 | The candle in the cabin |  |
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HERE BEGINS THE FOREST-RANGER'S COURTSHIP WHICH IS AN INTERLUDE THROUGH THE BOOK TILL “THE FOREST-RANGER'S HONEYMOON” BEGINS.
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THE HALL OF JUDGMENT
The Forest-Ranger's Courtship
To this vague court of judgment we appealTo this tremendous wind-swept range we call—
Be with us through the fall;
Though we are far away, and this majestic hall
Seems alien to the eastern falling leaves,
October apples and October sheaves.
We have the dream of conquering all the maps,
Of taking our twelve sons around the world:
We will not be stopped by rain or snow,
Or caught in little traps.
We would be unchained from dusty houses;
We would enjoy, then leave the largest towns.
We would enjoy and love the oldest neighbors,
Worn only here in the flowers' hall of justice,
Worn only in this great court of appeals,
Here would our tribe judge and be judged forever,
Here we would be sealed with sacred seals,
Till none can move us, or distress
Except the wilderness;
Till none can comfort, harry, or caress
Except the wilderness;
Till thus, by being free
And filled with the waterfall's mirth,
Our house, our twelve bright sons,
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Explore and conquer the wilderness of earth,
All trails of the earth.
THE PIGEON DRAGON-ROSE
The rose that bloomedIn the waterfall
Turned to a Pigeon Dragon-Rose
More sturdy of frame,
More icy of thorn
Than any garden-blossom
That blows.
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THE TWIN WATERFALLS
The Twin WaterfallsThat were jealous
Over a huckleberry bush
Swept down the mountains
With a quarrel and a push.
THE CURLING WAVES
The curling wavesOf Iceberg Lake
Wind and wind
Before they break.
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THE MOUNTAINS ARE THE MEMBERS OF OUR FAMILY
The mountains are the members of our family to defend us.They fight us by the campfire but are for us in the street.
They gather round the fire log, insulting and accusing.
They curse the cat, they kick the dog,
Step on each other's feet,
Full of open feuds, with us, and one another;
But when it comes to war with men
Each mountain is our brother.
In Babylon we speak of them,
Each mountain is our brother.
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THE BABBITT JAMBOREE
When I see an Indian dressed for war
Yet dancing for a Babbitt jamboree
In plumes no Babbitt ever dares to wear,
An anger rises in me
Like high tide in the sea.
These are my own, these Indians. I know
What makes the breeds more bitter than the bloods.
There's just one drop of Indian blood in me,
Yet in tremendous tides and floods
It seems to sweep upon me when I watch
Those who have owned this land turned to a show.
Yet dancing for a Babbitt jamboree
In plumes no Babbitt ever dares to wear,
An anger rises in me
Like high tide in the sea.
These are my own, these Indians. I know
What makes the breeds more bitter than the bloods.
There's just one drop of Indian blood in me,
Yet in tremendous tides and floods
It seems to sweep upon me when I watch
Those who have owned this land turned to a show.
And when I put a feather in my hat,
It is with thoughts the Babbitts cannot know.
Woe to the pale face then who thinks it is for show!
It is with thoughts the Babbitts cannot know.
Woe to the pale face then who thinks it is for show!
That little feather stands for a whole war.
It means I beat the tom-toms in the rain;
It means a scalping knife is in my belt,
That I will lead the young braves not in vain.
It means when all these silly days are done,
Sons of this soil will come into their own,
Sons of the Mohawk,
Sons of Pocahontas,
Bread of these rocks and mountains, blood and bone.
It means I beat the tom-toms in the rain;
It means a scalping knife is in my belt,
That I will lead the young braves not in vain.
It means when all these silly days are done,
Sons of this soil will come into their own,
Sons of the Mohawk,
Sons of Pocahontas,
Bread of these rocks and mountains, blood and bone.
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THE MOUNTAIN WITH WINGS
Red Eagle, Red Eagle,
The red man's own mountain!
Red Eagle, Red Eagle,
The mountain with wings,
Where the butterflies fly in white rings,
Where the chipmunks display an especial fantastic
And seem to be spreading red wings.
Red Eagle, Red Eagle, where sunrise and sunset
Seem to be spreading red wings.
Red Eagle, Red Eagle, where waterfalls shake the walls
Seem to be splitting the canyons and valleys,
Seem to be spreading red wings.
