
The Project Gutenberg EBook of In Various Moods, by Irving Bacheller

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.



Title: In Various Moods
       Poems and Verses

Author: Irving Bacheller

Release Date: June 30, 2016 [EBook #52457]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN VARIOUS MOODS ***




Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive

IN VARIOUS MOODS

Poems And Verses

By Irving Bacheller

Harper & Brothers Publishers New York And London

MCMX

CONTENTS IN VARIOUS MOODS THE SOWERS THE NEW WORLD FAITH BALLAD OF THE SABRE CROSS AND 7 WHISPERIN' BILL THE RED DEW THE BABY CORPS PICTURE, SOUND AND SONG THE VEN'SON-TREE HIM AN' ME A VOICE OF THE FIELDS THE WEAVER'S DYE THE SLUMBER SHIP OLD HOME, GOOD-BYE! THE RUSTIC DANCE TO A DEAD CLASSMATE

IN VARIOUS MOODS

THE SOWERS

Written for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Founding of St. Lawrence University
I know the hills that lift the distant plain, The college hall—the spirit of its throngs, The meadows and the waving fields of grain, Full well I know their colors and their songs. I know the storied gates where love was told, The grove where walked the muses and the seers, The river, dark or touched with light of gold, Or slow, or swift so like the flowing years. I know not these who sadly sit them down And while the night in half-forgotten days; I know not these who wear the hoary crown And find a pathos in the merry lays. Here Memory, with old wisdom on her lips, A finger points at each familiar name— Some writ on water, stone or stranded ships, Some in the music of the trump of fame. Here oft, I think, beloved voices call Behind a weathered door 'neath ancient trees. I hear sad echoes in the empty hall, The wide world's lyric in the harping breeze. It sings of them I loved and left of old, Of my fond hope to bring a worthy prize— Some well-earned token, better far than gold, And lay it humbly down before their eyes. And tell them it were rightly theirs—not mine, An harvest come of their own word and deed; I strove with tares that threatened my design To make the crop as noble as the seed. So they might see it paid—that life they knew— A toilsome web and knit of many a skein, With love's sweet sacrifice all woven through, And broken threads of hope and joy and pain. On root-bound acres, pent with rocks and stones, Their hope of wealth and leisure slowly died. They gave their strength in toil that racked their bones, They gave their youth, their beauty, and their pride. Ere Nature's last defence had been withdrawn That those they loved might have what they could not— The power of learning wedded to their brawn And to the simple virtue there begot. My college! Once—it was a day of old— I saw thy panes aglow with sunset fire And heard the story of thy purpose told And felt the tide of infinite desire. In thee I saw the gates of mystery That led to dream-lit, vast, inviting lands— Far backward to the bourne of history And forward to the House not made with hands. You gave the husbandman a richer yield Than any that his granary may hold; You called his children from the shop and field, Taught them to sow and reap an undredfold. To sow the seed of truth and hope and peace, And take the root of error from the sod; To be of those who make the sure increase, Forever growing, in the lands of God.

THE NEW WORLD

Read before the Lambda Chapter of Phi Beta Kappa, June 24, 1902 Idle gods of Old Olympus—Zeus and his immortal clan, Grown in stature, grace and wisdom, meekly serve the will of man. Every elemental giant has been trained to seek and raise Gates of the "impossible" that lead to undiscovered ways. Man hath come to stranger things than ever bard or prophet saw. Lo, he sits in judgment on the gods and doth amend their law. Now reality with wonder-deed of ancient fable teems— Fact is wrought of golden fancy from the old Homeric dreams. Zeus, with thought to load the fulmen gathered for his mighty sling, Hurls across the ocean desert as 'twere ut a pebble-fling; Titans move the gathered harvests, push the loaded ship and train, Rushing swiftly 'twixt horizons, shoulder to the hurricane. Hermes, of the winged sandal, strides from midday into night. Pallas, with a nobler passion, turns the hero from his fight. Vulcan melts the sundered mountain into girder, beam and frieze. Where the mighty wheel is turning hear the groan of Hercules. Eyes of man, forever reaching where immensity envails, View the ships of God in full career with light upon their sails. Read the tonnage, log, and compass—measure each magnetic chain Fastened to the fiery engine towing in the upper main. Man hath searched the small infernos, narrow as a needle's eye, Rent the veil of littleness 'neath which unnumbered dragons lie. Conquered pain with halted feeling, baned the falling House of Life, As with breeding rats infested, ravening in bloody strife. Change hath shorn the distances from little unto mighty things— Aye, from man to God, from poor to rich, from peasants unto kings. Justice, keen-eyed, Saxon-hearted, scans the records of the world, Makes the heartless tyrant tremble when her stem rebuke is hurled. Thought-ways, reaching under oceans or above the mountain height, Drain to distant, darkened realms the ceaseless overflow of light. In the shortened ways of travel Charity shall seek her goal, Find the love her burden merits in the commerce of the soul. Right must rule in earth and heaven, though its coming here be slow; Gods must grow in grace and wisdom as the mind of man doth grow; Law and Prophet be forgotten, deities uprise and fall Till one God, one hope, one rule of life be great enough for all.

