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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Hidden Springs _Date of first publication:_ 1949 _Author:_ Jenny O'Hara Pincock (1890-1948) _Date first posted:_ Jan. 27, 2016 _Date last updated:_ Jan. 27, 2016 Faded Page eBook #20160135 This ebook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net [Illustration: JENNY O’HARA PINCOCK] HIDDEN SPRINGS A Narrative Poem Of Old Upper Canada AND OTHER POEMS BY JENNY O’HARA PINCOCK author of “TRAILS OF TRUTH” (PUBLISHED POSTHUMOUSLY, 1949) Copyright Canada, 1950 All rights reserved DEDICATED _to_ NEWTON FOREWORD This brief Foreword is in affectionate remembrance of Newton and Jenny Pincock. Newton’s father and my father were Newfoundland clergymen, sometimes occupying adjoining circuits, so I had every opportunity to know the son in a companionship, which continued to ripen after he came to Canada and right through to the time of his passing. Following his marriage to Jenny O’Hara of Madoc, Ontario, I was very frequently a guest at their home in St. Catharines. They had worked out for themselves a philosophy of life which brought serenity in the midst of unabated illness. They spent many hours relating to me their spiritual experiences, and I could not but admire the way they bulwarked themselves against suffering by the steadfastness of their faith. These poems, written by Jenny in the years following Newton’s departure, are songs and exultations deeply transcendental, somewhat in the manner of George Russell with the recurrent _motif_ of the Oversoul in Nature and Life. Newton became as real to her as in physical existence, and, when she joined him a year or so ago, the journey was like going from one room to another in the same family dwelling. _Hidden Springs_ is a story told with tenderness and simplicity. The reader must assume a belief in psychic manifestations to overcome any sense of incredibility. With that assumption the tale becomes not just an account of a dream, but a description as natural as that of a search in daytime told by a friend in whose sincerity and truthfulness one absolutely believes. This effect is deepened by the absence of any laboured attempt to prove a point. It is like hearing the voice of your friend when you are certain that he is within hail for an answer. E. J. Pratt CONTENTS HIDDEN SPRINGS A narrative poem of old Upper Canada 3 PHILOSOPHY You Broke the Trail 21 Foothills 22 They Have Not Died 24 When I Pass On 25 Consciousness is Space 26 The Return 28 Weird is the Spell 30 Let There be Light 31 Paean of Eternal Plan 32 Bittersweet 33 NATURE Prayer of a Pine Tree 37 Forest Thoughts 38 Like Falling Streams 39 Laughter Across Sunlit Waters 40 Storm Tryst 41 Millbrook Meadows 42 The Hills of Hastings 43 Do Shadows Creep? 44 Hymn of Algonquin Park 45 The Souls of Three Trees 46 SONGS I Beheld the Bloom of a Thousand 49 Blossoms Prayer at Daybreak 50 Harp on a Hill 51 A Healing Hymn for Hospitals 52 The Picture 53 A Song 54 New York Night 55 FOR CHILDREN OF THE SUNRISE AND SUNSET Radio 59 Out of the Dawn 60 Did You Ever? 61 Northern Lights 62 Little Fairy of Glengorra 63 Glossary 65 The following story is authentic and based upon psychic manifestations of prophetic symbol, materialization (two), North American Indian prophecy, and visions of sleep. J. O’H. P. HIDDEN SPRINGS HIDDEN SPRINGS by Jenny O’Hara Pincock Canada West it was called, Ontario province - - - Candle-light and oxen, flint-spark flashing, Hemp and wool homespun, and the hum of the spinning, The crack of the musket’s aim, and the hardy heaving Of hand against the mighty stump and stone. Dim against the forest gloom the starlight Cross-stitched a rail fence, the clearing A quilt, cut from out the wilderness Whom time had wedded down unbroken ages. Forests there partook of bosoms flowing With rivers, of hills that paced the sky in vastness, High filled with glory where the hardwood flamed. Against the darkening hemlock, spruce and pine-tree Prophetic lay the clearing. An infant cycle - - - The coming of the white man and the dooming Of forest folk and the wilderness - - - Bore heavy down, and little low-filled moanings Of frightened things were echoing mother-cries Deep in the primal heart of Canada. . . . . . Upon a leathern hinge the door flung to And let the starlight in. “I think me, James The frost is growing fast upon the air. ’Tis well the corn is harvested, and grain Fills the new log shelter in yon gloom To overflowing. Shall we draw the chair And