University of California Berkeley 
 

THEIR BOOK 
 
Of this book there were but fifty copies 
 
 printed, during the summer of 190J, 
 
 for private circulation. 
 
 This copy is No*_ZjP 
 
 Arthur ^Davison Ficke 
 
 and 
 
 Thomas Newell Metcalf 
 
T your peril, take this book seriously. 
 It was written in an idle hour by two 
 idle fellows with no object but their 
 own amusement. So if it amuses 
 anyone else, it does more than it was 
 ever meant to do. 
 
the joy of living ! 
 
 To lie in the shade 
 Beneath the greening trees that sleep, 
 
 Drinking the light the sun is giving 
 And look up into the clear cool deep 
 Where the castled clouds my dreams have made 
 
 Pile high their snowy silver heaps 
 And there to float till I grow afraid 
 Of the silent beauty that yonder sleeps. 
 
HIS is the bedbug amiable, 
 
 With hair like new-mown peas, 
 He lives on cheese and cabbages 
 And cabbages and cheese. 
 
 is the frowsy-headed man 
 Of Ethiopian hue. 
 He wears a bath robe scarlet bright 
 And underwear of blue. 
 
 HIS lady with the snaggle teeth 
 
 Is Katherine the Fair, 
 Who o'er the festive griddle cakes 
 Strews strands of auburn hair. 
 
thought I saw a Turkish bath 
 
 Upon my horse's tall. 
 I looked again and saw it was 
 
 A brace of hard boiled quail* 
 You'd better turn your collar up, 
 
 Your teeth are getting pale* 
 
D like to be a mucker 
 And with the muckers stand, 
 A grin upon my grimy face, 
 A penny in my hand* 
 
LY climbed a mountain top, 
 Stood upon the> dizzy brink, 
 Tumbled down with one big flop. 
 Awful silly, don't you think ? 
 
TRIOLET. 
 
 [ p JIREFLIES flit through the night, 
 
 Now they glow near and now far; 
 Strewing the dusk with their light, 
 Fireflies flit through the night. 
 Vanishing moments of bright 
 Over the meadow afar; 
 Fireflies flit through the night 
 Wings and the soul of a star. 
 
THE BALLAD OF ELEANOR. 
 I. 
 
 soft-eyed golden Eleanor, 
 My ship is on the tide 
 And I can now no longer stay 
 Where most I wish to bide. 
 
 The anchor 's up I must away 
 Upon the windy main 
 And long, O long I fear 'twill be 
 Ere I come back again. 
 
 But as I ride the rocking swell 
 Out in the stormy blue 
 Will you not let me, Eleanor, 
 Call you my sweetheart true? 
 
And as I sail the lonely sea 
 Of scattered fringing foam 
 May I not think there is a heart 
 That beats for me at home ?" 
 
 The slender, soft-eyed Eleanor 
 Stands silent in the sun, 
 Like to a lily with a crown 
 Of golden glory spun* 
 
 With eyes cast down and shadowed brow 
 In silence long she stands 
 And sorrowfully shakes her head 
 And hides it in her hands* 
 
Down through the narrow cobbled street 
 That winds up to the hill, 
 Where bloom the quiet hollyhocks 
 And beds of daffodill, 
 
 The master of the "Sea Gull" moves 
 With eyes cast down and dim, 
 With heavy step and heavy heart 
 And gloom enfolding him* 
 
 IL 
 
 The sun is rising joyfully, 
 
 The wind is blowing free 
 
 And out upon the world's blue edge 
 
 A white sail dots the sea. 
 
ffl. 
 
 Throughout the quiet fishing town 
 A rumor wild has spread 
 "They say the 'Sea Gull' sank last night 
 And all her crew are dead. 
 
 The storm last night swept down on them 
 With lurid lightning breath 
 And made the waves like maddened steeds 
 That dragged them down to death. 
 
 And never from the hungry deep, 
 Across the sunlit main, 
 Will they come back to sit beside 
 Their cheerful hearths again." 
 
IV. 
 
 Upon the hill behind the town, 
 More pale than e'er of yore, 
 With trembling lips and tearful eyes 
 Stands golden Eleanor. 
 
 "It cannot be! It cannot be! 
 I know that he will come 
 To let me tell him of my love 
 And claim me as his own. 
 
 God, thou art too merciful 
 To give him to the foam. 
 
 Come back, my love, my life of life 
 
 1 wait your coming home/' 
 
But from the calm and placid deep 
 The wind blows soft and free 
 And out unto the world's blue edge 
 Stretches the silent sea* 
 
THE WEST WIND. 
 
 In twilight soft the West Wind came 
 From out his purple-shadowed grove 
 Where sank the sunset's dying flame 
 And on a quest without a name 
 An aimless, wanton, wandering quest, 
 Throughout the trees did move. 
 
 He came unto a garden-keep 
 All shaded round by solemn trees 
 Where leaned a maid in slumber deep 
 And from the misty vales of sleep 
 He woke her with a kiss as sweet 
 As unheard melodies. 
 
