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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist
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On "anything." She cared not what the style, or scheme, Or anything. Just so we brought a theme to class On spring, or love, or war, or grass, If it was good she'd let us pass With anything. I've thought in class, I've thought at night, Of everything. I've pondered long, but cannot write On anything. The class time nears, I've nothing yet If I could only someone get To write my theme, I'd give, you bet, 'Most anything. I would not come without a theme For anything. I'll write a poem about a dream, Or — anything. I grasp my pen and get to biz. It's harder work than any quiz. I've done my best. So, here it is! Just "Anything."
Is a dusty, dingy little blue shack. Sadly in need of a coat of paint; Facing all weathers without complaint; Taking the winds, and snows, and rains; Smothered by dust from the wheels of trains; Blistered and warped by the summer's heat; Scratched and splintered by careless feet; Door left open to welcome all; Initials carved on the seats and wall. Freshmen come and, as seniors, go; But there in the sun, wind, rain, and snow, Year after year the station waits Greyed by the smoke of the passing freights. Placards tacked to the northern wall, Used as a mall box by one and all, Love letters jammed into every crack; Keep well our secrets, oh little blue shack. Note: This tiny "waiting room," for many years a campus landmark, was burned about 1926.
Who followed the Goddess of Gold. With a pack on his back, always leading a jack, He tramped out his youth, and grew old. But wherever he strayed, he found nothing that paid, Only sandstone, or limestone, or shale; But those who came in where Shucky had been Found wealth. Luck camped on his trail. He had washed out the sands of many a stream From 'Frisco to Denver, and back. He had shriveled with thirst 'neath New Mexico suns, And had once abandoned his jack In a Montana storm, and when he returned To the place, the next year, westward bound, He saw shafthouse and dump of a silver mine near Where the bones of his burro were found. His campfire smoke drifted up through the boughs Of the pines on the Wyoming hills. He had watched the sun rise from Arapaho Pass. In South Park, where the timberwolf kills For the joy of the deed, he spent nearly a year Tracing "color" he found in a dale. But finally the sign he had followed so long Petered out in a thick bank of shale. It was late in the spring, 'way back in the hills, When he found what he'd sought for so long, A vein of gold quartz on a steep mountain side. Below, a swift stream sang its song. Shucky built him a hut and sank a small shaft, And found gold he had oft' dreamed about But after he'd worked but a short week, he saw This vein, too, was petering out. On a cold, frosty morn Shucky rose, stiff and glum. He decided to try one blast more. So what "giant" was left he put on to heat And reached for a drill — with a roar His table, and chair, and Shucky himself Went out through the wall of his shack, And nothing was left, when the smoke cleared away, But a hole, and debris, and the jack. Some trappers that day, on their way to a town, To trade in their furs for supplies, Came across what was left of Shucky McCann On his face a vast look of surprise. They collected his parts from the hillside around And buried them deep in the mold And they found that the blast which had sent Shucky on Had uncovered a huge ledge of gold. A shafthouse now stands where Shucky's shack stood, And a village sprang up down below. A smelter pours out its gray smoke on the breeze, And its furnace fires flicker and glow. But far up the draw where the pines whisper low Is a grave, 'neath the pines, all alone Where Shucky lies still, his prospecting done And this is inscribed on the stone: "Old Shucky McCann was a prospecting man Who followed the Goddess of Gold. With a pack on his back, always leading a jack He tramped out his youth, and grew old. But wherever he strayed, he found nothing that paid, Only sandstone, or limestone, or shale; But those who came in where Shucky had been Found wealth. Luck camped on his trail."
With his wife, so young and charming, He procured a modern rancho, Buildings made of quarried stone. Running water in the kitchen 'Lectric sew-er for the stitchin', Furnace in the concrete basement, And a rural telephone. Now, in many farming districts, Private lines are merely mistics. Jim found there were twenty-seven Other families on the line. Every Sunday at eleven Each one of the twenty-seven Took down his or her receiver While The Reverend Jacob Fine Seated in his quiet parlor In his shirt sleeves, minus collar, With a glass of cider handy, Preached his sermon through the 'phone. Every evening after supper Wealthy farmer, Thomas Tupper, Brought delight to all his neighbors With his fine, new graphophone. And when common conversation Languished, yet communication Of a private nature flourished Between two and sometimes more. So Jim Keller, after trying For the line to do some buying From a distant cattle feeder, Kicked the table, stamped, and swore. Cussed all telephones in general, Swore at this one line real special, 'Till a happy idea struck him, On his face a sly grin shone. Promptly went out to the pig pen, Caught a piglet, not too big, then Brought him squirming to the kitchen, Held his snout up to the 'phone. And the piglet, most irated, Squealed until his screams vibrated Through the house and o'er the 'phone line, And he didn't pause for breath 'Till James put him in the cellar Where the useful little feller Seemed contented, and the 'phone line, When James tried, was still as death. Now when people ask James Keller Why he keeps pigs in the cellar, He just smiles, and keeps them puzzled. Says it's handy to the 'phone.
Many times. In fact I've squandered Many precious moments thinking Of the thing until I'm vexed. But it might be well to mention Just what calls to my attention Such unpleasant things for thinking. It's the barber calling, "Next!" Or, when for the dentist waiting, With myself I start debating On this question, and the outcome Always leaves me more perplexed. 'Till, opening the door adjacent, Letting out the former patient, With a nod the smiling dentist Looks at me and calls out "Next!" So, I'm thinking as I'm lying Here in bed. (They say I'm dying) And they've had me make my will out, And they've read me from the text. Someone give me a suggestion. Help me answer this old question. Will it be the good Saint Peter Or the Devil calling, "Next!"