pile the corn husks high - - of other year - - Upon the stone? [1]Saleratus is low Within the box. I deem it well we’ll need Corn bread before the coming of the cold.” Gently the door closed out the stars but held Within the warm reflections of the hearth; Shadows with arms outstretched caressed the walls Of log, and drew both James and Mary close. And when the cobs upon the stone burned low, Piled criss-cross at their feet, and turned to ash, She caught the raising up and stored it dry Within a wooden box, for cake and bread. “Perhaps”, she said aloud—though it was her wont More often to impart her thought to James Unspoken - - “Perhaps some news will come to bear Of all our children. Harriet, you know, Loved the corn bread. You remember, James?” For long the squire - - for so was he appointed By government a justice of the peace, His court within the four walls of his cabin Revered by wandering white and Indian, By redmen deeply loved, for justice there Upheld them equal to the white intruder - - For long the squire held fast his gaze within The great log’s burning. “Mary wife”, he said At last, so low the very shadows ceased To play their sunset game upon his hair, Silver against the fire light’s ruddy glow, “Mary my wife, the wilderness we know Is like the restless ocean, calling, calling - - Yet locks like death the continents apart Until, like death, men learn the laws of God; Thought-principles both hold and loose the chain! Far Vermont was my home, yet save by skiff And horse when I returned to link the years (And birch canoe between the forest portage), And save by visions in the night, vouchsafed By gifts such as St. Paul described, I heard No news. Hold fast to dreams and symbols given To men by angels since the dawn of time When dire distressed. Our God He changeth not, To Him a thousand years are but a day! Four falls of leaf have passed since Harriet Loved bride, our daughter, westward rode away With Thomas Wood, her man. The wilderness Is vast between Wisconsin where they dwell And our low door. To-day - - -” He paused and strove to blow to warmer gleam The embers. Dark, too dark, the room; as if His mood already boded ill and caused The fire to numb the flame before it flicked The air. “Today were signs as truly given As were to Samuel before anointing Saul, Or to Ezekiel, Daniel or Job, Elijah or Elisha. The seers of Pharaoh Interpreted such signs as heaven sent, Even to common folk like you and me, To whom a sign from the Invisible Is as a violet in the Spring’s first blushing, Beautiful! a thought of God revealing. And so my faith holds firm. Thrice today A phantom stood where no man ever trod, Upon the marsh’s trailing treachery, A lure of blooming! One would never dream Death lurked beneath the bog! The oxen started And would to run had I not held the yoke. Thrice a raven circled like a sign About the moon when veils portend the storm, And thrice it croaked its vulgar omenings Until its passing in the afterglow.” Then Mary took his hand and held it firm Where gnarled the knots of muscle and of vein, “James, my James, let us once more to rest Between the homespuns. Deep the feather bed And grateful are we to partake of these; Our God hath given angels charge of us You know, in all our ways. Let faith be strong And He will make His willing clear in time.” The sand upon the mantle dropped the hours That breathed beneath the banking of the fire, And tired oblivion held in deep repose The cabin . . . . “Mary!” Soft it fell from James, Soft as petal falling on the frond tip Of fern, or snowflakes on dried meadow grasses When breath of morning stirs. Then her eyelids Broke their trance-like slumber. James was upright Off his pillow, gazing in the gloaming, No further signal passed between them, save The press of hands beneath the counterpane To hold awareness close . . . . . . . There before them Swayed a form gently, like white birches Against the cedars when the moon goes out, Building by its will and silent longing Pregnant with necessity. Then Within its arms a child lay cradled, lifted Toward them now, beseeching as it faded. James had risen, donning heavy clothing; “Lo! a summons, Mary, sent by heaven, Harriet has child and needs us sorely, I cannot sleep me longer. Let us rise For I must go and seek her in Wisconsin!” Soon the hearth was blazing. Mary’s fingers Flew to grasp the things of James’ needing, All the winter lay ahead in journey, Many months of travel through the forest, Who would know when once he trod [2]Wisconsin The time