CRANDALL— THE FARMER POET 



55 



his work on the "Tribune," Mr. Cran- 

 dall has contributed poems, prose 

 sketches of rural life and nature to 

 the "Century," "Harper's," "Atlantic 

 Monthly," "Outlook," "Independent," 

 "Critic." "Lippincott's," "North Ameri- 

 can Review," "Outing," and many 

 other periodicals. His books comprise 

 "Representative Sonnets by American 

 Poets" (Houghton Mifflin & Com- 

 pany), "\\ ay side Music," "The Chords 

 of Life," and "Songs from Sky Mead- 

 ows," the latter embodying a name 

 that he gave to a hilltop farm at North 

 Stamford, now owned by Henry Mil- 

 ler, the actor. Mr. Crandall was once 

 tendered an editorial position on the 

 "Century" magazine, but he decided 

 against it, owing to the necessary con- 

 finement to a desk. Indeed he was 

 forced to the country in 1886 to con- 

 serve his health. To a lover of nature 

 the strenuous life of a farmer has its 

 silver lining, and meanwhile the farmer 

 author has found time to labor a lot for 

 town betterment in many lines. He 

 thinks the poem, "Lincoln," read be- 

 fore the Stamford Historical Society 

 last winter, may be the best thing he 

 ever wrote though he has a liking for 

 "The Faith of the Trees," "Stamford 

 Highlands" and many shorter lyrics 

 in which he has aimed at the unattain- 

 able perfection in "what is not only 

 genius but art." Many of Mr. Cran- 

 dall's poems have been put in antholo- 

 gies, and not a few set to music, while 

 his gift has been recognized by critics 

 like Stedman, Van Dyke and Gilder. 

 His rooms are adorned with framed 

 illustrations of his poems taken from 

 many magazines, and to these he con- 

 fesses he repairs when he gets dis- 

 couraged, as we all do. That his hun- 

 dreds of poems have reached many 

 millions of readers is a pleasant 

 thought for him and his friends. 



Nature-studies have long been 

 valued as a "means of grace," because 

 they arouse the enthusiasm, the love 

 of work, which belongs to open-eyed 

 youth. The child bored with moral 

 precepts and irregular conjugations 

 turns with delight to the unrolling of 

 ferns and the song of birds. — David 

 Starr Jordan in "The Stability of 

 Truth." 



The Talk of the Hills. 



THE GREAT HILLS SPEAK THE UNIVERSAL 

 LANGUAGE. 



It is impossible to talk with the 

 mountains and not grow wiser. There 

 is a certain breadth in their wisdom 

 that moves one to charity and mercy. 

 I have never seen the mountains petu- 

 lant, angry, spiteful. I have seen petu- 

 lant storms sweep down on the moun- 

 tains, spiteful, frightful. But the 

 shoulders and brows of the mountains 

 rebuked the snarling storms and 

 seemed to say even to the thunder, "Be 

 still, little creatures. We prefer the 

 sunbeams." And they took the sun- 

 beams to wrap around themselves like 

 a garment, while the storm fled away. 

 One always looks to the mountain tops 

 to know if the rain is really passing. 



The mountains speak the one uni- 

 versal language. My friend, who often 

 goes to China, tells me that frequently 

 he has looked upon a row of hills and 

 while he gazed was not conscious that 

 he was away from America. How ab- 

 surd seems the imaginary line that 

 crosses the Rockies out West. And 

 these are our Rockies and those are 

 the Canadian Rockies. If you talk 

 with them as to their allegiance they 

 laugh at you. They are the Rockies of 

 all nations. 



When night shuts down, the moun- 

 tains disappear. It is impossible to see 

 them very far. The voices also fade 

 away. Often I have stood talking with 

 a mountain as the sun went slowly 

 down, and it has said, "Good-night. 

 Go sleep and forget, little man. Do 

 you not see how we are taking your 

 sun away? No more communing to- 

 night. No more planning, fearing, hop- 

 ing. Rest now. Behold us, the ever- 

 lasting hills, as we do bow ourselves 

 and stretch ourselves as upon a couch. 

 The day is done and now repose." 



And often, when one cannot sleep 

 for fear as from fatigue, he can think 

 on what the silent mountains are do- 

 ing till the fretful fever passes and he 

 sleeps. — By Emory J. Haynes. A quo- 

 tation from an extended newspaper 

 clipping sent to .The Agassiz Associa- 

 tion by one of its best friends. 



I like the magazine very much for 

 use in nature study classes as well as 

 for its general interest. — L. D. Woos- 

 ter, Department of Biology, Western 

 State Normal School, Hays, Kansas. 