FAITH

Being some words of counsel from an old Yankee to his son Bill when the latter is about to enter college.
Faith, Bill? You remember how ye used to wake an' cry, An' when I lit a candle how the bugaboos 'u'd fly? Well, faith is like a father in the dark of every night— It tells ye not t' be afraid, an' mebbe strikes a light. Now, don't expect too much o' God, it wouldn't be quite fair If fer anything ye wanted ye could only swap a prayer; I'd pray fer yours, an' you fer mine, an' Deacon Henry Hospur, He wouldn't hev a thing t' do but lay abed an' prosper. If all things come so easy, Bill, they'd hev but little worth, An' some one with a gift o' prayer 'u'd mebbe own the earth. It's the toil ye give t' git a thing—the sweat an' blood an' care— That makes the kind o' argument that ought to back yer prayer. Fer the record o' yer doin'—I believe the soul is planned With some self-workin' register t' tell jest how ye stand. An' it won't take any cipherin' t' show, that fearful day, If ye've multiplied yer talents well, er thrown 'em all away. When yer feet are on the summit, an' the wide horizon clears, An' ye look back on yer pathway windin' thro' the vale o' tears; When ye see how much ye've trespassed, an' how fur ye've gone astray, Ye'll know the way o' Providence ain't apt t' be your way. God knows as much as can be known, but I don't think it's true. He knows of all the dangers in the path o' me an' you. If I shet my eyes an' hurl a stun that kills—the King o' Siam, The chances are that God 'll be as much surprised as I am. If ye pray with faith believin', why, ye'll certainly receive, But that God 'll break His own good law is more 'n I'll believe. If it grieves Him when a sparrow falls, it's sure as anything, He'd hev turned the arrow, if He could, that broke the sparrow's wing. Ye can read old Nature's history that's writ in rocks an' stones, Ye can see her throbbin' vitals an' her mighty rack o' bones, But the soul o' her—the livin' God, a little child may know No lens er rule o' cipherin' can ever hope t' show. There's a part o' God's creation very handy t' yer view, All the truth o' life is in it an' remember, Bill, it's you. An' after all yer science ye must look up in yer mind An' learn its own astronomy the star o' peace t' find. There's good old Aunt Samanthy Jane that all her journey long Has led her heart to labor with a reveille of song. Her folks hev robbed an' left her, but her faith in goodness grows; She hasn't any larnin', but I tell ye, Bill, she knows! She's hed her share o' troubles; I remember well the day We took her t' the poor-house—she was singin' all the way. Ye needn't be afraid t' come where stormy Jordan flows, If all the l'arnin' ye can git has taught ye half she knows. There's a many big departments in this ancient school o' God, An' ye keep right on a l'arnin' till ye lay beneath the sod, All the books an' apperaytus, all the wisdom o' the seers Will be jest a preparation fer the study o' the years.

BALLAD OF THE SABRE CROSS AND 7

A troop of sorrels led by Vic and then a troop of bays, In the backward ranks of the foaming flanks a double troop of grays; The horses are galloping muzzle to tail, and back of the waving manes The troopers sit, their brows all knit, a left hand on the reins. Their hats are gray, and their shirts of blue have a sabre cross and 7, And little they know, when the trumpeters blow, they'll halt at the gates of heaven. Their colors have dipped at the top of a ridge— how the long line of cavalry waves!— And over the hills, at a gallop that kills, they are riding to get to their graves. "I heard the scouts jabber all night," said one; "they peppered my dreams with alarm. "That old Ree scout had his medicine out an' was tryin' to fix up a charm." There are miles of tepees just ahead, and the warriors in hollow and vale Lie low in the grass till the troopers pass and then they creep over the trail. The trumpets have sounded—the General shouts! He pulls up and turns to the rear; "We can't go back—they've covered our track— we've got t' fight 'em here." He rushes a troop to the point of the ridge, where the valley opens wide, And Smith deploys a line of the boys to stop the coming tide. A fire flames up on the skirt of the hills; in every deep ravine The savages yell, like the fiends of hell, behind a smoky screen. "Where's Reno?" said Custer. "Why don't he charge? It isn't a time to dally!" And he waves his hat, this way and that, as he looks across the valley. There's a wild stampede of horses; every man in the skirmish line Stands at his post as a howling host rush up the steep incline. Their rifles answer a deadly fire and they fall with a fighting frown, Till two by two, in a row of blue, the skirmish line is down. A trooper stood over his wounded mate. "No use o' yer tryin't' fight, "Blow out yer brains—you'll suffer hell-pains when ye go to the torture to-night. "We tackled too much; 'twas a desperate game— I knowed we never could win it. "Custer is dead—they're all of 'em dead an' I shall be dead in a minute." They're all of them down at the top of the ridge; the sabre cross and 7 On many a breast, as it lies at rest, is turned to the smoky heaven. Three wounded men are up and away; they're running hard for their lives, While bloody corses of riders and horses are quivering under the knives. Some troopers watch from a distant hill with hope that never tires;
0034

There's a reeling dance on the river's edge; its echoes fill the night; In the valley dim its shadows swim on a lengthening pool of light. The scattered troops of Reno look and listen with bated breath, While bugle strains on lonely plains are searching the valley of death.
0035

"What's that like tumbled grave-stones on the hilltop there ahead?" Said the trooper peering through his glass, "My God! sir, it's the dead! "How white they look! How white they look! they've killed 'em—every one! "An' they're stripped as bare as babies an' they're rotting in the sun." And Custer—back of the tumbled line on a slope of the ridge we found him; And three men deep in a bloody heap, they fell as they rallied 'round him. The plains lay brown, like a halted sea held firm by the leash of God; In the rolling waves we dug their graves and left them under the sod.

