THE AUTHOR IN HIS RETREAT.

Note the string connecting with the camera outside, which captures the birds and little animals on their well-filled table.
(See pages 22 and 23.)

NEAR NATURE’S HEART

A VOLUME OF VERSE

BY
CRAWFORD JACKSON

ATLANTA, GA.
and
GUILFORD, N. C.

FOOTE & DAVIES COMPANY, PRINTERS, ATLANTA
GULBENK ENGRAVING COMPANY, ENGRAVERS, ATLANTA

COPYRIGHT 1923
BY
CRAWFORD JACKSON
(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)

DEDICATED
TO
EVERY CHILD

“Philosophy, to an attentive ear,

Clearly points out, not in one part alone,

How Imitative Nature takes her course

From the celestial mind, and from its art;

And when her laws the Stagirite[1] unfolds,

Not many leaves scann’d o’er, observing well

Thou shalt discover, that thy art on her

Obsequious follows, as the learner treads

In his instructor’s steps; so that your art

Deserves the name of second in descent

From God.”

Dante Alighieri.

FOREWORD

The great artist is one whose whole body becomes a living soul; whose eye gets glimpses into the heart of Nature, with visions of the Supernatural; whose ear hears their inner music, and whose hand produces ecstatic expression of their central force in some revelation of Beauty. And to make his art more real, more nearly perfect, Beauty more beautiful, such artist by contrast often depicts or suggests the deadly but doomed discords of life.

Any inspiring touch I have with Nature makes me less than half content with the best I can say of her. Beyond my increasing love for the rich, old Mother—yet eternally young and myriad formed—I am deeply indebted to F. Schuyler Mathews and his charming “Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music,” especially in suggestions and some illustrations for the “Birds’ Orchestra.” Other acknowledgements are made elsewhere in this little volume of verse, which chances to be my first, and therefore subject to the severer criticism.

C. J.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS

BOB-WHITE.

By F. Schuyler Matthews.

The Birds’ Orchestra

THE DAWN

“Start-right, you-hob-bright!” ’Twas fluted so clear,

It wakened the songsters and startled my ear,

As the King of the morning repelled the dark night,

And the reveille sounded, “All-right! Bob-Bob-White!”

The Mocking-bird earliest answered the call,

And gladly his echoes were welcomed by all,

As each took his place in the Nature-trained choir,

And bird after bird began tuning his lyre.

The songsters had started a sweet roundelay,

When suddenly up bounced a meddlesome Jay.

He wanted to sing,

This feathered thing;

Or brilliant colors to impress,

With spontaneous wantonness;

With spirit too to over-rule,

Like the self-important fashion fool.

In soft monotone crooned the Black-billed Cuckoo,

“Tho not much at singing, I’ll surely beat you.”

Cat Bird.
Photo by the Author.

And Flicker to Jay proclaimed,

“No-cheer from me, no-cheer!”

While the Hooded Warbler, “You-have-no-business-here”!

“I’m a blooming Jay,

I’ll have my way,

Dj-a-y! dj-a-y! dj-a-y!”

Then spoke that brave bird, the yellow-breast Chat:

“Cop! Cop! Shut-him-in-prison-and-send-for-the-cat.”

And King bird commanded with spirit irate,

“Away with you, Blue Jay—or I’ll pounce on your pate.”

And the Jay slipped away,

With a sure word of peace,

For such glad release:

“Ge-rul-lup!

Jig’s-all-up!”

YOUNG SCREECH OWL.
Photo by Rev. Wallace Rogers.

Then Wisdom’s proud bird, that old mystical fake,

While breakfasting late on a daring young snake,

Cried “Boo to y-o-u, hoot for y-o-u! Who-whoo—are-y-o-u?”

Till down in my heart I felt humbled anew.

But hope was revived by an echo of Night—

For Night has her echoes and pledges of Light—

“You can, if you will, a high mission fulfill.”

Insistently whistled the lone Whip-poor-will.

Then all grew still

O’er vale and hill

And the echo came back:

“You can, if you will.”

The sun poured forth his flood of pure gold

On Nature’s great chorister birdlings of old,

When wide circling throngs made the welkin resound

With the liveliest chatter, “Let joy go round.”