of search and waiting ere he found her? Indians said as vast a wilderness Stretched unbroken as in Canada West, Untrodden save by trails the redmen knew! Dried venison and cakes of maple sugar, Herb for flavouring heated broth, and plants Medicinal, their uses gleaned from Indians; Corn just dried above on hearth stone rack, Homespun blankets, powder-horn and flint-stone, All were placed within the basket woven By Blacksnake’s squaw when she attended Mary In her first travail, never realizing Posterity would mark the date and naming Of James’ namesake, the first white male-child born In all the country north of Moira’s waters Lapping in the shadows of her ledges, Where Indian wigwams sentinelled the approaches. When the time had come for parting, Mary Smiled up at him leaning from the saddle, Smiled up at him peering down upon her To search her face intently; then the candle-light Touched the tears that glistened through her lashes Softly, gleaming like twin stars of Gemini. “Be not concerned about me, James, this winter, Blacksnake will provide meat from the forest When he returns before the winter’s storming; James and Jane dwell but a few miles northward, Wheat and corn are ready ground for baking, Wool in plenty carded for the spinning, Wood is cut and piled high for the fireside, What need I but your thoughts winging toward me? Night and day I shall be praying for thee!” Upon her head he pressed a hand in blessing, “Naught shall harm thee. He hath given His angels Charge to keep thee safe in all thy ways.” Then his horse led outward through the clearing Toward Orion fading in the gloaming, Leaving morning crimson on the ledges. . . . . . Many moons of travel heading westward The squire was guided by the dials of heaven And by his knowledge of the moods of storm And sunlight, wind and frozen crevices, Of animals and birds. The towering heads Of hemlock pointed always toward the east, And moss grew on the north-west side of pine, And when the beaver builded high his house It proved fore-knowledge of the degrees of cold To come, lest frost should fasten firm the latch Of his front door beneath the ice’s clamping. An open winter was not presaged for The nuts hung heavy on the hickory. These signs to him were chartings of the pulse Of Universal Life, its rugged heart-beats Upon the records of the wilderness, Leavening subconsciously his thought Throughout the years, as much himself a part As sight or sinew; senses by necessity Developed and by observation strong, And truly welded So was he at last Guided to an Indian encampment, The stars foretelling at the time the nearness Of the Christ Child’s anniversary. There it was he told the white man’s tale Of Bethlehem, and of three medicine-men Who followed a star until they found, within A bed of dried grass, a papoose who grew Both kind and fearless, blazing straight a trail To the Great Spirit’s tepee. Solemnly before The camp-fire’s glowing rose a Chippewa chief And nodded gravely. Upon his beaded forehead Pointed his white prayer-feather, to the Manitou High in supplication, for prophecy To be proclaimed must prove its power and fill The white man’s heart with peace - much peace - for so He sensed the stranger’s need upon his way. Then in Chippewa tongue the chieftain spoke, Dulcet was its tones as mourning dove And to the squire familiar, for its music He learned to love when often redmen frequented His cabin home within the wilderness. “Always the mighty Manitou guides the mocassin Of the white father. Blazed are his tortuous trails And led by ministrations of the spirits; As waters seek their home within the hillsides So shall his white papoose, like Bethlehem’s, At last be found.” Slowly intoning he pointed The feather down, in faith of the fulfilment. Then the night wind played upon the pine trees A song of murmuring and slumber crept Upon the fading twilight, and they slept. ----- [1] Process of making soda for baking. [2] A state of the Great Lakes region. PART 2 September held wild festival with fields silver at sunrise And molten gold at setting in the clearings of Wisconsin. Flocks of Canada-geese high, too high, winged southward, Honking their fluid flights through funnels spilling over; Skyways were blotted out with blankets of passenger pigeons Painting monastic shadows on purple forests trailing Beneath them. Many a pioneer rested with anxious gaze Upward, forecasting a winter clamped desperate in arctic fastness. Clumps of low log-cabins lay cluttered within a valley In the midst of stumps and