Mighty castles out of air Wall upon wall, Vastly wide and tall, Then at a breath they sway and fall. 'Though there's no use wasting Thought, and time and care; Still I keep on building castles, Mighty castles out of air.
In which we all must take a hand. Now some prefer to play alone And take a chance against the rest. These play to win, or else they stay And play their hand just for the sport Of playing it. These folk are sure That they have failed if, when the game Is o'er, they have not laid away A pile of chips, no matter how They toiled to get them, losing all The pleasure of the game. The rest Who play for sport care not how much They win or lose, just so they see The game clear through; and when they must Cash in, they see too late, the Game has been a waste. They have not gained A whit by playing. The rest of us take partners for The game, and play that we may help The game along — that all may come To understand the game, all Its finer points, so those who come And take our hands when we must go May play them better than did we. But when we play the game we try To get what fun we can from it. It has been said that we are all Born equal; yet it seems to me That when the cards are dealt, the luck Does favor some; and some must start With handicaps. But then what cards We're dealt, we have to play as best We can the hand we have, 'though some Prefer to cheat, and if they're caught We make them play at solitaire Until they learn that when they cheat They cheat themselves alone. And he Who did his best to help himself And others, too, to see the game In its best light, and while he played Enjoyed himself, can tell the world "I played the game"
I hear my text books calling me. I turn the pages, look and learn Of H2O and why things burn; How big trees grow from little seeds, How heat affects combining speeds, Of plumules, drupes, and lodicules; Of symbols, atoms, molecules; Of carpel, cyme, and zygospore; Of zinc plus H2SO4; Of misicarps and ligulates; Of how to find combining weights; So many names, so many terms That spirogyra endosperms May act with KCLO3 To give a cotyledon tree For all I know. I'm fairly sure That KCL, if really pure, Kills chlorophyl. A nucleus Is in the cells of all of us. Will water act with KCL Or copper sulfate? I can't tell Emorphous from a corn scutellum. Is this stuff tough? Oh boy! You tell 'em.
Walks the "Horn." His hat and coat the college Halls adorn. Upon the fitful evening breeze Is borne His hoot and catcall. Every morn He passes us, his hair Unshorn, His leggings loose, his shirt Is torn. He's here again! All hail! The Horn! The Horn! For many years the Colorado Agricultural College provided a "short course" of about six months for farm boys who were required at home during the planting, growing, and harvesting seasons. These boys were known as "Shorthorns" or simply "Horns." To some extent they were resented by the college students who, unfortunately, did not hide their resentment.
I'm no more on my throne, For when you so deserted me Und left me all alone, Dose Yanks, dey drive mine men back Und go demselves ahead, So I don't stay in Berlin But come out here instead. Now Gott, chust dis small kindness It is de last I'll ask, Don't now forget your pardner, It is a simple task. Chust set aside de devil Und put me in his place. I haf as mean a heart as his Und tvice as bad a face. I know all kinds of tortures He nefer dared to use. I tried dem all in Belgium Und at de Marne and Meuss. So, set aside old Satan, You know I'll do as well. Den, you can rule in Heaven, Und I'll rule down in Hell.
And yet are known to very few you pass, Who give discouraged boys a cheering talk, And aid the slow, or help the one whom gas Has made unfit, to find the proper course Of study; you who all day long On hard, exacting works puts so much time, Yet seems to know when smile or gentle force Is needed most to bring a man in line; Each helpful smile, each quiet, kind exploit Has opened all our hearts to you, Miss Hoyt. Miss Hoyt was a Counselor of the U.S. Veteran's Bureau and represented the Federal Board of Vocational Education on the Colorado Agricultural College Campus.
With policemen and ropes keeping all from the fore, And a man pushes through without getting permish, You think he's the chief, or some other big fish; But he's not — he's just a reporter. An opera's in town. You determine to go. You stand in the line in the cold and the snow, When a man brushes past and steps in through the door Without buying a ticket. You think he's a star; But he's not — he's just a reporter. A great man will speak. He is known far and wide. The room is o'er flowing, there are hundreds outside. No more can get in, then a man elbows through. "The speaker," you cry, which is sure one on you; For he's not — he's just a reporter. When you stand before Peter whose eyes are so sharp And you think of the flames, but you hope for a harp, And a man passes in with a step bold and sure, Who must be a saint with soul spotless and pure, But he's not — he's just a reporter.
Atossing chips on the passing tide, And the bits of wood dropped in and lay On the glassy surface. Then floated away. So, one by one, they were carried down Past meadows green, past farmland and town. But some floated in where a whirlpool swirled, And 'round and 'round in the vortex whirled Day after day and night after night, 'Til, heavy from soaking, they sank from sight. Others were carried where currents are slow, Where willows, and alders, and swamp grasses grow. And the river receding each day more and more Left them stranded there on the marshy shore. Some were sucked in where a rapid roared, As, over the rocks, the white water poured. They were smashed into bits by the raging flood, Or crushed on the rocks, or washed up on the mud; So that farther down just one little chip, Of the many that started that selfsame trip, Floated calmly on 'round bend after bend, 'Til it reached the ocean, the journey's end.
Had happiness. A calm and blissful life they led With happiness. And then Eve pulled that awful bone. Result? They lost their happy home, And never more to them was known Pure happiness. Since then mankind has sought in vain For happiness. He suffers want, privation, pain For happiness. But 'though he's sought for years and years, Through joys and sorrow, laughter, tears; Man still through darkness gropes and peers For happiness. Like all the rest I, too, have searched For happiness. With sneaking deeds my name I've smirched For happiness. But now I'm hot upon its trail, I got a letter through the mail, And it was signed (Oh sign, don't fail), "Yours, Happiness." |
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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist dodge/sec6.htm — 19-May-2007 | ||