NIGHT FOR ADVENTURES

Sometimes when fragrant summer dusk comes in with scent of rose and musk And scatters from their sable husk the stars like yellow grain, Oh, then the ancient longing comes that lures me like a roll of drums To follow where the cricket strums his banjo in the lane.

And when the August moon comes up and like a shallow, silver cup Pours out upon the fields and roads her amber-colored beams, A leafy whisper mounts and calls from out the forest's moss grown halls To leave the city's somber walls and take the road of dreams.

A call that bids me rise and strip, and, naked all from toe to lip, To wander where the dewdrops drip from off the silent trees, And where the hairy spiders spin their nets of silver, fragile-thin, And out to where the fields begin, like down upon the breeze.

Into a silver pool to plunge, and like a great trout wheel and lunge Among the lily-bonnets and the stars reflected there; With face upturned to lie afloat, with moonbeams rippling round my throat, And from the slimy gra.s.ses plait a chaplet for my hair.

Then, leaping from my rustic bath, to take some winding meadow-path: Across the fields of aftermath to run with flying feet, And feel the dewdrop-weighted gra.s.s that bends beneath me as I pa.s.s, Where solemn trees in shadowy ma.s.s beyond the highway meet.

And, plunging deep within the woods, among the leaf-hung solitudes Where scarce one timid star intrudes into the breathless gloom, Go leaping down some fern-hid way to scare the rabbits in their play, And see the owl, a fantom gray, drift by on silent plume.

To fling me down at length and rest upon some damp and mossy nest, And hear the choir of surpliced frogs strike up a bubbling tune; And watch, above the dreaming trees, Orion and the Hyades And all the stars, like golden bees, around the lily-moon.

Then who can say if I have gone a-gipsying from dusk till dawn In company with fay and faun, where firefly-lanterns gleam?

And have I danced on cobwebs thin to Master Locust's mandolin-- Or I have spent the night in bed, and was it all a dream?

Victor Starbuck [1887-

SONG From "The Way Of Perfect Love"

Something calls and whispers, along the city street, Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet, And makes my blood to quicken and makes my flesh to pine.

The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine.

Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear.

Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree, The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea.

Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled.

Georgiana G.o.ddard King [1871-

THE VOORTREKKER

The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire, He shall fulfill G.o.d's utmost will unknowing His desire; And he shall see old planets pa.s.s and alien stars arise, And give the gale his seaworn sail in shadow of new skies.

Strong l.u.s.t of gear shall drive him forth and hunger arm his hand To win his food from the desert rude, his foothold from the sand.

His neighbors' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest, He shall go forth till South is North, sullen and dispossessed.

He shall desire loneliness, and his desire shall bring Hard on his heels a thousand wheels, a People, and a King; He shall come back in his own track, and by his scarce cooled camp; There shall he meet the roaring street, the derrick, and the stamp; There he shall blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand, Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's outposts stand!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

THE LONG TRAIL

There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, And the ricks stand gray to the sun, Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, And your English summer's done."

You have heard the beat of the off-sh.o.r.e wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song--how long? how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear la.s.s, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new!

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear la.s.s, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear la.s.s, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, From Cadiz south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear la.s.s, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear la.s.s, It's "Hawsers warp her through!"

And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on tile Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread!

When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead!

It's down by the Lower Hope, dear la.s.s, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear la.s.s, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear la.s.s, That blaze in the velvet blue.

They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're G.o.d's own guides on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start-- We're steaming all too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-sh.o.r.e wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song--how long--how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear la.s.s, And the Deuce knows what we may do-- But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]