks flame full upon the hill. Throughout the valley, massed to meet attack, Your legions stand, each glowing, ready spear Held high; and on, and on, beyond and back As far as sight can reach, your hosts appear. Within your ranks a gentle murmur sounds, Like playful zephyr 'midst the close grown trees, Your blossoms dip, to rise and sway again — The work song of a million honey bees That seek your limpid nectar, clear as rain. And thus you are today, unmindful yet That enemies are massing near at hand, The clover, willow, and the wild salal, The blackberry and the brake — a motley band But fall before their ragged line you shall. For years the war must rage, each smoky fall Will see your feathery seed-wings scarcer grow, Your ranks will thin, The eager, searching bee Will seek a fairer pasture. Time, tho' slow, Will make your name a happy memory.
My legs stretched out far, my beslippered toes Held close to the fire that flickers and glows. My mind far away in the land of the rose Where meadows are green, and a clear river flows. My grandmother sits by the fire and sews. So warm is the room, so restful my pose, I declare, I nearly dropped into a doze When, piercing the night a dread sound arose, Like a ghost crying out 'neath the weight of its woes. I jumped to my feet, my mind in the throes Of a terrible fear. My very blood froze, And my frame seemed to shrink inside of my clothes. I looked for a weapon, for nobody knows What kind of a beast could produce such bellows As those I had heard. The faint flames disclose My gardening tools. I grasped one of the hoes, Not e'en taking note, in my haste, what I chose, And crept to the door on shaking tiptoes To see what a glance out of doors would expose. I fling open the door. The moon above shows A wintery landscape over which blows A wind from the north. A feel of more snows Is borne on the breeze, and I, shivering close The heavy wood door, when again there arose In regular rising and falling billows That horrible cry. My legs turn to bows And I sank to the floor calling loudly on Mose, And Aaron, and Jacob, and others of those Old Biblical chaps whom one might suppose Would help a poor fellow surrounded by foes. Nothing happened outside, so at length I arose, And on trembling legs feeling limp as a hose Staggered back to the door, once for all to dispose Of the horrible beast which dared to impose Its terrible cry on the calm minds of those Who desire to sleep. My bravery grows And I open the door. Ah ha! there it goes A shadowy something glides over the snows. I stand in the doorway all crouched to oppose With my hands tightly clenched over one of the hoes. It draws nearer. It crouches. It springs. I rain blows On head, body, legs; on eyes, ears, and nose. But onward it comes. I feel it. It throws Me flat on my back. All is dark. I see rows Of ravens, or vultures, or scavenger crows, And I know that the birds have come to dispose Of me. Then, in terror, I wake from my doze, And my grandmother sits over there, still, and sews; And, when I had told her the tale of my woes, She said I'd snored twice in my sleep. I suppose That that was the horrible cry which arose. The Close.
Where the winds from the ocean blow, Rippling the verdant hillsides tinged With the fireweed's lavender glow. Where the naked, blackened tree trunks Like weary sentinels stand In silent proof of the mighty flame That at one time seared the land. Blue-gray from the tiny valley Where a streamlet tinkles on, A smudge of smoke drifts along the wind, Reminder of fires long gone. Nestled among the willows By the side of a new-made road, White hives of bees stand side by side. And the bees, each with her load Of clear, sweet, flower-made nectar Wing their swift way to and fro 'Til the soft air hums with the busy drone Of the bees in a honey flow. And the quiet, capable bee men, During the peaceful summer day, Preparing the space for the harvest store, Through the bee yard make their way.
My top is rotted, and cracks gape wide Where my doors once fitted. I'm cast aside, And a multiple-cylindered, beautiful car Now stands where I stood in the days of yore. They've taken my tires to use them as spares. They've scavenged my spark plugs for road repairs. My mud chains they've taken, and nobody cares. For a long-stroked, large-bored, speed-making car Now stands where I stood in the days of yore. My engine block rusts and my seats decay. The weeds 'round my wheels grow taller each day. And nobody cares nor glances my way, For a low-seated, long wheel-based, high-powered car Now stands where I stood in the days of yore. It has cord tires and six wire wheels. (They give you two spares with new automobiles.) It has a self-starter, and air pump beside, And some new-fangled springs that cause it to ride As smooth as a sleigh. A speedometer, too, And dash lamp, and clock, all shiny and new, Came along with the car. It's easy to see Why they love this new toy, and think not of me. I stand in the sun, now, and think of those days When I spurned the old roads and traveled new ways. Of my speed on the level. How I chugged on the hills When loaded with coal, or with wheat for the mills. I dream of cool mornings with mist o'er the lakes As the sun came up red back of duck-haunted brakes; Of evenings so still that my lights showed the breeze Laden heavy with dust of wide streets lined with trees; Of steep grades in the hills, and a swift-flowing stream Where I stopped to get water and to let off some steam; Of winter and freezing. The mercury dove, And I had to be thawed with a kerosene stove. For I am (or I was) just a Model T Ford, A creature of scrap iron, old tin, and board; With fenders that rattled, and body that squeaked; With wheels that wobbled, and spokes that creaked. For I never was greased, I never was oiled. My body was battered, and foot-scarred, and soiled. But muddy, or snowy, it's well known that when I ever went out, I got home again. But now I am battered, and tattered, and torn. A mouse has her nest in the back of my horn Where a family of mice was recently born. A hen lays her eggs in a cobwebbed retreat Where she crawls through a hole In the tin 'neath the seat And some chicks 'round my wheels Scratch for seeds with their feet.
Upon yon thistle's faded crown Your worn out body clings. Your wings Tattered, and frayed, and torn are still Forever. Gone is the summer, gone. No more the golden glory of the sun Calls you betimes afield. They yield Again for you, the blossoms, nectar Never. Alone, far from your home, alone, Until the end you bravely carried on. Your sisters, in the busy hive, alive, Sip the wild sweets your labors brought Together. Oh, friendly bee, your humming song is sung. Your motto, "One for all and all for one," Your life portrayed. The shade Of death your deeds from memory will Sever.
Hollyhocks grow near the red brick wall, Like pale pink bells on their stems so tall; And they seem to say as they nod your way, "You're pretty small, but you'll grow. Some day You'll know it all. So today be gay."
So he took Mom and me away off to a lake, Where we slept in a tent, and ate standing up, Got smoke in our eyes and all drank from one cup. And I played, in my bathing suit, down in the sand, And fell off a rock, and hurted my hand. My Daddy, he put on his bathing suit too. (Mine's just like my Daddy's — no sleeves and all blue.) Then a funny, green slick thing Dad said was a frog, Just kicked himself head first right off of a log. Then Dad pushed the log away out where it's deep. I held on so tight that both arms went to sleep. Then I was the whistle, and Dad was the sails, And we played we were sailors out looking for whales. Next year, Daddy promised, he'd teach me to swim. Then I can go out to the big raft with him. And then we went rowing, and fishing, and then The next day we did it all over again.
Cupped to catch the dawning's dew, Flank the heaven-scented lilac, And the purple iris, too, Is a fair-haired little maiden In a sunsuit, white and blue. There the golden dancing sunbeams, That the little maiden seeks, Paint the red and yellow tulips And the roses in her cheeks, While the sprightly, shifting shadows 'Midst the leaves play hide-and-seek. Oh, there's life, and health, and vigor In the warm sun's glowing rays; There is lilt of happy laughter In sweet childhood's carefree ways, In the glory of the sunshine Of those preschool summer days. |
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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist dodge/sec4.htm — 19-May-2007 | ||