The maiden woke from slumbering 
 Leaving the mist of dreams behind 
 And felt, like breath of blossomed Spring 
 Or some soft sweet remembering 
 Brought back from old and happy days, 
 The kiss of the West Wind. 
 
 And as she ope'd her arms to fold 
 
 This wafture of the Summer sky, 
 
 She saw above the silver stars 
 
 Shine through the branches' swaying bars 
 
 And heard the footsteps of the Wind 
 
 Go rushing by. 
 
AT SUNSET 
 
 HNCE upon a time there lived a little Poet* He 
 lived by himself way up in a garret* Now 
 the garret was cold as cold in Winter and the snow 
 used to drift in through the ill-made windows and 
 through a crevice in the weather-worn roof. But 
 The Little Poet lived through the Winter by dreaming 
 of the Spring to come; and in the Spring he left the 
 windows open wide and for nothing would he have 
 stopped up the crevice, for there was a star which 
 peeped through at him and sang him to sleep night 
 after night with its soft silvery voice. From one 
 window of the garret he could see the many red-tiled 
 roofs of the city which stretched for miles and miles 
 down to the great purple sea. And from the other 
 
window he could look down on the somber gardens 
 which skirted the Palace of The Great Princess. 
 Very beautiful they were in the Springtime, when 
 the year was young and the grass was green and 
 the flowers were budding. Then it was that the trees 
 were all abloom; and to The Little Poet, who used 
 to sit by the window and build air castles, it seemed 
 as if the world was a great garden of beautiful many- 
 petaled pink-and-white flowers* And sometimes of an 
 afternoon he could see The Great Princess walking 
 in the garden with her ladies. And which was the 
 Princess he could not for the life of him tell. But 
 there was one among them as tall and straight as a 
 lily, with wonderful tawny hair, whom The Little 
 Poet loved. Only he did not know he loved her, for 
 he knew so little of the world. 
 
Many a time did he sit by the window and 
 dream and dream and watch the great red sun slowly 
 climb down in the western sky, pouring a blood-red 
 sea of light over the world. And once when the 
 violet twilight was covering the great city there came 
 to The Little Poet a little Poem, and sang and sang 
 to him. All night long he listened to the music of 
 the poem; all the next day and the next, and on and 
 on until he forgot about the glorious sinking sun, 
 forgot about the singing star and The Lady of the 
 Lilies. He thought how soft and sweet the Poem 
 and cherished it and let no one see it. 
 
 One day The Little Poet was all for taking a 
 jaunt out into the wide green world. So he took 
 his hat and staff from the peg behind the door, and 
 with The Little Poem went down the rickety stairs, 
 
out through the narrow city streets and into the free 
 green country where the world was younger than 
 in the city and where the shepherds piped and the 
 peasants danced and even the sun joined in the 
 merrymaking. And many a day did The Little 
 Poet and The Little Poem travel together. All the 
 while they sang; and ever greener the earth, ever 
 sweeter the flowers, and the birds the blither. 
 
 One night they came to a tavern where they 
 had a mind to sup. So in they went and asked the 
 Landlord, had he a room where they might sup 
 alone. Now being out under God's own heaven for 
 many days and sleeping in Mother Nature's lap 
 for as many nights makes one look no better than 
 one should. And this was the case with The Little 
 Poet. Prut, said the Landlord, did The Little Poet 
 
think he had private rooms for such as he? If he 
 wasn't satisfied with the common room he might go 
 out and spend another night with the stars and winds. 
 But when he saw The Little Poem, the Landlord 
 changed his tune, for he had a soft enough heart after 
 all, and knew that The Little Poem was not for such 
 as yokels and clods. Nevertheless he had no private 
 room unoccupied; but there was one in which there 
 were but two gentlemen, both pliers of the pen, who 
 would undoubtedly receive The Little Poet and his 
 Poem with pleasure. So in they went and sat them 
 down to sup. 
 
 After the meal was ended and the glasses filled, 
 The Little Poem sang to pleasure the strangers. 
 But when the song was done, how those two men 
 went at the Poem such things as they said how 
 
they laughed and jeered. Nor a whit did they care 
 for the heart pain and aching of The Little Poet nor 
 for the bruises and slashes that they gave The Little 
 Poem. At last The Little Poet could stand their 
 abuse no longer, so clasping The Little Poem, all 
 bruised and broken, he ran out into the calm night, 
 and ran and ran until the tavern and the critics were 
 far behind. 
 
 Then for many days the two went near no 
 tavern, but wandered up and down in the world, 
 singing to the countryside and making every one the 
 happier for it. They were wont to stop at the 
 cottages along the road-side to beg for a crust and a 
 place to sleep, and never a soul refused them food or 
 shelter. 
 