WHISPERIN' BILL

So ye 're runnin' fer Congress, mister? Le 'me tell ye 'bout my son— Might make you fellers carefuller down there in Washington— He clings to his rifle an' uniform—folks call him Whisperin' Bill; An' I tell ye the war ain't over yit up here on Bowman's Hill. This dooryard is his battle-field—le's see, he was nigh sixteen When Sumter fell, an' as likely a boy as ever this world has seen; An' what with the news o' battles lost, the speeches an' all the noise, I guess ev'ry farm in the neighborhood lost a part of its crop o' boys. 'T was harvest time when Bill left home; ev'ry stalk in the fields o' rye Seemed to stan' tiptoe to see him off an' wave him a fond good-bye; His sweetheart was here with some other gals—the sassy little miss! An' purtendin' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, she give him a rousin' kiss. Oh, he was a han'some feller! an' tender an' brave an' smart, An' though he was bigger 'n I was, the boy had a woman's heart. I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all my might, An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till Bill was out o' sight. His mother she often tol' him, when she knew he was goin' away, That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he didn't fergit to pray; An' on the bloodiest battle-fields, when bullets whizzed in the air, An' Bill was a-fightin' desperit, he used to whisper a prayer. Oh, his comrades has often tol' me that Bill never flinched a bit When every second a gap in the ranks tol' where a ball had hit. An' one night, when the field was covered with the awful harvest o' war, They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause he was fightin' for. His fingers was clutched in the dewy grass—oh, no, sir, he wasn't dead, But he lay kind o' helpless an' crazy with a rifleball in his head; An' he trembled with the battle-fear as he lay there in the dew; An' he whispered as he tried to rise: "God 'll take care o' you." An officer wrote an' toL' us how the boy had been hurt in the fight, But he said the doctors reckoned they could bring him around all right. An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at Malvern Hill, That he thought in the course of a week or so he'd be comin' home with Bill. We was that anxious t' see him we'd set up an' talk o' nights Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an' put out the Northern Lights; We waited an' watched fer a month or more, an' the summer was nearly past, When a letter come one day that said they'd started fer home at last. I'll never fergit the day Bill come—'twas harvest time again— An' the air blown over the yeller fields was sweet with the scent o' the grain; The dooryard was full o' the neighbors, who had come to share our joy, An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o' that soldier boy. An' all of a sudden somebody said: "My God! don't the boy know his mother?" An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' a-starin' from one to another; "Don't be afraid, Bill," says he to himself, as he stood in his coat o' blue, "Why, God 'll take care o' you, Bill, God 'll take care o' you." He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun, an' to act like a man who hears The awful roar o' the battle-field a-soundin' in his ears; Ten thousan' ghosts o' that bloody day was marchin' through his brain An' his feet they kind o' picked their way as if they felt the slain. An' I grabbed his hand, an' says I to Bill, "Don't ye 'member me? I'm yer father—don't ye know me? How frightened ye seem to be!" But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if 'twas all he knew, "God'll take o' you, Bill, God'll take care o' you." He's never known us since that day, nor his sweetheart, an' never will; Father an' mother an' sweetheart are all the same to Bill. An' he groans like a wounded soldier, sometimes the whole night through, An' we smooth his head, an' say: "Yes, Bill, He 'll surely take care o' you." Ye can stop a war in a minute, but when can ye stop the groans? Fer ye've broke our hearts an' sapped our blood an' plucked away our bones. An' ye've filled our souls with bitterness that goes from sire to son, So ye best be kind o' careful down there in Washington.

