THE WAYFARER The wayfarer, Perceiving the pathway to truth, "I see that no one has passed here Later he saw that each weed Was a singular knife. "Well," he mumbled at last, A slant of sun on dull brown walls, Toward God a mighty hymn, A song of collisions and cries, Rumbling wheels, hoof-beats, bells, Welcomes, farewells, love-calls, final moans, Voices of joy, idiocy, warning, despair, The unknown appeals of brutes, The chanting of flowers, The screams of cut trees, The senseless babble of hens and wise men A cluttered incoherency that says to the stars: "O God, save us!" 128 THE BLADES OF GRASS In Heaven, Some little blades of grass Stood before God. 66 What did you do?" Then all save one of the little blades Began eagerly to relate The merits of their lives. This one stayed a small way behind, Ashamed. Presently, God said, "And what did you do?" The little blade answered, "Oh, my Lord, Memory is bitter to me, For, if I did good deeds, I know not of them." Then God, in all his splendor, Arose from his throne. "Oh, best little blade of grass!" he said. Edwin Ford Piper Edwin Ford Piper was born at Auburn, Nebraska, February 8, 1871, and literally grew up in the saddle. In 1893 he entered the University of Nebraska, from which he received an A.B. in 1897 and A.M. in 1900. He studied at Harvard (1903-4), was one of the editors of The Kiote (a magazine published from 1898 to 1902 in Lincoln, Nebraska), and, since 1905, has been an instructor of English at the State University of Iowa. Piper's Barbed Wire and Other Poems (1918) is saturated with the color of his environment. His later poems are still more vivid and racy. "Sweetgrass Range (with its selfacknowledged debt to Burns's “Rattlin' Roarin' Willie ") and "Bindlestiff" are fresh evidences of this author's creative interest in ballads and folk-lore. BINDLESTIFF Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, But there's you, and me, and Bindlestiff- At dawn the hedges and the wheel-ruts ran I've gnawed my crust of mouldy bread, Slanting rain chills my bones, Sun bakes my skin; Rocky road for my limping feet, Door where I can't go in. Above the hedgerow floated filmy smoke I used to burn the mules with the whip I used to live in a six by nine, The mesh of leafy branches rustled loud, In stained and broken coat, with untrimmed hedge. Sometimes they shut you up in jail— Dark, and a filthy cell; I hope the fellows built them jails Find 'em down in hell. But up above, you can sleep outdoors Feed you like a king; You never have to saw no wood, Only job is sing. The tones came mellower, as unevenly Good-bye, farewell to Omaha, Put my foot on the flying freight, Bindlestiff topped a hillock, against the sky Oh, the lives of men, lives of men, In pattern-molds be run; But there's you, and me, and Bindlestiff- SWEETGRASS RANGE Come sell your pony, cowboy Sell your pony to me; Braided bridle and your puncher saddle, |