The red man's own mountain!
Red Eagle, Red Eagle,
The mountain with wings,
Where the butterflies fly in white rings,
Where the chipmunks display an especial fantastic
And seem to be spreading red wings.
Red Eagle, Red Eagle, where sunrise and sunset
Seem to be spreading red wings.
Red Eagle, Red Eagle, where waterfalls shake the walls
Seem to be splitting the canyons and valleys,
Seem to be spreading red wings.
Red Eagle
Where he
Who sleeps under
That wonder,
The aspen,
Dreams that its whiteness is wrapped round in fire,
Till it seems to be spreading red wings,
And climbed by a feathered green serpent that stings.
Where he
Who sleeps under
That wonder,
The aspen,
Dreams that its whiteness is wrapped round in fire,
Till it seems to be spreading red wings,
And climbed by a feathered green serpent that stings.
Oh mountain, endowed with the pride of the bird
That sings not, but rules every songster that sings,
And sets me to singing and lifting my head,
And spreading my sky with red wings, red wings!
That sings not, but rules every songster that sings,
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And spreading my sky with red wings, red wings!
Red Eagle, Red Eagle,
The red man's own mountain,
That seems to be spreading red wings.
The red man's own mountain,
That seems to be spreading red wings.
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THE RED EAGLE LOVE SONG
The Forest-Ranger's Courtship
We would be stakers of homesteads and ranches,
Yet have our homes regal.
Then,
We would be breakers of underbrush branches
On that mountain, Red Eagle.
We would be rakers of alfalfa and hay,
By sweat earn our bread.
Yet:—
We would be lazy and sassy and gay,
By the moment be led.
Yet have our homes regal.
Then,
We would be breakers of underbrush branches
On that mountain, Red Eagle.
We would be rakers of alfalfa and hay,
By sweat earn our bread.
Yet:—
We would be lazy and sassy and gay,
By the moment be led.
We would be bakers of clams, in lost island sands,
Far from good people;
Be great forsakers of prim and restraining hands,
And the church steeple.
We would be eagles red,
Blazing through all the year,
Lovers of Red Gods and unknown to any fear.
Far from good people;
Be great forsakers of prim and restraining hands,
And the church steeple.
We would be eagles red,
Blazing through all the year,
Lovers of Red Gods and unknown to any fear.
By Red Eagle Mountain I make you my love song,
By Red Eagle Mountain, I lift up my voice, and rejoice.
By Red Eagle Mountain, I lift up my voice, and rejoice.
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THE PARABLE OF DEEPNESS
“In Glacier Park is a bottomless lake,” said a guide on the east side to me.
“If you tie a big rock to a system of clothes lines,
Tied end to end, forever and ever,
You will find it more deep than the sea.”
“Now where is this lake?” I asked the smart guide.
“West of the Ranges,” said he.
“If you tie a big rock to a system of clothes lines,
Tied end to end, forever and ever,
You will find it more deep than the sea.”
“Now where is this lake?” I asked the smart guide.
“West of the Ranges,” said he.
“In Glacier Park is a bottomless lake,” said a guide on the west side to me.
“If you let down a system of trout lines and wire,
Tying on more, all your heart may desire,
With a horseshoe for plumb on the end of the string,
You cannot determine the depth of the thing.
You will find it more deep than the sea.”
“Now where is this lake?” I asked that gay guide.
“East of the Ranges,” said he.
“If you let down a system of trout lines and wire,
Tying on more, all your heart may desire,
With a horseshoe for plumb on the end of the string,
You cannot determine the depth of the thing.
You will find it more deep than the sea.”
“Now where is this lake?” I asked that gay guide.
“East of the Ranges,” said he.
“In the ocean there sure is a bottomless place,”
Said a sailor in New York harbor to me.
“If you let down a cable with plummets to fit
You will find it more deep than the bottomless pit.
It's a terrible place to get drownded at sea—
We cannot dive down and rescuers be.”
“Now where is this water?” I asked the salt sailor.
“Just south of the North Pole,” said he.
Said a sailor in New York harbor to me.
“If you let down a cable with plummets to fit
You will find it more deep than the bottomless pit.
It's a terrible place to get drownded at sea—
We cannot dive down and rescuers be.”
