The Norway birch is fair:
The white trunks shine, the green leaves twine,
The whole tree groweth tall and fine;
For all it wants is there,
Water and warmth and air,
Full fed in all its nature needs, and showing
That nature in perfection by its growing.
But follow the persistent tree
To the limit of endless snow
There you may see what a birch can be!
The product showeth plain and free
How nobly plants can grow
With nine months’ winter slow.
‘T is fitted to survive in that position,
Developed by the force of bad condition.
See now what life the tree doth keep,
Branchless, three-leaved, and tough;
In June the leaf-buds peep, flowers in July dare creep
To bloom, the fruit in August, and then sleep.
Strong is the tree and rough,
It lives, and that’s enough.
“Dog’s-ear” the name the peasants call it by —
A Norway birch — and less than one inch high!
That silver monarch of the summer wood,
Tall, straight, and lovely, rich in all things good,
Knew not in his perversity
The sweeter uses of adversity!
CONNOISSEURS.
“No,” said the Cultured Critic, gazing haughtily
Whereon some untrained brush had wandered naughtily,
From canons free;
“Work such as this lacks value and perspective,
Has no real feeling, inner or reflective,
Does not appeal to me.”
Then quoth the vulgar, knowing art but meagrely,
Their unbesought opinions airing eagerly,
“Why, ain’t that flat?”
Voicing their ignorance all unconcernedly,
Saying of what the Critic scored so learnedly,
“I don’t like that!”
The Critic now vouchsafed approval sparingly
Of what some genius had attempted daringly,
“This fellow tries;
He handles his conception frankly, feelingly.
Such work as this, done strongly and appealingly,
I recognize.”
The vulgar, gazing widely and unknowingly,
Still volunteered their cheap impressions flowingly,
“Oh, come and see!”
But all that they could say of art’s reality
Was this poor voice of poorer personality,
“Now, that suits me!”
TECHNIQUE.
COMETH to-day the very skilful man;
Profoundly skilful in his chosen art;
All things that other men can do he can,
And do them better. He is very smart.
Sayeth, “ My work is here before you all;
Come now with duly cultured mind to view it.
Here is great work, no part of it is small;
Perceive how well I do it!
“I do it to perfection. Studious years
Were spent to reach the pinnacle I’ve won;
Labor and thought are in my work, and tears.
Behold how well ‘t is done!
“See with what power this great effect is shown;
See with what ease you get the main idea;
A master in my art, I stand alone;
Now you may praise, I hear.”
And I, “O master, I perceive your sway,
I note the years of study, toil, and strain
That brought the easy power you wield to-day,
The height you now attain.
“Freely your well-trained power I see you spend,
Such skill in all my life I never saw;
You have done nobly; but, my able friend,
What have you done it for?
“You have no doubt achieved your dearest end:
Your work is faultless to the cultured view.
You do it well, but, O my able friend,
What is it that you do?”
THE PASTELLETTE.
“THE pastelle is too strong,” said he.
“Lo! I will make it fainter yet!”
And he wrought with tepid ecstasy
A pastellette.
A touch — a word — a tone half caught —
He softly felt and handled them;
Flavor of feeling — scent of thought —
Shimmer of gem —
That we may read, and feel as he
What vague, pale pleasure we can get
From this mild, witless mystery,
The pastellette.
THE PIG AND THE PEARL.
SAID the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!
Tasteless, and hard, and dry —
Get out of my sty!
Glittering, smooth, and clean,
You only seek to be seen! I am dirty and big!
A Virtuous, valuable pig.
For me all things are sweet
That I can possibly eat;
But you — how can you be good
Without being fit for food?
Not even food for me,
Who can eat all this you see,
No matter how foul and sour;
I revel from hour to hour
In refuse of great and small;
But you are no good at all,
And if I should gulp you, quick,
It would probably make me sick!”
Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!”
And she rooted her out of the sty.
A Philosopher chancing to pass
Saw the Pearl in the grass,
And laid hands on the same in a trice,
For the Pearl was a Pearl of Great Price.
Said he, “Madame Pig, if you knew
What a fool thing you do,
It would grieve even you!
Grant that pearls are not just to your taste,
Must you let them run waste?
