A THOROUGHLY COMMENDABLE VAGABOND 



39 



Stop to get step there, the poem like 

 the walker goes for home : 



Who never defers and never demands, 

 But, smiling, takes the world in his hands, — 



Seeing it good as when God first saw 

 And gave it the weight of his will for law. 



The poems, "Songs from Vagab'on- 

 dia," also "More Songs from Vagabon- 

 dia" and "Last Songs from Vagabo,n- 

 dia," were written in cooperation wath 

 his fellow traveler, Richard Hovey, who 

 died. "Echoes from Vagabondia" were 

 written by J\Ir. Carman. These delight- 

 ful little books are published by Small, 

 Maynard and Company, Boston, Mass., 

 and should be familiar to every nature 

 lover. 



"The Rough Rider and Other Poems," 

 published by Mitchell Kennerly of New 

 York City, contains some charming bits 

 of nourishment for every nature lover. 

 In this are two poems with especial 

 local interest. "Easter Eve" refers to 

 Lake Wampanaw of New Canaan and 

 the accompanying illustration shows Mr. 

 Carman standing by that Lake in medi- 

 tation, and he asks in a way that startles 

 the reader, suppose while going from 

 town on Wednesday he had met Christ 

 walking on Ponus Street? 



Then let me ask you. Last December, when 



there was skating on Wampanaw, 

 Among the weeds and sticks and grasses un- 

 der the hard black ice I saw 

 An old mud-turtle poking about, as if he 



were putting his house to rights, 

 Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing 

 enough to prepare for the winter nights. 



Well, I have an instinct as fine and valid, 

 surely, as that of the beasts and birds, 

 Concerning death and the life immortal, too 

 deep for logic, too vague for words. 

 No trace of beauty can pass or perish, but 



other beauty is somewhere born ; 

 No seed of truth or good be planted, but 

 the yield must grow as the growing corn. 



Therefore this ardent mind and spirit I give 



to the glowing days of earth. 

 To be wrought by the Lord of life to some- 

 thing of lasting import and lovely worth. 

 If the toil I give be without self-seeking, 

 bestowed to the limit of will and power, 

 To fashion after some form ideal the in- 

 stant task and the waiting hour, 



It matters not though defeat undo me, though 



faults betray me and sorrows scar, 

 Already I share the life eternal with the April 

 buds and the evening star. 

 Our minister here, entrenched in doctrine, 



may know no doubt upon Easter Eve. 

 And when it comes to the crucial question. 

 Doctor, you skeptic, you too believe ! 



Another delightful poem with local 

 reference is "On Ponus Ridge." In the 

 first stanza he propounds a question, an. 

 answer to which he finds on Ponus 

 Ridge : 



I hoard the voice of our mother planet mur- 

 mur CO da} as the south wind blew 

 Over the old Connecticut granite, up from the 

 Sound and the rainy blue. 

 "What is your comment, wandering broth- 

 er," said Ponus Ridge to the striding rain, 

 "Not on the new word, Love one another, 

 but the harder text. Ye shall rise again?" 



It is difficult to do justice to this poem 

 without quoting it all, but this stanza is 

 a sample of the beautiful thoughts that 

 crowd the author's mind and seek ex- 

 pression : 



Here all day long I shall lie and ponder the 



teeming life whereon I brood, 



While the buds unfold, the low clouds wander, 



and all things flow to rhythm and mood. 



And seeing all form but the trace of mo 



tion, all beauty the vestige of joy made 



plain, 



Shall I stint my care and my devotion, to 



vex me with counting the once or again ? 



One can but think of Bliss Carman 

 somewhat as of John Howard Payne. 

 Tenderly beautiful in thought, affec- 

 tionate in spirit, Bliss Carman lives his 

 life alone; he has no home. He engages 

 a room at one house near the railroad 

 station in Xew^ Canaan, and takes his 

 meals in another. He is not surrounded 

 by relatives, he knows not the joys of 

 home life though he has enriched thous- 

 ands of homes by the tenderly beautiful, 

 loving spirit of his poetry. He who has 

 sung for the delight of many a home is, 

 as he himself says, a vagabond. Ask at 

 the station in New Canaan, "Where is 

 Mr. Carman's home?" and the answer is, 

 'T suppose you mean that man who 

 writes for magazines and wears a broad- 

 brimmed hat. He has no home ; he 

 boards over there. I don't believe. Mis- 

 ter, you will find him at home ; he goes 

 walking over the hills and through the 

 woods and perhaps you will find him on 

 the lake where he spends much of his 

 time." 



Is vagabondage commendable? As ex- 

 emplified by Bliss Carman, it is. 



Is Carman singing a new song? No, 

 it is the old, old story of Him who walk- 

 ed with His disciples in the open road, 

 who drew His lessons from the lilies in 

 the field, from the vineyards that He 

 passed, from the birds that He saw and 