 Early one scarlet Autumn morning The Little 
 
Poet and The Little Poem knocked at the gate of a 
 cottage and asked for a cup of milk and a crust of 
 bread to help them along the highroad of the day. 
 From the house there came a woman, tall and slender 
 with hands white and thin; and her hair was long 
 and creamy, like spun flax; her eyes mild and soft 
 like violets half hidden 'neath darksome leaves, and 
 her face as pale as silver. When she saw the Poem 
 she called to one within, and there came out a second 
 woman as much like the first as one lily is like 
 another. And the two women came slowly down 
 the path and with fondlings and pettings, such as are 
 given to little children, led the Poem ihto the cottage, 
 leaving the Poet bewildered, to follow by himself. 
 All day the two stayed with the women; but little 
 enough attention did The Little Poet get. For they, 
 
with lovelorn sighs and glances, with yearning words 
 and murmurs, paid homage to the Poem. From 
 crimson dawn to purple dusk the Poem sang on and 
 into the shadowless night, until the women fell asleep 
 from the music and The Little Poem had almost 
 sung its heart out. Then the wondering Poet arose 
 and with his Poem stole softly from the house of 
 those who had almost killed it. 
 
 All Autumn long the two wandered on, over 
 leaf-strewn hill and dale, and near no cottage nor 
 tavern did they go, but lived from the bounty of the 
 woods and of the fields and of many a shepherd 
 spending a weary life on the downs. One night in 
 dark November, when they had at last turned their 
 footsteps homeward, the two found themselves out 
 on a lonely heath and not a sign of shelter could they 
 
see anywhere. The cold wind howled across the 
 moor, all but drowning the music of The Little Poem. 
 But after a while they saw a light burning bright in 
 the dark, and toward this they turned, and at last 
 came to a tavern set all by itself out in the middle of 
 a lonely heath. The wind was howling loud without 
 and the night was bleak, but within all was alive and 
 warm. Those within made room for the two way- 
 farers and after a warm corner by the hearth had 
 been given them and the wine had gone its round, 
 The Little Poem began to sing and never such music 
 had been heard within that tavern before. 
 
 Now it happened that in the next room was a 
 Great Poet who was making a journey and he was 
 at dinner when The Little Poem began to sing. 
 When he heard the singing, nothing would do but 
 
that The Little Poet and The Little Poem should 
 come into the room and sing to him. So in the two 
 went, and a very pleasant evening they had of it. 
 But The Great Poet was covetous of The Little 
 Poem, and when The Little Poet was not looking, 
 he dropped a drug in the wine; and the poor Little 
 Poet forgot the world, forgot the Poem, forgot every- 
 thing and fell asleep. 
 
 The next morning he found himself lying out 
 on the heath alone. The Little Poem was gone. 
 Back he hurried to the tavern and learned that The 
 Great Poet had left and taken The Little Poem with 
 him. Nothing was for The Little Poet but to follow 
 the thief, and wearily he hurried along after him. 
 
 Bye and bye he came to a great city where 
 everyone sang the praises of The Great Poet and his 
 
wonderful Poem. Then he learned that The Great 
 Poet had gone across The Purple Sea, far across to 
 The Land of the Silver Mountains. And The Little 
 Poet crossed The Purple Sea too and climbed up 
 and down the Mountains, all the while hearing the 
 praises of The Great Poet and his stolen Poem, but 
 never seeing or hearing either. Time flew on and 
 The Little Poet heard less and less of the Poem. 
 Day by day he met fewer people who knew it, and 
 finally a day went by and he met no one who 
 remembered it; and the same the next day and the 
 next, and always. And then it came to The Little 
 Poet that he was an old man and he bethought him 
 that he would go back to his garret by the Garden of 
 The Great Princess. For his little Poem was lost 
 forever and he might as well be as happy as he could 
 
with the beautiful garden and the beautiful sunset. 
 
 So one day in the Spring, when the world was 
 all aflower again, the weary Little Poet climbed the 
 rickety stairs and sat down by the window which 
 looked out on the garden, and dreamed. No air 
 castles now, only half forgotten memories. Out from 
 the Palace into the Garden came an old woman, 
 straight and tall for one with her weight of years, 
 with hair of faded gold. And The Little Poet knew 
 it was his Lady of the Lilies. As he sat there, from 
 the garden came floating to him soft sad music so 
 sweet and so familiar to him. 
 
 It was his Poem. 
 
 The Lady of the Lilies and The Little Poem 
 were together. She alone of all the world loved and 
 
cherished it. And the little old Poet's wrinkled face 
 was wet with tears. 
 
TWILIGHT SONG. 
 
 glow in the west o'er the hilltops is dying; 
 The night wind is rising and sinking and sighing. 
 My thoughts are of longing too sweet to be pain 
 And a fullness of joy comes again and again 
 To surge in my heart and to sink in the stream 
 Of its own flood of happiness all like a dream. 
 Is it thou that art calling, 
 My sweetheart, to me? 
 
 I hear thee, I hear thee, my love, and am coming 
 To press in the gloaming thy hands in mine own, 
 Where the night winds are roaming, are roaming alone ; 
 Where the river is lapping 
 And shadows are falling; 
 Is it thou that art calling, 
 My sweetheart, to me? 
 
35-,, 
 
 T4-