“Now where is this water?” I asked the salt sailor.
“Just south of the North Pole,” said he.
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“In the ocean there sure is a bottomless place,”
Said a San Francisco sailor to me.
“The sea spiders come when we ship in that sea
And they fasten their threads to the ribs of the ship,
Shark-proof-silk, resisting the lip
Of sharks of the highest or lowest degree.
And the spiders spin down, and swim down, and dive down,
And bite everything in the green-weed-town,
And clear things away, and swim down, and say:—
‘Oh where is the floor of this fathomless sea?’
But the sea is as deep as the bottomless pit.
No spider has ever dived down into it,
Not a spider of highest or lowest degree.”
“Now where is this water?” I asked the proud sailor.
“Just north of the South Pole,” said he.
Said a San Francisco sailor to me.
“The sea spiders come when we ship in that sea
And they fasten their threads to the ribs of the ship,
Shark-proof-silk, resisting the lip
Of sharks of the highest or lowest degree.
And the spiders spin down, and swim down, and dive down,
And bite everything in the green-weed-town,
And clear things away, and swim down, and say:—
‘Oh where is the floor of this fathomless sea?’
But the sea is as deep as the bottomless pit.
No spider has ever dived down into it,
Not a spider of highest or lowest degree.”
“Now where is this water?” I asked the proud sailor.
“Just north of the South Pole,” said he.
Now the China boy there in the chop suey dive
Serving us whisky in tea
Sat down and continued the epic of deepness,
Delighting the salt and his sweetie and me.
He said, “There's a well in Confucius' back yard
Overhung by a plain little cinnamon tree.
The well has run dry, but is deep as the sky.
There's a star day and night you can see
If you put your fool head in the shadowy boughs,
Looking down through black leaves of the cinnamon tree.
Serving us whisky in tea
Sat down and continued the epic of deepness,
Delighting the salt and his sweetie and me.
He said, “There's a well in Confucius' back yard
Overhung by a plain little cinnamon tree.
The well has run dry, but is deep as the sky.
There's a star day and night you can see
If you put your fool head in the shadowy boughs,
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“You can let down a kite string as long as a river
And tie on bright jades that will glitter and quiver,
In the light of the star in the depths of the well.
It goes down like the slenderest glittering dragon,
And passes all side-doors and cellars of Hell,
Making dry rainbows there in the flagon.
No thread has ever gone down to the star,
The jewelled lost hub of Confucius' blue car.”
“Now where is this well?” inquired the gay sailor.
“I would like to go there with a spider and trailer.”
“In Confucius' back yard,” said the boy with a stare.
“I'm American born and have never been there,
But I heard my great-grandfather say it was there.”
And tie on bright jades that will glitter and quiver,
In the light of the star in the depths of the well.
It goes down like the slenderest glittering dragon,
And passes all side-doors and cellars of Hell,
Making dry rainbows there in the flagon.
No thread has ever gone down to the star,
The jewelled lost hub of Confucius' blue car.”
“Now where is this well?” inquired the gay sailor.
“I would like to go there with a spider and trailer.”
“In Confucius' back yard,” said the boy with a stare.
“I'm American born and have never been there,
But I heard my great-grandfather say it was there.”
When I climb on Sun-Mountain and look up at noon
Then new revelations of glory come soon
And the sky is a lake more deep than the dream
Of cowboy or sailor, or China boy gay.
And I need no kite strings to measure the way.
Then new revelations of glory come soon
And the sky is a lake more deep than the dream
Of cowboy or sailor, or China boy gay.
And I need no kite strings to measure the way.
When I sleep on that height
There is midnight more deep
Than the bottomless pit, or the seas, or the wells,
Or the wise men's great tales of sea spiders and hells.
There is midnight more deep
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Or the wise men's great tales of sea spiders and hells.
When the great moon comes up
I lie in a sea
Where the moon is the ship of God comforting me,
But between are wonders more deep than ever may be
In the lonely and strange lost green floors of the sea,
Or the deep drowned flowers in the depths of the Polar Sea.
I lie in a sea
Where the moon is the ship of God comforting me,
But between are wonders more deep than ever may be
In the lonely and strange lost green floors of the sea,
Or the deep drowned flowers in the depths of the Polar Sea.
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