Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/167
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
Danced with their nimble feet across the sky
To the running-water music of your flute . . .
And how, with twinkling heels they scurried off
Before the Northern Light swaying, twisting,
Spiralling like a slender silver smoke
On the thin blue winds, and feeling out among
The frightened starry children of the sky . . .
To the running-water music of your flute . . .
And how, with twinkling heels they scurried off
Before the Northern Light swaying, twisting,
Spiralling like a slender silver smoke
On the thin blue winds, and feeling out among
The frightened starry children of the sky . . .
"Look! . . . in de Land-of-Winter . . . somet'ing's dere! . . .
Somebody—he's reaching out hees hand! . . . for me! . . .
Ain't? . . . For me he's waiting . . . Somebody's dere! . . .
Somebody he's dere, waiting . . . waiting . . ."
Somebody—he's reaching out hees hand! . . . for me! . . .
Ain't? . . . For me he's waiting . . . Somebody's dere! . . .
Somebody he's dere, waiting . . . waiting . . ."
Don't you remember?—the ghostly silence, splintered
At last by a fist that cracked the hoary birch,
By a swift black fist that shattered the brittle air,
Splitting it into a million frosty fragments . . .
And dreary Northwind, coughing in the snow,
Spitting among the glistening sheeted pines,
And moaning on the barrens among the bones
Of gaunt white tamaracks mournful and forlorn . . .
At last by a fist that cracked the hoary birch,
By a swift black fist that shattered the brittle air,
Splitting it into a million frosty fragments . . .
And dreary Northwind, coughing in the snow,
Spitting among the glistening sheeted pines,
And moaning on the barrens among the bones
Of gaunt white tamaracks mournful and forlorn . . .
Sh-sh-sh-sh! . . . My Caribou! . . . Somebody's dere! . . .
He's crying . . . little bit crazy in dose wind . . .
Ain't? . . . You heard-um? . . . far'way . . . crying
Lak my old woman w'en she's lose de baby
And no can find-um—w'en she's running everyw'ere,
Falling in snow, talking little bit crazy,
Calling and crying for shees little boy . . .
Sh-sh-sh-sh! . . . Somet'ing's dere . . . you hear-um? . . . ain't? . . .
Somebody—somebody's dere, crying . . . crying . . .
He's crying . . . little bit crazy in dose wind . . .
Ain't? . . . You heard-um? . . . far'way . . . crying
Lak my old woman w'en she's lose de baby
And no can find-um—w'en she's running everyw'ere,
Falling in snow, talking little bit crazy,
Calling and crying for shees little boy . . .
Sh-sh-sh-sh! . . . Somet'ing's dere . . . you hear-um? . . . ain't? . . .
Somebody—somebody's dere, crying . . . crying . . .
152