rampikes charred and stark of foliage And feeling. Fluttering wings avoided the desolation Of cross-saw and canthook, pike-pole and jamdog, Broad-axe and jackscrew, knock-downs and boomchain - - - Save the owl, and the croaking of the northern vulture and shrike - - - As if the harrowing life had tempered a hardness there In the hearts of the inhabitants, who measured their own morals Like their great-grandsires in Salem, by hide-bound creeds and dogmas Reeking of righteous virtue. Apart in the fading forest With Herodian zeal and a clergyman - - to give it the sign of the Cross And lay the ghost for the living - - a group of men were filling A harlot’s grave. Much care must needs be taken for sign, Sight or vestige of the vampire must be harrowed and raked to oblivion. “The child be a nuisance, no respectin’ person would house it with youngsters,” And another; “Let the settlement give it for its keep to a wandering redman!” Swift was their duty performed, and fitting to the faithful, While yet the child clung close to the coatsleeve of a stranger Inviting himself and his wife to partake of the meagre refreshments Within the deserted hut. “And whose child can this be?” He asked his wife. Then she drew her skirts about her, rudely Pushing the clinging hand from its grasp upon her husband, “’Tis the nameless child of the woman, what say you will become of it? How old are ye, brat?” she asked, and the child made answer, “Mary.” “I said how old are ye? You have no name with no father! Don’t ye know your age?” And the child replied, “I’m three.” “Three? Ha! Now listen ye, brat of a harlot, you’re five If you’re a day, with them knowing eyes, too knowing like your mother!” Frightened the child held her kitten more firmly, hiding her face In its fur. A parley was held in the hut and her fate decided, The stranger would keep her (and later, if he wished, give her to Indians) For the heifer that once was the harlot’s. Then high on a horse and away They rode. The world was most wonderful up where the wind caught the clouds And chased them, waving the grasses as if they too were on horseback Gallop - - ing, gallop - - ing, gallop - - ing! . . . . . It was after the yule log’s burning. Above in the loft frost fingers Crept across the floor, a plank each day toward the heat-hole Above the kitchen fireplace. Annie, the hired girl, below Was clearing the trenchers of leavings of the wild turkey and stuffing Of butternuts. Little ribbons of maple still were shining On top of the snow in the noggin, crinkled and temptingly Clinking to the stab of the mistress, curling about her fork, The colour of the copper kettle that hung on the crane in the firelight. Now that the dinner was over Annie warily lifted Her eyes toward the hole in the ceiling, a warning finger poised Mid-air. Then the mistress’ footsteps were heard approaching the fireplace, And Annie started to sing the beautiful words, pretending She never tip-toed up the ladder toward the trap-door With a crust beneath her apron, nor slyly stuck her head In the loft with a laugh, and a wave of her hardened hands, perhaps Just in time to exchange a whisper before disappearing below. “Yes, we’ll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river; Gather with the saints at the river That flows from the throne of God”. Once Annie said the kitten was with mother Over the River, Why couldn’t one go visiting close to the throne of God? It sounded comfortable. The tick in the loft was straw-filled And hard, and every night the wolves howled in the wilderness Just beyond the logs. Annie was lifting the trap-door Now, “Ye poor little foundlin’, eat! Ye have eyes like an owlet And ye grab each morsel of food like a vixen without manners! See! I’ll pull the straw-tick nearer the hole, but I warn ye - Sleep! No more whimpering or the mistress will come and whale ye!” Annie disappeared and locked the trap from the outside; How then did grandfather, without disturbing the hinges Stand at the foot of the tick? He was smiling, white hair all over His face, as mother described him. “I knew you would come for me grandpa!” Down below the mistress heard the cry from the darkness And thrust a stick through the hole and rattled it horribly, But it wasn’t so lonesome now. Grandfather was coming. . . . . . . . . . Still another two moons moved across the twilights Of winter in Wisconsin before the squire had woven Meagre information. From settlement to settlement He wandered always asking, “Have you heard of a woman and child, Perchance