THE RED DEW

Being some small account of the war experience of an East River pilot, whose boat was the Susquehanna, familiarily known as the Susq, and who lost his leg and more at Gettysburg.
At de break o' day I goes t' bed, an' I goes to work at dusk, Fer ev'ry night dat a boat can run I takes de wheel o' de Susq. De nights is long in de pilot-house? Well, now d'ye hear me speakin'? No night is long since de one I spent wid me sta'b'ard side a-leakin'. I'd gone t' de war an' was all stove in, an' I seen how a little white hand Can take holt of a great big chump like me an' make him drop his sand. An' her face! De face o' de Holy Mary warn't any sweeter 'n hern! If ye like I'll set de wheel o' me mind an' let 'er drift astern. We'd fit all day till de sun was low an' I t'ought de war was fun, Till a big ball skun de side o' me face an' smashed de end o' me gun. Den anodder one kicked me foot off—see? an' I tell ye it done it cunnin', An' I trun meself in de grass, kerplunk, but me mind kep' on a-runnin'. Next I knowed I was feelin' o' somebody's face, an' I seen de poor devil was cryin', An' he tumbled all over me tryin't' r'ise, an' he cussed an' kep' turnin' an' tryin'; "Good Gawd!" sez I, "what's de matter wid you? Shut up yer face an' hark," An' s' help me, de odder man's face was mine an' I was alone in de dark. When I lay wid me back ag'in de world I seen how little I was An' I knowed, fer de firs' time in me life, how deep an' broad de sky was; An' me mind kep' a-wanderin' off 'n de night, till it stopped where de Bowery ends, An' come back a-sighin' an' says t' me dat it couldn't find no friends. Den I fumbled me breat' till I cert'inly t'ought I never could ketch it ag'in. If I'd bin a-bawlin' t' git a prize ye bet cher life I'd 'a' win. If ye're dyin' an' ain't no home in de world an' yer fr'ends is all on de shelf, An' dere's nobody else t' bawl fer ye—ye're goin' t' bawl fer yerself. De sun peeped over de hills at last, an' as soon as I seen his rim De dew in de valley was all afire wid a sort o' a ruby glim. De blue coats lay in de tumbled grass—some stirrin' but most o' 'em dead— 'Pon me word, de poor devils had bled so much, de dew in de valley were red! An' what d'ye t'ink? de nex' t'ing I knowed, a lady had holt o' me hand, An' smoothed de frills all out o' me face an' brushed off de dew an' de sand. No lady had ever mammied me an' I were scairt so I dassent say boo, I warn't in no shape t' help meself an' I didn't know what she'd do. An' me heart was a-t'umpin' ag'in me ribs, an' me lettin' on I was dead! Till she put down her cheek so close to me mug dat I had t' move me head. An' she lifted me head wid her sof' white hands an' I don't know all she done; I was blubberin' so dat I couldn't see, but I knowed I were havin' fun. I lay wid me head 'n de lady's lap while de doctors cut an' sawed, An' dey hurted me so dat me eyes was sot, but I never cussed er jawed. An' she patted me cheek an' spoke so sof' dat I didn't move a peg, An' I t'ought if dey'd let me lay dere awhile dey could saw off de odder leg. Fer de loss o' me leg, t'ree times a year, I gets me little wad, But dere ain't any pension fer losin' yer heart unless it comes from Gawd. If anythin' busts ye there, me boy, I t'ink ye'll be apt t' find Ye'll either drop out o' de game o' life, er else go lame in yer mind. I never c'u'd know de reason why, till de lady helt me head, Dat a man 'll go broke fer de woman he loves er mebbe fight till he's dead. When I t'inks dat I never had no friends an' what am I livin' fer? I fergits dat I'm holdin' de wheel o' de Susq, an' I sets an' t'inks o' her. An' I t'inks how gentle she spoke t' me, an' I t'inks o' her sof', white hand, An' de feel o' her fingers on me face when she brushed off de dew an' de sand. An' I set a-t'inkin' an' turnin' me wheel, sometimes de whole night t'rough, An' de good Gawd knows I'd a giv' me life, if she'd only 'a' loved me too.

THE BABY CORPS

Being some account of the little cadets of the Virginia Military Institute, who stood the examination of war at New Market, Va. May 15, 1864, in the front line of the Confederate forces, where more than three hundred answered to their names and all were perfect.
We were only a lot of little boys—they called us a baby corps— At the Institute in Lexington in the winter of '64; And the New Year brought to the stricken South no end of the war in sight, But we thought we could whip the North in a week if they'd only let us fight. One night when the boys were all abed we heard the long roll beat, And quickly the walls of the building shook with the tread of hurrying feet; And when the battalion stood in line we heard the welcome warning: "Breckinridge needs the help o' the corps; be ready to march in the morning." And many a boastful tale was told, through the lingering hours of night, And the teller fenced with airy foes and showed how heroes fight. And notes of love were written with many a fevered sigh, That breathed the solemn sacrifice of those about to die. Some sat in nature's uniform patching their suits of gray, And some stood squinting across their guns in a darkly suggestive way. The battalion was off on the Staunton pike as soon as the sun had risen, And we turned and cheered for the Institute, but yesterday a prison. At Staunton the soldiers chaffed us, and the girls of the city schools Giggled and flirted around the corps till we felt like a lot of fools; They threw us kisses and tiny drums and a volley of baby rattles, 'Til we thought that the fire of ridicule was worse than the fire of battles. We made our escape in the early dawn, and, camping the second night, Were well on our way to the seat of war, with Harrisonburg in sight; And the troopers who met us, riding fast from the thick of the army hives, Said: "Sigel has come with an awful force, and ye'll have to fight fer yer lives." But we wanted to fight, and the peril of war never weakened our young desires, And the third day out we camped at dusk in sight of the picket fires; Our thoughts, wing-weary with homeward flight, went astray in the gloomy skies, And our hearts were beating a reveille whenever we closed our eyes. "Hark! what's that? The sentry call?" (A galloping horseman comes.) "Hey, boys! Get up! There's something wrong! Don't ye hear 'em a-thumpin' the drums?" Said the captain, who sat in the light of the fire tying his muddy shoes: "We must toe the line of the Yankees soon, an' we haven't much time to lose. "Hats off!" And we all stood silent while the captain raised his hand And prayed, imploring the God of war to favor his little band. His voice went out in a whisper at last, and then without further remark He bade the battalion form in fours, and led us away in the dark. We lamed our legs on the heavy road and a long rain cooled our blood And every time we raised a foot we could hear the suck of the mud. At noon we came—a weary lot—to the top of a big clay hill, And below were miles of infantry—the whole bunch standing still. The league-long hills are striped with blue, the valley is lined with gray, And between the armies of North and South are blossoming fields of May. There's a mighty cheer in the Southern host as, led by the fife and drum, To the front of the lines with a fearless tread our baby cadets have come. "Forward!" The air is quaking now; a shrill- voiced, angry yell Answers the roar of the musketry and the scream of the rifled shell. The gray ranks rushing, horse and foot, at the flaming wall of blue Break a hole in its centre, and some one shouts: "See the little cadets go through!" A shell shoots out of its hood of smoke, and slows mid-air and leaps At our corps that is crossing a field of wheat, and we stagger and fall in heaps; We close the ranks, and they break again, when a dozen more fall dying; And some too hurt to use their guns stand up with the others trying. "Lie down an' give 'em a volley, boys—quick there, every one! "Lie down, you little devils!—Down! It's better to die than run." And huddling under the tender wheat, the living lay down with the dead, And you couldn't have lifted your finger then without touching a piece of lead. "Look up in the sky and see the shells go over a-whiskin' their tails"; "Better not lift yer hand too high or the bullets 'll trim yer nails." Said the captain, "Forward, you who can!" In a jiffy I'm off on my feet An' up to their muzzles a-clubbin' my gun, an' the Yanks have begun a retreat. Said a wounded boy, peering over the grain, "Hurrah! See our banner a-flyin'! "Wish I was there, but I can't get up—I wonder ifI'm a-dyin'? "O Jim! did you ever hear of a man that lived that was hit in the head? "Say, Jim! did you ever hear of a man that lived— My God! Jim's dead!" A mist, like a web that is heavy with prey, is caught in the green o' the fields; It breaks and is parted as if a soul were struggling where it yields; The twilight deepens and hushes all, save the beat beating of distant drums, And over the shuddering deep of the air a wave of silence comes. By lantern light we found the boys where under the wheat they lay As if sleep—soft-fingered, compelling sleep!—had come in the midst of play. The captain said of the bloody charge and the soldiers who fought so well: "The army had to follow the boys if they entered the flames o' hell."