Then flashed through the air a ruby tinged light,

Like an arrow of glory soon lost to my sight.

When lo! it returned—a bird that ne’er sings,

Though his music is borne in the hum of his wings:

HUMMING BIRD.
By F. Schuyler Matthews.

“I fly, yet rest,

In swiftest quest,

Of flowers best,

With their sweetest, nectared off’rings.”

And my heart sang out with a jubilant cry,

“O for poise and feasting in tension so high.”

While the Humming bird sipped his choicest wine,

The musicians came to a sudden pause;

Each singer’s eye was a-gaze like mine—

And the wonder of bird-land received their applause.

The fun-makers followed, the gay Bobolinks,

With comical solo and musical kinks!

“You’d better think,

Flippant Chewink,

’Tis the finest of sport,”

Sang Bobolink.

And said Bob, “Be true to me, be true to me;

Kick your slipper, kick your slipper;[2]

Be true to me—old Nick’s the whipper!”

And over the pond, on bending cat-tails,

The red-shouldered Black-birds were piping their gales,

As they swung to and fro with a blithe “Con-quer-ee,”

And their mates made reply—“O’er-the-lea, come-to-me!”

From the Meadow-lark’s throat came a livelier strain,

“All hail to the bridegroom and those in his train;

“And greet the fair bride in her gay-feathered veil,

She’ll build a snug nest for the babies—all hail!”

From Oriole there, like a glad whistling boy,

Came fragments of melody thrilling with joy:

“I sing as I work—

This vantage men shirk—

And music I blend

With care of the children and house that I tend.”

Then on came the Finches in rollicking glee,

With Grosbeak and Chippy and plaintive Pewee;

And every one’s note rang as clear as a bell,

With the swing of love’s passion and deep growing spell.

“Per-chick-o-ree!

Now, don’t you see

The song in me

Is ecstasy?”

Thus jingled the Goldfinch in musical run,

As he dipped up and down in the waves of the sun;

Like golden-robed, sable winged fairy he flew

Across his wide world of cerulean blue.

WHITE THROATED SPARROWS.
Photo by the Author.

The White throated Sparrow, a provident bird,

Revealed deepest wisdom in simplest word;

“Sow wheat and sow plenty—oh yes, sow a plenty,

Though Peverly’s small he has hunger of twenty.”

“When the granary’s full, and reapers go feastin’,

I’ll cheer you ag’in, with my fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’,

The long hours through, a-fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’.”[3]

A versatile singer, an artist o’er shy,

Now uplifted his voice to his Maker on high.

No pause in the rhythm of the Song Sparrow’s lay;

And I pondered and wondered as on flew the day:

“Is this high Art’s way?”

While still rolled his “swee-e-t, swee-e-t, bitter”—[4]

The philosophy of life, from a plain, little flitter.

Pond’ring I lingered and forgot me to eat,

A captive held fast in fair Nature’s retreat.

BLUEBIRD AND FAMILY.
Photo by the Author.

The Oven-bird graceful, misnamed “the preacher,”

Proudly sang out, “I’m-a-teacher, a TEACHER;”

And Maryland Yellow-throat piped, “What a pity,

You can’t sing a sweet, old-fashioned ditty!

What a pity!”

From the wayside just then came a mocking “meow;”

“If the rest of you follow, I’ll join in the row;

“And why not now?

A fuss somehow—

Meow, meow!”

But lo! the voice softened and turned to a tune,

Repeating the bird’s notes that glad day in June.

With soft-flowing accent the good Chickadee

Said “dear me,” and added a sweet “amity.”

YOUNG MALE CARDINAL TRYING TO
LIGHT ON BOUQUET OF FLOWERS.
Snapped by the Author.

And Blue-Bird’s grave “purity,” Robin’s gay “cheer”

Were songs as delightful as lovers may hear;

While Red-headed Woodpecker, ever after his rum,

Kept beating and beating his sweet tree drum.

The Cardinal came with his bright crimson crest,

And sang for his bride as she fashioned her nest;

But Toxaway’s[5] rival gave forth the echo,

“Kid-dów, Kid-dów, Kid-dów!”