a motherless child, of my daughter from Canada West?” At last he was led to the cabin wherein above there was shrieking; A woman answered his knocking excusing the noise by declaring The child was taking molasses and sulphur distasteful to her. Bending, the squire crossed the threshold. Then above him a cry rent the cabin Loosing within him emotions from hidden springs deep and primordial, Welling unbidden. “I knew! I knew you would come for me, grandpa! It’s Mary!” He leapt to the ladder, and the child through the open trap-door Sprang to his waiting arms, and he knelt with them closed round about her. PART 3 Fourteen summers now was Mary, mirroring All the thoughts of life that coursed about her, Love of night and starlit silences Laving her in mystic radiance, Child of soul and soil was she, and calm As Moira’s waters imaging deep the moods Of cloud and sky. Like the forest foxglove Stately, yet withal a twinkling laughter Born from song of birds and rhythm of trees. Sometimes when the night had wrapped the westwind All about in purple dusk and dreamings, She would stand alone beneath the starless Canopy and sense the urge of wings Above her, pulsing errless in migration, Following the thoughts of the Great Spirit Flowering on the unblazed trails of air; Why had not her father thus been guided? Why the tears of Harriet, her mother? Sometimes, too, she pondered on the possible Coming of her father; if returning Would he claim her as his own, and she Be to him a daughter, forced to leave The loved abode, the lapping of the waters And Moira’s meadows? Then would the squire reply, “Child directed to me by the angels, Fasten always faith upon the future - - - Faith in the fulfilment of their planning!” . . . . . . . . . The Fall had garnered well with flaming wings The children of all the trees deciduous, And carpeted the far-flung wilderness With tapestries of gold and bronze and blazing Crimsons, sun-flecked where the shadows dance Among the temples of the evergreens. When one night a frost hung in the gloaming, The gate in Squire O’Hara’s garden opened (Fragrant-filled before the falling leaf With apple and wild plum trees hanging laden) To a stranger’s faltering footsteps, heavy With fatigue and limping nigh to fainting. Seeing his distress the squire ran to him; “In God’s name, Thomas, where in all the years Have you lingered? Mary! Haste! The Spring!” Flashing on her errand like a fawn Affrighted, knowing only that a turmoil Trembled within her at the name of “Thomas”, Mary soon returned, the dropping dipper Overflowing as the surge within her. Then the stranger caught her mother’s likeness And sank upon a stone to fortify His failing strength. For long a silence fell, The elder Mary directing all their labours, Bathing hands and face and stimulating Circulation as the Indians taught them Long ago. When the wanderer woke From exhaustion and partook of food, He told of how he joined a company Faring onward for new fields to furrow, Planning to return first fall of snow, And in the spring with Harriet trek westward. But a fever fell upon him, leaving (After many weeks in Indian encampment) Blank his mind of all the past, his memory Numbed and gone. Years of wandering followed, Goldfields in the south, and Mexico, One night in a dream a face appeared, The face of Harriet. Like a trap Recoiling from a tautness terrifying His memory returned, the tenseness falling Full away, but leaving an awareness Of agony for Harriet, his bride. Not one day he lingered after the vision, Often failing strength would hold him prisoner Until his faith revived the flickering spark Of life. In all Wisconsin he could find No trace of Harriet, and so had turned Eastward into Canada West, praying God would blaze the trails of his wandering. James and Mary then, before the firelight Took his hands, worn with weariness, “Thomas, bide ye here with us and welcome, Harriet would have it so - - - at last.” . . . . . . . . . The sands had dropped a century of years, Lacking but seven, upon the shores of time, When Mary the child told the tale of Harriet, Her mother. Stately still was she and calm, Though on occasions in the telling, impassioned, A light as of a shekinah playing upon Her face, perhaps for only eyes to see With gift of comprehension. Then she said: “For many years I sought my mother’s grave In vain, that I might mark it with a stone.” Rather let this story be your heritage From Harriet. Write thee well the words Within and at its close. “He shall give His angels charge to