PICTURE, SOUND AND SONG

The battle roar is ended and the twilight falls again, The bugles have blown, the hosts have flown save they in the dusky grain. And lo! the shaking barley tells where the wounded writhe and roll; With a panting breath at the pass of death the body fights for the soul. Some rise to retreat and they die on their feet in this terrible fight for the soul. And horses urged by the spur of Death are galloping over the grain; Their hoofs are red, their riders are dead, and loose are the stirrup and rein. A ghost in the saddle is riding them down, the spurs of Pain at his heels; They are cut to the bone, they rush and they groan, as a wake in the barley reels: And faces rise with haggard eyes where the wake in the barley reels. The blue and the gray lie face to face and their fingers harrow the loam, There's a sob and a prayer in the smoky air as their winged thoughts fly home. The Devil of war has dimmed the sky with the breath of his iron lungs, And he gluts his ear on the note of fear in the cry of the fevered tongues; Like the toll of a bell at the gate of hell is the wail of the fevered tongues. One rising, walked from the bullet shock, seems to reel 'neath the weight of his head, He feels for his gun and starts to run and falls in a hollow—dead. The wagons are coming and over each the light of a lantern swings, And a holy thought to the soul is brought, as the voice of a driver sings; And the cry of pain in the trampled grain is hushed as the driver sings: My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing.

THE VEN'SON-TREE

The busy cranes go back an' forth, a-ploughin' up the sky, The wild goose drag comes down the wind an' goes a-roarin' by; The song-birds sow their music in the blue fields over me An' it seems to grow up into thoughts about the ven'son-tree. The apple-blossoms scatter down—a scented summer snow, An' man an' wind an' cloud an' sun have all begun to sow. The green hopes come a-sproutin' up somewhere inside o' me, An' it's time we ought to see the sprouts upon the ven'son-tree. The velvet leaves the willow an' adorns the ven'son bough, There's new silk in the tree-top an' the coat o' horse an' cow. The woods are trimmed fer weddin's, an' are all in Sunday clo's, An' the bark upon the ven'son-tree is redder than a rose. The days are still an' smoky, an' the nights are growin' cold, The maples are a-drippin' blood, the beeches drippin' gold; The briers are above my head, the brakes above my knee, An' the bark is gettin' kind o' blue upon the ven'son- tree. What makes the big trees shake an' groan as if they all had sinned? 'Tis God A'mighty's reaper with the horses o' the wind. He will hitch with chains o' lightnin', He will urge with thunder call, He will try the rotten-hearted till they reel an' break an' fall. The leaves are driftin' in the breeze, an' gathered where they lie Are the colors o' the sunset an' the smell o' the windy sky; The squirrels whisk, with loaded mouths, an' stop an' say to me: "It's time to gether in the fruit upon the ven'son- tree." "What makes ye look so anxious an' what makes ye speak so low?" "It's 'cause I'm thinkin' of a place where I'm a-goin' to go. "This here I've, been a-tinkerin' which lays acrost my knee "Is the axe that I'm a-usin' fer to fell the ven'son- tree." I've polished up the iron an' I've covered it with ile, Its bit is only half an inch, its helve is half a mile. (The singer blows an imitation of the startled deer) "Whew! what's that so pesky—why, it kind o' frightened me?" "It's the wind a blowin' through the top o' the cute ol' ven'son-tree."