You care only for hogwash, I know,
For your litter and you. Even so,
This tasteless hard thing which you scorn
Would buy acres of corn;
And apples, and pumpkins, and pease,
By the ton, if you please!
By the wealth which this pearl represents,
You could grow so immense —
You, and every last one of your young —
That your fame would be sung
As the takers of every first prize,
For your flavor and size!
From even a Pig’s point of view
The Pearl was worth millions to you.
Be a Pig — and a fool — (you must be them)
But try to know Pearls when you see them!”
POOR HUMAN NATURE.
I SAW a meagre, melancholy cow,
Blessed with a starveling calf that sucked in vain;
Eftsoon he died. I asked the mother how — ?
Quoth she, “Of every four there dieth twain!”
Poor bovine nature!
I saw a sickly horse of shambling gait,
Ugly and wicked, weak in leg and back,
Useless in all ways, in a wretched state.
“We ‘re all poor creatures!” said the sorry hack.
Poor equine nature!
I saw a slow cat crawling on the ground,
Weak, clumsy, inefficient, full of fears,
The mice escaping from her aimless bound.
Moaned she, “This truly is a vale of tears!”
Poor feline nature!
Then did I glory in my noble race,
Healthful and beautiful, alert and strong,
Rejoicing that we held a higher place
And need not add to theirs our mournful song,
Poor human nature!
OUR SAN FRANCISCO CLIMATE.
SAID I to my friend from the East,
A tenderfoot
he,
As I showed him the greatest and least
Of our hills by the sea,
“How do you like our climate?”
And I smiled in my glee.
I showed him the blue of the hills,
And the blue of the sky,
And the blue of the beautiful bay
Where the ferry-boats ply;
And “How do you like our climate?”
Securely asked I.
Then the wind blew over the sand,
And the fog came down,
And the papers and dust were on hand
All over the town.
“How do you like our climate?”
I cried with a frown.
On the corner we stood as we met
Awaiting a car;
Beneath us a vent-hole was set,
As our street comers are —
And street comers in our San Francisco
Are perceptible far.
He meant to have answered, of course,
I could see that he tried;
But he had not the strength of a horse,
And before he replied
The climate rose up from that corner in force,
And he died!
SAN FRANCISCO, 1896.
CRITICISM.
THE Critic eyed the sunset as the umber turned to gray,
Slow fading in the somewhat foggy west;
To the color-cultured Critic ’twas a very dull display,
“‘T isn’t half so good a sunset as was offered yesterday!
I wonder why,” he murmured, as he sadly turned away,
“The sunsets can’t be always at their best!”
ANOTHER CREED.
ANOTHER creed! We ‘re all so pleased!
A gentle, tentative new creed. We ‘re eased
Of all those things we could not quite believe,
But would not give the lie to. Now perceive
How charmingly this suits us! Science even
Has naught against our modern views of Heaven;
And yet the most emotional of women
May find this creed a warm, deep sea to swim in,
Here’s something now so loose and large of fit
That all the churches may come under it,
And we may see upon the earth once more
A church united, as we had before!
Before so much of precious blood was poured
That each in his own way might serve the Lord!
All wide divergence in sweet union sunk,
Like branches growing up into a trunk!
And in our intellectual delight
In this sweet formula that sets us right;
And -controversial exercises gay
With those who still prefer a differing way;
And our glad effort to make known this wonder
And get all others to unite thereunder,
We, joying in this newest, best of creeds,
Continue still to do our usual deeds!
THE LITTLE LION.
IT was a little lion lay —
In wait he lay — he lay in wait.
Came those who said, “Pray come my way;
We joy to see a lion play,
And laud his gait!”
The little lion mildly came —
In wait for prey — for prey in wait.
The people all adored his name,
And those who led him saw the same
With hearts elate.
The little lion grew that day,
In glee he went — he went in glee.
Said he, “I love to seek my prey,
Bat also love to see the way
My prey seek me!”
A MISFIT.
O LORD, take me out of this! do not fit!
My body does not suit my mind,
My brain is weak in the knees and blind,
My clothes are not what I want to find —
Not one bit!
My house is not the house I like —
Not one bit!
My church is built so loose and thin
That ten fall out where one falls in;
My creed is buttoned with a pin —
It does not fit!
The school I went to wasn’t right —
Not one bit!
