"Walk with care, walk with care,

Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
And all of the other

Gods of the Congo,

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Beware, beware, walk with care,

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,

BOOM."

as rapidly as possible toward the end.

Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth Slow philo

while

That made those glowering witch-men smile.

sophic calm.

Heavy bass.

III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION
A good old negro in the slums of the town
Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.
Howled at a brother for his low-down racket, and

ways,

His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
Beat on the Bible till he wore it out,
Starting the jubilee revival shout.

And some had visions, as they stood on
chairs,

And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs,
And they all repented, a thousand strong,
From their stupor and savagery and sin

and wrong

With a literal

imitation of camp-meeting

trance.

And slammed their hymn books till they

shook the room

With "Glory, glory, glory,"

And "Boom, boom, Booм."

THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING Exactly as in

THROUGH THE BLACK,

CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH

A GOLDEN TRACK.

And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil

And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.

In bright white steel they were seated
round

And their fire-eyes watched where the
Congo wound.

And the twelve apostles, from their thrones
on high,

Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly

cry:

"Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; Never again will he hoo-doo you, Never again will he hoo-doo you."

the first section.

Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."

Then along that river-bank, a thousand With growing

miles,

The vine-snared trees fell down in files.

Pioneer angels cleared the way

For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,

For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.

deliberation
and joy.

There, where the wild ghost-gods had In a rather

wailed

A million boats of the angels sailed

high key-as delicately as possible.

With oars of silver, and prows of blue
And silken pennants that the sun shone

through.

'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation,

Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation; And on through the backwoods clearing flew :

"Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. Never again will he hoo-doo you. Never again will he hoo-doo you."

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and

the men,

And only the vulture dared again

By the far, lone mountains of the moon
To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:-
"Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo

Jumbo . . . will

To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."

Dying off
into a pene-
trating,
terrified
whisper.

John G. Neihardt

John Gneisenau Neihardt was born at Sharpsburg, Illinois, January 8, 1881. He completed a scientific course at Nebraska Normal College in 1897 and lived among the Omaha Indians for six years (1901-7), studying their customs, characteristics and legends.

Although he had already published two books, A Bundle of Myrrh (1908) was his first volume to attract notice. It was full of spirit, enthusiasm and an insistent virility-qualities which were extended (and overemphasized) in Man-Song (1909). Neihardt found a richer note and a new restraint in The Stranger at the Gate (1911), the best of the lyrics from these three volumes appearing in The Quest (1916).

Neihardt meanwhile had been going deeper into folk-lore, the results of which appeared in The Song of Hugh Glass (1915) and The Song of Three Friends (1919). The latter, in 1920, divided the annual prize offered by the Poetry Society, halving the honors with Gladys Cromwell's Poems. These two books of Neihardt's are detailed long poems, part of a projected epic series celebrating the winning of the West by the pioneers.

1

Tremble before thy chattels,
Lords of the scheme of things!
Fighters of all earth's battles,
Ours is the might of kings!
Guided by seers and sages,

The world's heart-beat for a drum,
Snapping the chains of ages,

Out of the night we come!

Lend us no ear that pities!
Offer no almoner's hand!
Alms for the builders of cities!
When will you understand?
Down with your pride of birth
And your golden gods of trade!
A man is worth to his mother, Earth,
All that a man has made!

We are the workers and makers.

We are no longer dumb!

Tremble, O Shirkers and Takers!
Sweeping the earth-we come!

1 Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Company, from The Quest by John G. Neihardt.

Ranked in the world-wide dawn,

Marching into the day!

The night is gone and the sword is drawn
And the scabbard is thrown away!

LET ME LIVE OUT MY YEARS 1

Let me live out my years in heat of blood!
Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine!
Let me not see this soul-house built of mud
Go toppling to the dust-a vacant shrine.

Let me go quickly, like a candle light
Snuffed out just at the heyday of its glow.
Give me high noon-and let it then be night!
Thus would I go.

And grant that when I face the grisly Thing,
My song may trumpet down the gray Perhaps.
Let me be as a tune-swept fiddlestring
That feels the Master Melody-and snaps!

Witter Bynner

Witter Bynner was born at Brooklyn, New York, August 10, 1881. He was graduated from Harvard in 1902 and has been assistant editor of various periodicals as well as adviser to publishers. Recently, he has spent much of his time lecturing on poetry and travelling in the Orient.

Young Harvard (1907), the first of Bynner's volumes, was, as the name implies, a celebration of his Alma Mater. The New World (1915) is a much riper and far more ambitious effort.

1

1Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Company, from The Quest by John G. Neihardt.