HIM AN' ME

Being a story of the Adirondacks told by me in the words of him who had borne with buck-fever and bad marksmanship until, having been long out of meat and patiencey he put his confidence in me and we sallied forth.
We'd greased our tongues with bacon 'til they'd shy at food an' fork An' the trails o' thought were slippery an' slopin' towards New York; An' our gizzards shook an' trembled an' were most uncommon hot An' the oaths were slippin' easy from the tongue o' Philo Scott. Then skyward rose a flapjack an' a hefty oath he swore An' he spoke of all his sufferin' which he couldn't stan' no more; An' the flapjack got to jumpin' like a rabbit on the run As he give his compliments to them who couldn't p'int a gun. He told how deer would let 'em come an' stan' an' rest an' shoot An' how bold an' how insultin' they would eye the tenderfoot; How he—Fide Scott—was hankerin' fer suthin' fit to eat "———!" says he. "Le's you an' me go out an' find some meat." We paddled off a-whisperin' beneath the long birch limbs An' we snooked along as silent as a sucker when he swims; I could hear him slow his paddle as eroun' the turns he bore; I could hear his neck a-creakin' while his eye run up the shore. An' soon we come acrost a buck as big an' bold as sin An' Philo took t' swallerin' to keep his feelin's in; An' every time he swallered, as he slowly swung eroun', I could hear his Adam's apple go a-squeakin' up an' down. He sot an' worked his paddle jest as skilful as he could An' we went on slow an' careless, like a chunk o' floatin' wood: An' I kind o' shook an' shivered an' the pesky ol' canoe It seemed to feel as I did, for it shook an' shivered too. I sot there, full o' deviltry, a-p'intin' with the gun, An' we come up clost and closter, but the deer he didn't run; An' Philo shet his teeth so hard he split his brier- root As he held his breath a-waitin' an' expectin' me to shoot. I could kind o' feel him hanker, I could kind o' hear him think, An' we'd come so nigh the animal we didn't dast to wink, But I kep' on a-p'intin' of the rifle at the deer Jest as if I was expectin' fer to stick it in his ear. An' Philo tetched the gunnel soft an' shook it with his knee; I kind o' felt him nudgin' an' a-wishin' he was me, But I kep' on a-p'intin', with a foolish kind o' grin, Enjoyin' all the wickedness that he was holdin' in. An' of a sudden I could feel a tremble in his feet; I knew that he was gettin' mad an' fillin' up with heat. His breath come fast an' faster, but he couldn't say a damn— He'd the feelin's of a panther an' the quiet of a lamb. An' his foot come creepin' for'ards an' he tetched me with his boot An' he whispered low an' anxious, an says he: "Why don't ye shoot?'' An' the buck he see the time had come fer him an' us to part An' away he ran as Philo pulled the trigger of his heart. He had panthers in his bosom, he had horns upon his mind; An' the panthers spit an' rassied an' their fur riz up behind; An' he gored me with his languidge an' he clawed me with his eye 'Til I wisht that, when I done him dirt, I hadn't been so nigh. He scairt the fish beneath us an' the birds upon the shore An' he spoke of all his sufferin' which he couldn't stan' no more; Then he sot an' thought an' muttered as he pushed a mile er so Like a man that's lost an' weary on the mountain of his woe. An' he eyed me over cur'ous an' with pity on his face An' he seemed to be a sortin' words to make 'em fit the case. "Of all the harmless critters that I ever met," says he, "There ain't not none more harmlesser—my God!— than what you be." An' he added, kind o' sorrowful, an' hove a mighty sigh: "I'd be 'shamed t' meet another deer an' look him in the eye. God knows a man that p'ints so never orter hev no grub, What game are you expectin' fer t' slaughter with a club?" An' I answered with a riddle: "It has head an' eyes an' feet An' is black an' white an' harmless, but a fearful thing to meet; It's a long an' pesky animal as any in the county; Can't ye guess?—I've ketched a pome an' I'll give ye half the bounty."

A VOICE OF THE FIELDS

The red was on the clover an' the blue was in the sky; There was music in the meadow, there was dancing in the rye, An' I heard her call the scattered flock in pastures far away An' the echo in the wooded hills: "Co' day! Co' day! Co' day!" O fair was she—my lady love—an' lithe as the willow-tree, An' like a miser's money are her parting words t' me. O the years are long an' lonesome since my sweet- heart went away! An' I think o' her as I call the flocks: "Co' day! Co' day! Co' day!" Her cheeks have stole the clover's red, her lips the odored air, An' the glow o' the morning sunlight she took away in her hair; Her voice had the meadow music, her form an' her laughing eye Have taken the blue o' the heavens an' the grace o' the bending rye. My love has robbed the summer day—the field, the sky, the dell, She has carried their treasurers with her, she has taken my heart as well; An' if ever, in the further fields, her feet should go astray May she hear the good God calling her: "Co' day! Co' day! Co' day!"

THE WEAVER'S DYE

There's many a hue an' some I knew in the skeins of a weaver old— Ah, there is the white o' the lily hand an' the glow o' the silky gold! An' the crimson missed in the lips we kissed an' the blue o' the maiden's eye; O, look at the wonderful web of life, an' look at the weaver's dye!

