The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;

The secrecy of streams that make their way
Under the mountain to the rifted rock;
The tolerance and equity of light

That gives as freely to the shrinking flower
As to the great oak flaring to the wind-
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West,
He drank the valorous youth of a new world.
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.
His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts
Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth.

Up from log cabin to the Capitol,

One fire was on his spirit, one resolve-
To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,
Clearing a free way for the feet of God,
The eyes of conscience testing every stroke,
To make his deed the measure of a man.
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow:
The grip that swung the ax in Illinois
Was on the pen that set a people free.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart;
And when the judgment thunders split the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,
He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place-
Held the long purpose like a growing tree-
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down

As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

Irwin Russell

Irwin Russell was born, June 3, 1853, at Port Gibson, Mississippi, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar. His restless nature and wayward disposition drove him from one place to another, from a not too rugged health to an utter breakdown.

Although Russell did not take his poetry seriously and though the bulk of it is small, its influence has been large. Thomas Nelson Page and Joel Chandler Harris have acknowledged their indebtedness to him; the creator of Uncle Remus writing, "Irwin Russell was among the first-if not the very first-of Southern writers to appreciate the literary possibilities of the negro character." He entered their life, appreciated their fresh turns of thought, saw things with that peculiar mixture of reverence and unconscious humor that is so integral a part of negro songs and spirituals.

"De Fust Banjo" (from Russell's operetta ChristmasNight in the Quarters, possibly his best known work) is a faithful rendering of the mind of the old-fashioned, simple and sententious child of the plantation. In this poem the old story of Noah is told, with delightful additions, from the colorful angle of the darky, local in its setting, diverting in its modern details and revealing in its quaint psychology.

Russell died, in an obscure boarding house in New Orleans, December 23, 1879.

DE FUST BANJO

Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. Keep silence fur yo' betters! don't you heah de banjo

talkin'?

About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter-ladies,

listen!

About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':

"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' 'solemn

Fur Noah tuk de "Herald," an' he read de ribber column

An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin' timber-patches, An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah Natchez.

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin';

An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen:

An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es

Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattleAn' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain! It come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out-'cep' Noah an' de
critters,

An' men he'd hired to wuk de boat-an' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin';
De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin';

De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tel', whut wid all de fussin',

You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' roun' an' cussin'.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet,

Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de

racket;

An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an'

bent it,

An' soon he had a banjo made-de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin;

An' fitted in a proper neck-'twuz berry long an' tap

rin';

He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it:

An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong,-des fit fur banjostringin';

Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner graces:

An' sorted ob 'em by de size-f'om little E's to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,-'twas "Nebber min' de wedder,"

She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all toged

der:

Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de

figgers;

An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time-it's mighty strange-dere's not de slightes' showin'

Ob any ha'r at all upon the 'possum's tail a-growin'; An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways-his people nebber los' 'em

Fur whar you finds de nigger-dar's de banjo an' de 'possum!

Lizette Woodworth Reese

Lizette Woodworth Reese was born January 9, 1856, at Baltimore, Maryland, where she has lived ever since. After an education obtained chiefly in private schools, she taught English in the Western High School at Baltimore.

A Handful of Lavender (1891), A Quiet Road (1896) and A Wayside Lute (1909) embody an artistry which, in spite of its old-fashioned contours, is as true as it is tender. A host of the younger lyricists owe much of their technique to her admirable models, and few modern sonneteers have equaled the blended music and symbolism of "Tears."

TEARS

When I consider Life and its few years—

A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun;

A call to battle, and the battle done

Ere the last echo dies within our ears;

A rose choked in the grass; an hour of fears;
The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat;
The burst of music down an unlistening street,-
I wonder at the idleness of tears.