IT

TEWKSBURY ROAD

T is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,

Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why;

Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen, cool rush of the air,

Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink,

Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;

Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink,

Where the stars are mellow and large at the coming of the night.

O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,

Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power

of words;

And the blessed green comely meadows are all aripple with mirth

At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild

cry of the birds.

JOHN MASEField

N

THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN

OW the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the
Hunting winds are loose-

Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;

Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues,

Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating?

Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,

Or the sea-trout's jumping crazy for the fly? X

He must go-go-go away from here!

On the other side the world he's overdue. 'Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring fret comes o'er you,

And the Red Gods call for you! ↓

So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow,

And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust;

And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow,

And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust. Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning?

Who is quick to read the noises of the night?

Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet are turning

To the camps of proved desire and known delight.

Let him go-go, etc

Do you know the blackened timber-do

the racing stream

you know

With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream

To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and races,

To a silent, smokey Indian that we know—

To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces,

For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!

They must go-go, etc.

Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short,

Where the bluff lea-boarded fishing-luggers ride? Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port

On a coast you've lost the chart of overside? It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her

Just one able 'long-shore loafer that I know.

He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her,

For the Red Gods call me out, and I must go!

Do

He must go-go, etc.

you know the pile-built village where the sagodealers trade

Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo? Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchidscented glade

When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through?

It is there that I am going, with my camphor, net,

and boxes,

To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know

To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and

flying-foxes,

For the Red Gods call me out, and I must go.

He must go-go, etc.