THE SLUMBER SHIP

A LULLABY

Jack Tot is as big as a baby's thumb, And his dinner is only a drop and a crumb And a wee little sailor is he. Heigh ho! A very fine sailor is he. He made his boat of a walnut shell; He sails her at night, and he steers her well With the wing of a bumblebee. Heigh ho! The wing of a bumblebee. She is rigged with the hair of a lady's curl, And her lantern is made of a gleaming pearl, And it never goes out in a gale. Heigh ho! It never goes out in a gale. Her mast is made of a very long thorn; She's a bell for the fog, and a cricket's horn, And a spider spun her sail. Heigh ho! A spider he spun her sail. She carries a cargo of baby souls, And she crosses the terrible Nightmare Shoals, On her way to the Isles of Rest. Heigh ho! The beautiful Isles of Rest. The Slumber Sea is the sea she sails, While the skipper is telling incredible tales With many a merry jest. Ho! ho! He's fond of a merry jest. When the little folks yawn they're ready to go, And the skipper is lifting his sail—he ho! In the swell how the little folks nod! Ha! ha! Just see how the little folks nod! He fluttered his wing as they ast him to sing an' he tried fer t' clear out his throat; He hemmed an' he hawed an' he hawked an' he cawed But he couldn' deliver a note. The swallow was there an' he ushered each pair in his linsey an' claw-hammer coat. The bobolink tried fer t' flirt with the bride, in a way that was sassy an' bold, An' the notes that he took as he shivered an' shook Had a sound like the jingle o' gold. He sat on a brier an' laughed at the choir an' told 'em the music was old. The sexton he came—Mr. Spider by name—a citizen hairy an' gray. His rope in a steeple, he called the good people That live in the land o' the hay. The ants an' the squgs an' the crickets an' bugs came out in a mighty array. A number came down from ole Barleytown an' the neighborin' city o' Rye. An' the little black people each climbed up a steeple, An' sat lookin' up at the sky; They came fer t' see what a weddin' might be an' they furnished the cake an' the pie.

OLD HOME, GOOD-BYE!

The day is passing; I have tarried long; My way leads far through paths I fear to try; But as I go I'll cheer my heart with song— Old home, good-bye! In hallowed scenes what feet have trod thy stage! The babe, the maiden leaving home to wed; The young man going forth by duty led And faltering age. And some, returning from far distant lands, Fainting and sick their ways to thee have wended To feel the sweet ministry of loving hands, Their journeys ended. Thou hadst a soul—thy goodly prop' and stay That kept the log, the compass and the chart, And showed the way for many a trusting heart— The long, long way! O humble home! thou hadst a secret door Through which I looked, betimes, with wondering eye On splendors that no palace ever wore In days gone by. From narrow walls thy lamp gave glad release And shone afar on distant lands and powers; A sweet voice sang of love and heavenly peace And made them ours. Thou hadst a magic window, broad and high— The light and glory of the morning shone Through it, however dark the day had grown Or bleak the sky. Its panes, like mighty lenses, brought to view A fairer home; I saw in depths above The timber of the old home in the new— The oak of love.

THE RUSTIC DANCE

To Jones's tavern, near the ancient woods, Drive young and old from distant neighborhoods. Here comes old Crocket with his great bass horn— Its tone less fit for melody than scorn. Down through its wrinkled tubes, from first to last, A century's caravan of song has passed. The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun, With noisy kisses punctuate the fun. Some youths look on, too bashful to assist And bear the sweet disgrace of being kissed. The fiddler comes—his heart a merry store, And shouts of welcome greet him at the door. Unlettered man—how rude the jest he flings! But mark his power to wake the tuneful strings! The old folks smile and tell how, long ago, Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow; And how the God-sent magic of his art To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart, And shook the bonds of care from aged men Who 'neath the spell returned to youth again. He taps the fiddle-back as 'twere a drum; The raw recruits in Cupid's army come; And heeding not the praise his playing wins, The ebullition of his soul begins. The zeal of Crocket turned to scornful sound, Pursues the measure like a baying hound. The fiddle's notes pour forth like showers of rain, The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain, And midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred, The thunder of the old bass horn is heard. Beside the glowing fire, with smiles serene, An aged couple sit and view the scene. Grandfather's ears the reveille have caught, And thronging memories fill the camps of thought. His heels strike on the floor, with measured beat, As if to ease a tickling in his feet. Year after year, for love of kith and kin. Grandmother's hands have had to toil and spin; But since the palsy all their cunning stole Her mind is spinning raiment for the soul, Of spotless white and beauty fit to wear, When comes the Bridegroom and the end of care. So goes the dance until the night is gone And chanticleer proclaims the breaking dawn. The waning stars show pale to wearied eyes And seem to dance cotillions in the skies; As if, forsooth, upon the journey home Terpsichore's music filled the starry dome. Blest be the dance! with noisy pleasure rife Enough to temper all the woe in life; What magic power its capering measures hold To keep the hearts of men from growing old! Stem Father Time, rejoicing in the scene, Forbears to reap while yet the fields are green.

TO A DEAD CLASSMATE

He started on the left road and I went on the right, We were young and strong and the way was long and we travelled day an' night; And O the haste and O the waste! and the rush of the busy throng! The worried eye, and the quick good-bye, and the need to hurry along! Odd times we met on the main highway and told our hopes and fears, And after every parting came a wider flood of years. I love to tell of the last farewell, and this is the way it ran: "I don't know when I'll see you again—take care of yourself, ol' man." Put the Beta pin upon his breast, with rosemary and rue, The cap and gown, the scarlet and brown and the symbol of '82, And lay him low with a simple word as the loving eye grows dim: "He took care of more than his share—O Christ! take care of him." The snow is falling on the head and aye the heart grows cold; The new friend comes to claim a share of that we gave the old, And men forget while the eye is wet and bend to the lug of the load, And whether or when they will meet you again is ever a chance of the road. The babes are boys, the boys are men, and slowly, year by year, New faces throng the storied halls and old ones disappear. As the hair is grayed and the red lips fade let friend be friend, for aye We come and go and ere we know have spoken a long good-bye.

