Speotyto cunicularia hypogaea
The woods were made for the hunters of dreams,
The brooks for the fishers of song;
To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game
The stream and the woods belong.
So away! For the hunt in the fern-scented woods,
Till the going down of the sun;
There is plenty of game still left in the woods,
For the hunter who has no gun.
The day is done, and slowly from the scene,
The stooping sun gathers up his spent shafts
And puts them back into his golden quiver.
Up rose the sonne, and up rose Emilie.
"Gentleness succeeds better than violence."
|-- La Fontaine|
Just a tawny glimmer,
a flash of red and gray,
Was it a flitting shadow,
or a sunbeam gone astray?
It glances up a tree trunk,
and a pair of bright eyes glow
Where a little spy in ambush
is measuring his foe.
I hear a mocking chuckle;
then wrathful, he grows bold --
And stays his pressing business
to scold and scold and scold.
Sept. 28th -- Pandora has not been on good behavior today. She is just as full of mischief as is possible for a Chipmunk to be. You would naturally think that she would be clear tired out after such a strenuous day. Why -- she has been on a nature walk early this morning before any of the rest of the family were up, then afterwards with me to feed the chickens, and to take the cows to pasture. I rode Lily, the Jersey cow, and Pandora scampered over her neck from top of head to shoulder blades and back again, and then, all over again, until Lily just stood still and simply would not move a foot forward until I had placed Pandora in my apron pocket and made her stay there. (Down in my heart I had a streak of sympathy for her having to be kept in the pocket, because it is somewhat like Mother having to put me in the dark closet for climbing trees.)Then after we came home, while I was helping Mother darn stockings, she made herself a home in Mother's work basket and scattered the spools of thread everywhere. Jimmy, who knows heaps about football, when he saw Pandora landing those balls of darning cotton, said, "She sure does make a touchdown every time." Mother had to send her from the room. And I went, too, taking the last pair of stockings with me to the woods. (The stocking did not get darned, because Pandora and I were so busy climbing trees and talking to other Chipmunks.) When we arrived home there was company for dinner and Mother had nut salad. And what did Pandora do when we were out of the room, but climb upon the table and sample three dishes of salad. (She took big samples, too, just like I wanted to long time ago before that birthday that made me four years old -- of course, I've wanted to since that, but having absorbed Mother's trainings helps one to resist temptation.) Pandora simply does not absorb her training ... I've been trying three months to train her up in the way that she should go. But there she sat in the center of Auntie's particular friend's dish of salad -- he does not care for dressing on his salad and Pandora evidently has the same taste, for there was not much left of that particular dish of salad. And I was 'most afraid that there would not be much left of Pandora when auntie boxed her ears so, but she was soon on mischief bent again, when she found the place in the pantry where the nuts were cracked for something tomorrow. And when I tried to find Pandora of course I found the nuts, too -- and I was hungry, too -- and now I'm here in bed, where auntie says naughty girls should be who won't let alone nuts that are on the pantry shelf for something tomorrow ... Daddy just brought Pandora in -- she has been playing around his chair and ran up to his shoulder and jumped down on the book he was reading (just like she does when I am reading sometimes). And after all this long day, she is still bubbling over with joy, and so am i, even when I get sent to bed when I am not sleepy, for there are so many glad things to think about the fairies around about us.
"The forest is my loyal friend;
like God, it useth me."
What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his!
There needs no crown to mark the forest's king;
How his leaves outshine full summer's bliss!
Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring.
The ballad singers and the troubadours,
The street musicians of the heavenly city,
The birds, who make sweet music for us all
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.
Shrewd little hunter of woods all gray
Whom I meet on my walk of a winter day --
You're busy inspecting each cranny and hole
In the ragged bank of yon hickory bole;
You intent on your task, and I on the law
Of your wonderful head and gymnastic claw!
The woodpecker well may despair of this feat --
Only the fly with you can compete!
So much is clear, but I fain would know
How you can so reckless and fearless go,
Head upward, head downward, all one to you,
Zenith and nadir the same in your view.
|-- Edith M. Thomas|
In every wooded valley
the birds are breaking through,
As though the heart of all things
no languor knew.
|-- Bliss Carmen|
I know where wild things lurk and linger
In groves as gray and grand as Time;
I know where God has written poems
Too strong for words or rhyme.
In the birches, on the grasses,
Stiffly rising through the snow crust,
On the slope of yonder sand-bank.
Where the snow has slipped and wasted,
Rest a flock of trustful strangers,
Lisping words of gentle greeting,
Rest and find the sun's rays warming,
Rest and find their food abundant,
Resting sing of weary journeys
From a Northland, cold and distant.
Rose-touched are their brows with tints like
Lights upon a winter's snow field,
Rosy are their caps as morning,
When the storm clouds gather eastward;
Happy are their hearts and voices,
Happy are the fields and forests,
When their merry notes come jingling,
Sleighbell like, from upper ether.
Mosses and lichens,
children of lowly birth,
Humblest creatures of the wood,
to your peaceful brotherhood
Sweet the promise that was given,
like the dew from heaven;
Blessed are the meek,
they shall inherit the earth,
Thus are the words fulfilled:
over all the earth
Mosses find a home secure
on the desolate mountain crest,
Avalanche-plowed and tempest-tilled,
the sweet mosses rest;
On shadowy banks of streamlets pure,
kissed by the cataract's spray,
For the bird's swift foot a small highway,
for the many and one distressed,
Little sermons of peace.
There are thoughts that come
from the soul of the pine,
And thoughts in a flower bell curled;
And the thoughts that are blown
with the scent of the fern
Are as new and as old as the world.
West Wind, O though,
Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie, cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth.
Sure, afther all the winther,
An' afther all the snow,
'Tis find to see the sunshine,
'Tis fine to feel its glow;
'Tis fine to see the buds break
On boughs that bare have been --
But best of all to Irish eyes,
'Tis grand to see the green.
Innumerable as the stars of night,
Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun
Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
Each affluent petal outstretched and uncurled
To the glory and goodness and shine of the world.
Where the fire had smoked and smoldered
Saw the earliest flower of springtime,
Saw the beauty of the springtime,
Saw the Miskodeed in blossom.
Now Spring has clad the grove in green,
And strewed the leaf wi' flowers.
|-- Robert Burns|