But, like many a primitive man I have met, he preached me a sermon. He had no bed. He gave the traveller a place to sleep in one corner and himself slept in the opposite corner. The floor was smooth and clean and white, and the many scraps of rag-carpet and the clean comfort over me were a part of the sermon. Another part was in his question before he slept: “Does the air from that open window bother you?” I assured him I wanted all there was, though from the edge of the world. He had awkwardly folded his new overcoat, and put it under my head.... And so I was beginning to change his name from Stupidity and Awkwardness to Humankindness. Though in five minutes he was snoring like Sousa’s band, I could not but sleep. When I awoke the sun was in my eyes. It shone through the open door. Mr. Humankindness was up. The smell of baked potatoes was in the air. Outside, rustled the com. The wind cried, “Life, life, life.” LIFE TRANSCENDENT This being the name of praise given to a fair lady. I USED to think, when the corn was blowing, Of my lost lady, _Life Transcendent_, Of her valiant way, of her pride resplendent: For the corn swayed round, like her warrior-band When I knelt by the blades to kiss her hand. But now the green of the corn is going, And winter comes and a springtime sowing Of other grain, on the plains we knew. So I walk on air, where the clouds are blowing, And kiss her hand, where the gods are sowing Stars for corn, in the star-fields new. IN THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION CHURCH HUNTED by friends who think that life is play, Shaken by holy loves, more feared than foes, By beauty’s amber cup, that overflows, And pride of place, that leads me more astray:-- Here I renew my vows, and this chief vow-- To seek each year this shrine of deathless power, Keeping my springtime cornland thoughts in flower, While labor-gnarled grey Christians round me bow. Arm me against great towns, strong spirits old! St. Francis keep me road-worn, music-fed. Help me to look upon the poor-house bed As a most fitting death, more dear than gold. Help me to seek the sunburned groups afield, The iron folk, the pioneers free-born. Make me to voice the tall men in the corn. Let boyhood’s wildflower days a bright fruit yield. Scourge me, a slave that brings unhallowed praise To you, stern Virgin in this church so sweet If I desert the ways wherein my feet Were set by Heaven, in prenatal days. THE OLD GENTLEMAN WITH THE LANTERN (AND THE PEOPLE OF HIS HOUSEHOLD) I THE SAVAGE NECKLACE THE reader need not expect this book to contain any nicely adjusted plot with a villain, hero, lawyer, papers, surprise, and happy ending. The highway is irrelevant. The highway is slipshod. The highway is as the necklace of a gipsy or an Indian, a savage string of pebbles and precious stones, no two alike, with an occasional trumpery suspender button or peach seed. Every diamond is in the rough.