TO MY FRIEND A. B.

The veil of care is lifted from his face! How smooth the brow where toil had left its trace! How confident the look, how calm the eyes Once keen with life and restless enterprise! And gone the lines that marked the spirit's haste To do its work, nor any moment waste. Imperial peace and beauty crown his head, God's superscription writ upon the dead. Behold, herein, his dream, his inmost thought As if in time-washed Parian marble wrought. Truly he read the law we must obey: Man moulds the image and God gives the clay, And if it's cast of God or Cæsar is To each all render what is rightly his. Thousands at noontide are climbing the hills under Nain, like an army Fleeing the carnage of war, seeking where it may rest and take counsel; Some with the blind or the palsied, some bearing the sick on their shoulders, Lagging but laboring hard, so they be not too far from the Prophet; Some bringing only a burden of deep and inveterate longing. Hard by the gate of the city their Captain halts and is waiting. Closer the multitude presses and widens afar on the hillside; Thronged are the ways to the city with eager and hastening comers. Heard ye? A man was delivered from death by his power, and the story Crosses the murmuring host like a wave passing over the waters, How at the touch of his finger this day, the dead rose and was living. Hushed are the people; the Prophet is speaking; his hand is uplifted— Lo! the frail hand that ere long was to stop the mad rush of the tempest. Quickly their voices are hushed, and the fear of Jehovah is on them. Jesus stood high on a hillock. His face, so divinely impassioned, Shone with the light that of old had illumined the dreams of the prophets. Gently he spake, like a shepherd who calleth his flock to green pastures. Hiding her face and apart from the people, a woman stood weeping, Daughter of woe! on a rosary strung with her tears ever counting Treasures her heart had surrendered and writ on her brow was the record. Hope and the love of her kindred and peace and all pleasure had left her Chained to the pillar of life like a captive, and Shame was her keeper. Long spake the Prophet, and scarcely had finished when came the afflicted, Loudly entreating: "Make way for the blind!" and the people were parted, Silent with pity, and many were suffered to pass; but the woman Felt no miraculous touch, for the press kept her back and rebuked her. "Why comest thou to the Prophet?" they said. "Get thee hence and be silent; "He hath no mercy for thee or thy kind"; and the woman stood weeping. Now when the even was come over Nain, and the bridge of the twilight, Silently floating aloft on the deepening flood of the shadows, Rested its timbers of gold on the summits of Tabor and Hermon, Jesus came, weary, to sup at the house of one Simon, a Pharisee, Dwelling at Nain. Far behind him the woman came, following slowly; Entered the gate in the dusk, and when all were reclining at supper, Stood by the Prophet, afraid, like a soul that has come to its judgment, Weeping, her head bowing low, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders. Then there was silence, and Jesus was moved, so he spake to the woman: "Daughter, what grieves thee so sore?" and she spake not, but dumb with her weeping Sank at his feet; and her tears fell upon them like rain, and she kissed them. Simon, amazed when the Prophet forbade not the woman to touch him, Rose to rebuke her; but seeing His face, how it shone with compassion, Waited; and Jesus then spake: "I have somewhat to say to thee, Simon. "A man had two debtors of pence, and the one owed five hundred, "The other owed fifty; and when they had nothing to pay he forgave them "All that they owed; wherefore which of the two will most love him?" Simon said, thoughtfully: "He, I suppose, to whom most was forgiven." Jesus made answer: "Thou judgest well. Consider this woman. "Weary with travel and sore were my feet, but thou gavest no water; "She, to wash them, hath given the tears of her love and her sorrow, "Wiping them dry with her hair; and hath kissed them and bathed them with ointment. "Wherefore, O woman, weep not! I forgive thee thy sins which are many. "Go thou in peace." And those who were with Him at meat were astonished. "Lo! she spoke not, she asked not and yet He forgave her," they whispered.

           * * * *

Dear to my God are the rills that flow from the mountains of sorrow Over the faces of men and in them is a rainbow of promise. Strong is the prayer of the rills that oft bathed the feet of The Master.

THE END






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In Various Moods, by Irving Bacheller

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN VARIOUS MOODS ***

***** This file should be named 52457-h.htm or 52457-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/4/5/52457/

Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive
specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook
for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given
away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks
not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the
trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
1.E.8.

1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country outside the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
  most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
  restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
  under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
  eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
  United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you
  are located before using this ebook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase『Project
Gutenberg』associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original『Plain
Vanilla ASCII』or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
provided that

* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
  the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
  you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
  to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
  agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
  within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
  legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
  payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
  Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
  Literary Archive Foundation."

* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
  you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
  does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
  License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
  copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
  all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
  works.

* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
  any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
  electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
  receipt of the work.

* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
  distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The
Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the『Right
of Replacement or Refund』described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the
mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its
volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous
locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt
Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to
date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and
official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

For additional contact information:

    Dr. Gregory B. Newby
    Chief Executive and Director
    gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.