Now list to the out-flow from the topmost tree,

Coming down from the Thrasher in perfect frenzy;

The birds and I marvelled as he swept on alone,

Now high, and now low, now a thrilled overtone.

THRASHER’S ADMIRATION.
Photo by Author.

And lo! just then,

A voice—a Wren,

From a fern-lit glen,

Burst forth like a rippling fountain of life,

Rebuking old Mars with his death-dealing strife;

And it seemed that I caught for the sons of men,

The lost chord of an angel in the song of the Wren.

Discord now from birds as black as night:

“Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Screamed a full score,

Or even more,

Till stones by me hurled put them all to flight.

Again was felt a pause, a silence deep,

When four of the feathered friends who copy song,

Were planning fain their secret, potent word,

Worthy of the wisest of mankind;

The proud quartette then took the airy stage:

Cardinal

By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and P. Schuyler Matthews, Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.”

“They call us imitators evermore,

And this forever be our life and joy,

For master angels whispered unto us,

‘Follow song and God, and rise to life,

Aye, ever, ever more.’”

HIGH NOON

The sun had climbed high and as birdlings should feast,

My morsel I finished and fell fast asleep;

And dreamed a sweet dream, so rich and so deep,

Till arches of gold reached the rose-portaled east,

Aye! West wedded East and their glories increased—

A dream so sweet,

And marvelous meet;

My soul took wings,

Though captive my feet,

And uplifted high midst eternal springs,

My heart again heard an old, new word:

“Prophetic and incomplete

All earthly things.”

In bright, celestial realm they sweeter sang,

The happy birds that blessed my spell-bound soul,

Upraised to that high world, without a pang.

I saw a shining One with mystic scroll,

The which He, smiling, waved, in full control

Of birds and beings, translated from the earth,

From every land to a great, inviting Goal.

Enthralled by the mighty throng in sacred mirth—

Ah now, me-thought, has come with joy my highest birth!

Angels were rising, many and swift and sheen;

While others, likewise moving with rhythmic grace,

Descending in sweetest song, were heard and seen—

All clothed in the beauteous light of the Father’s face.

Those downward-going bore, in charming case,

The melodies which men and birds might make.

The rising throng made perfect the chords apace

Produced below, ecstatic in their wide wake;

I longed to tarry ever there, without a break.

TWILIGHT

But ho! Presto-“Bob-White! Bob, Bob-White!”

“I announced the morn and now the night.”

Bestirred in the gloaming by Bob-White’s last call,

I awakened to music the sweetest of all.

The flutelike peals of the Thrush of the wood

Still bound me to the world of angelhood.

But the depths of my soul had the holiest hush,

As the organ note rose of the Hermit Thrush.

He climbed to the heights where I too would arise,

But no one may soar with that pride of the skies.

I then asked my heart, “Pray, what is all this?

Why experience birds such wonderful bliss?”

My soul was on fire,

From Nature’s great choir,

As the glad mounting symphony

Climbed higher and higher.

“Is it all of this world, or is it of Heaven?

To birds and to me is this paradise given?”

I longed to understand,

If ’twas place or state,

For all so harmonious and elate;

When responded a three-fold, wondrous band:

The birds replied,

“Life, Life be our earth-celestial theme;”

The angels cried,

“Love and Beauty make any place a-gleam;”

The great who’d died,

“In every state, our song and service to redeem.”

Lo, the shining One waved high his mystic scroll,

And many joined in a sweet but thunderous whole:

“Music flows from a vaster, purer Stream—

Know now, O longing soul,

The vital, eternal scheme

Of Heaven and earth,

From their far off birth,

Is to reach on after the deeper, perfect Goal.”

And, like the voice of ten thousand trumpeters,

“Alleluia to Him Supreme,

The all-embracing, all-out giving Soul!”

To this from creatures numberless rang out a great “Amen”

And again from every heart that sings

In creation’s vast domain:

“On, forever on, in Heaven’s aureole,

Let praise and power roll—

Alleluia, Amen!”

MY PRAYER TO TRUTH

Take thou my soul, O Truth, and make me whole,

And gently lead me on eternally.

My eager fancy flies from pole to pole,

To singing star and the ever surging sea—

O stay thou me!

Thru ages past the search has been for thee;