The education given me
Was meant for the community,
And my poor head works differently —
It does not fit!
I try to move and find I can’t —
Not one bit!
Things that were given me to stay
Are mostly lost and blown away,
And what I have to use to-day —
It does not fit!
What I was taught I cannot do —
Not one bit!
And what I do I was not taught
And what I find I have not sought;
I never say the thing I ought —
It does not fit!
I have not meant to be like this —
Not one bit!
But in the puzzle and the strife
I fail my friend and pain my wife;
Oh, how it hurts to have a life
That does not fit!
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY.
ON New Year’s Day he plans a cruise
To Heaven straight — no time to lose!
Vowing to live so virtuously
That each besetting sin shall flee —
Good resolutions wide he strews
On New Year’s Day.
A while he minds his p’s and q’s,
And all temptations doth refuse,
Recalling his resolves so free
On New Year’s Day.
But in the long year that ensues,
They fade away by threes and twos —
The place we do not wish to see
Is paved with all he meant to be,
When he next year his life reviews —
On New Year’s Day.
OUR EAST.
OUR East, long looking backward over sea,
In loving study of what used to be,
Has grown to treat our West with the same scorn
England has had for us since we were born.
You’d think to hear this Eastern judgment bard
The West was just New England’s back yard!
That all the West was made for, last and least,
Was to raise pork and wheat to feed the East!
A place to travel in, for rest and health,
A place to struggle in and get the wealth.
The only normal end of which, of course,
Is to return to its historic source!
Our Western acres, curving to the sun,
The Western strength whereby our work is done,
All Western progress, they attribute fair
To Eastern Capital invested there!
New England never liked old England’s scorn.
Bo they think theirs more easy to be borne?
Or that the East, Britain’s rebellious child,
Will find the grandson, West, more meek and mild?
In union still our sovereignty has stood,
A union formed with prayer and sealed with blood.
We stand together. Patience, mighty West!
Don’t mind this scolding from your last year’s nest!
UNMENTIONABLE.
THERE is a thing of which I fain would speak,
Yet shun the deed;
Lest hot disgust flush the averted cheek
Of those who read.
And yet it is as common in our sight
As dust or grass;
Loathed by the lifted skirt, the tiptoe light,
Of those who pass.
We say no word, but the big placard rests
Frequent in view,
To sicken those who do not with requests
Of those who do.
“Gentlemen will not,” the mild placards say.
They read with
scorn.
“Gentlemen must not” — they defile the way
Of those who warn.
On boat and car the careful lady lifts
Her dress aside;
If careless — think, fair traveller, of the gifts
Of those who ride !
On every hall and sidewalk, floor and stair,
Where man’s at home,
This loathsomeness is added to the care
Of those who come.
As some foul slug his trail of slime displays
On leaf and stalk,
These street-beasts make a horror in the ways
Of those who walk.
We cannot ask reform of those who do —
They can’t or won’t.
We can express the scorn, intense and true,
Of those who don’t.
AN INVITATION FROM CALIFORNIA.
AREN’T you tired of protection from the weather?
Of defences, guards, and shields?
Aren’t you tired of the worry as to whether
This year the farm land yields?
Aren’t you tired of the wetness and the dryness,
The dampness, and the hotness, and the cold?
Of waiting on the weather man with shyness
To see if the last plans hold?
Aren’t you tired of the doctoring and nursing,
Of the “sickly winters” and the pocket pills,
Tired of sorrowing, and burying, and cursing
At Providence and undertakers’ bills?
Aren’t you tired of all the threatening and doubting,
The “weather-breeder” with its lovely lie;
The dubiety of any sort of outing;
The chip upon the shoulder of the sky?
Like a beaten horse who dodges your caresses,
Like a child abused who ducks before your frown,
Is the northerner in our warm air that blesses —
O come and live and take your elbow down!
Don’t be afraid; you do not need defences;
This heavenly day breeds not a stormy end;
Lay down your arms! cut off your war expenses!
This weather is your friend!
A friendliness from earth, a joy from heaven,
A peace that wins your frightened soul at length;
A place where rest as well as work is given,
Best is the food of strength.
RESOLVE.
To keep my health!
To do my work!
To live!
To see to it I grow and gain and give!
Never to look behind me for an hour!
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 177
