Poetry: Heard and Seen

Poetry— Heard and Seen By G. Milton Babcock For many people, the poetry of words and lines and stanzas summons up, as if by magic, happy memories; it brings to them thrilling thoughts of the present, and the joy of living; and it inspires them with an eager longing for a future in which lofty aspirations may crystallize into deeds. But there are those who candidly admit that poetry does not move them. What is their fate? Are they doomed to pass through life without ex- periencing the joy that is the reward of those who appreciate the written poetry? No, indeed; for theirs is the poetry of life itself — poetry more real, vital and sublime than that which can be found on the printed page! Who has not felt the thrill of the great awakening that comes to all nature in the springtime — the season in which the landscape bursts with green, new life; the songsters of the air and woodland mate and build their nests; the humming and droning things again are heard; the provident tillers of the soil feverishly plow the ground and plant; and the season in which, if we look sharp, we may see fond lovers wending their way to some try sting place? Who has not thrilled at the beginning of a perfect sum- mer's day, when the reassuring gray succeeds the somber black- ness of night, only to give way, in turn, to the glorious pink and gold of sunrise? Beyond the city, the cock sounds his awaken- ing call. And what a diversity of sounds greets the ears of the farmer as he steps forth into the morning air! Old Watch welcomes him with delighted barks and vigorous pawings; the chickens scramble about him and suggest, with excited clucks and calls, that he give them their breakfast — though they know full well that it is always the housewife who feeds them; gentle Bess moos softly as she approaches the barnyard; old Dobbin, the last reminder of the time when each household boasted a family horse, whinnies in anticipation of her grain, while from the pen nearby come the hectic grunts and squeals of the swine. The chores done, the farmer and his family gather round the breakfast table, the ruddy faces of the younger children con- trasting with the tanned countenances of the older ones. See, there is the mother with her babe ! The proud father playfully

620 IMPROVEMENT ERA pinches the little cheek and boisterously proclaims: "He's the sweetest kid in seven counties!" And there is grandmother, dear old grandmother who, with her spicy, old-fashioned cookies and cakes, tempts the juvenile stomach — yes, and older stom- achs, too! How quickly vacation days pass, and the old bell calls once more: "Come-to-school! Come-to-school!" We hear coming from the farmer's house: "Mama, please tie my hair-ribbon? Mama, where's my cap?" Now come playmates, teachers, les- sons, games, pranks, sweethearts and beaus. And when the les- sons of the day are ended and the children are tucked safely in bed, gently over the hilltop rises the benevolent harvest- moon, beaming approvingly down upon the ripened grain, the shocks of corn, the fat pumpkins, and the barn bursting with hay. Soon after Thanksgiving Day the sleeping earth is mantled with snow. Let us, for a moment, leave the evening fireside, with its rustle and leap of flames, to enjoy the hush and winter calmness of the hillside and glen. How the eternal stars twinkle in the purple vast of night ! Hark ! the sound of sleighbells and of merry laughter from the old turnpike road yonder — a party of young folks on their way to the dance. Listen! they are singing now. A flood of memories comes over us as we join in the chorus: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh!" The song dies in the distance. And we need not confine our search for the poetry of life to the country. There is poetry in the ceaseless pulsing of the city street, the cry of the newsboy, the gong of the street car, the chug of the automobile, the footfalls of the multitude that pass along the sidewalk, and in the wistfulness in the eyes of some poor little chap as he gazes at the wonders of toyland in a show window. There's poetry in the great cathedrals of worship, the towering skyscrapers, the factories, the humble abodes of the poor and the magnificent homes of the well-to- do; in the toil of the workmen, in the courageous tasks of the guardians of the law, and in the heroism of the city's firemen. What poetry the postman sees and hears as he delivers his missives into eager hands ! And what joys of reunions and trag- edies of partings are experienced at the great railroad stations! I recall the time my family came to Tucson, some months after I had arrived. As the children alighted from the train, I hurried them out of the way in order to permit other passengers

POETRY— HEARD AND SEEN 621 to get off. Little Maud came last. She did not notice who was helping her, so I said, "Hello, Maud." She turned like a flash and said: "Why, mama, there's daddy!" at which several pas- sengers nearby exclaimed and echoed the note of gladness in her voice. One man, who had felt the thrill of her greetings, said to me in a trembling voice: "This will be a happy reunion for you, won't it?" So, my friends, I repeat: there is a poetry more real, vital and sublime than that which can be found on the printed page — the poetry of life itself. Blessed are they who enjoy the poetry found in books; but doubly blessed are they who love the poetry that is heard and seen; and oh, thrice blessed must they be who can appreciate both! Binghamton Branch, Tucson, Arizona To a Bluebird All hail, sweet heralder of spring! To earth and me What wealth of beauty thou dost bring, My heart leaps upward on the wing To follow thee. A glint of sapphire flashing by And thou art gone. A bit of song and sun and sky Commingling to glorify The early dawn. A ruddy sunbeam — one or two — From nature's heart. From out the sky a strip of blue, An echo and a drop of dew, And here thou art. I wonder not that when you sing No heart is sad. The wonder is that you can bring So much with such a little thing To make us glad. Another wonder born to rise Above the sod. Another voice that testifies That somewhere in the azure skies There is a God. -Theo E. Curtis.