keep thee to the end.” PHILOSOPHY YOU BROKE THE TRAIL You broke the trail when deep the forest hung In matted boughs, through gnarled, untrodden ways, You always broke the trail. Those summer days The blazer that you wore flashed bright, and flung A deeper blue than bird of indigo Through wilderness of green. It often lost Itself in winding maze. Then I would call And pause to catch the cadence that would fall In stillness only northern forests know. Far ahead would come your answer, tossed As if the forest folk were listening too, But nearer to the cove where waiting lay The cabin low, and little birch canoe, “This way to home, love - - can you hear? - - - this way!” Now you have left to break the Greater Trail And vast the blue that wraps you round. The night Can hold no fear nor faltering footsteps fail. Sometimes I hear, O soft! though out of sight, Your loved voice calling, gentle as on sail A breeze might blow to tint a tender light, “This way to home! this way - - the trail is bright!” FOOTHILLS “In those days men will seek death, But will not find it.” Revelation. The valleys of all the new and yester-years Stretched endless toward the foothills of the dawn, Onward and up. Beyond, each minute and hour That pulsed between the Infinite and Now, Was spaced by seconds ten thousand years apart; Our span of earth spread low, a vale of fears, Though over life, even bird and tree and fawn, Flamed love, unfolding fragrance as a flower. Time’s varied trails led on beyond our ken, Numberless as stars that strewed the greater vast, And each trail’s length a living soul’s progress From worlds that were to all the worlds to be; Each willed his way, a self-determined path, But where love was denied, there trails of men Grew dark to eternal plan, and lurid cast Lowering clouds of sorrow and duress. Law undenied - - relentless Cause and Effect - - Flowed freely down from deeds men willed to be, And frequent flung its fruits to men unborn Who in their day the fevered course must break. “Does Infinite Love the innocent life take?” High rose the cry above the ancient storm, Not knowing men progress when men are free To recreate the world that men have wrecked. Then veils that hid the future’s secret awe Rolled back their portals’ purple tapestries, As if by silent yielding to a thought From some Arch-angel’s concentrated peace; There moved mankind, both saint and criminal, In splendid robes of ecstasy _self-bought_, And in that gloried breath I grew to see The plan sublime of life and love and law. THEY HAVE NOT DIED A voice from the unseen sang low, And stilled in ecstasy, I heard Sweet fragrant tones, as of a bird Singing, hidden, drawing high My winged thoughts unto its sky. A beloved voice that bade me know Of light, of majesty and gain, Of life not lost, in soft refrain Calling across the veil, of peace And hope, of heaven and blest release; Of soldier souls that smiling go, And how immortal minds take wing, On transcendental thoughts and fling Aside the low, of love between Two worlds spanning the unseen; Of sacrificial mounds we know That hold no soul, our fancied time A second sounding out a chime Celestial, our fortunes free And glorious immortality! O souls that sink low-winged in woe, O hearts that hold no hallowed light, Who hunger, craving clearer sight Attainable yet self-denied, O World! our warrior loved draw near, They live and laugh, unconquerable - - - here, They are not gone, they have not died! WHEN I PASS ON When I pass on what I have hoped will be, For hope is but the budding of a morn, A promise, threshold, subtle inner key To all attainment. Acts are hopes thought-born, And thoughts creators of reality, We are inspired, like birds on upward wings, We visualize, and lo - - material things! Reflections of the real we fain would see. For ere these purpose-pictures of the will Are flashed across horizons incarnate, They were fulfilled in worlds invisible, Wherein is fed a flame insatiate; And there a voice, “Be strong,” it quickens, “we Are one, strive on to infinite mastery!” CONSCIOUSNESS IS SPACE AND TIME NO EMPIRE HAS Consciousness is space and time no empire has, Within eternal frequencies we move Self-sentient slaves to waves of sight and sound, Clay-cumbered, manacled, and call it ‘time’, Sleeping within life’s womb and knowing not. There is a birth that blossoms on the wind, That frees as fancies flung from deep desire, And souls that tremble in time’s womb shall find A larger sun-lit way for goal and mind, Shall leap to catch its warmth, as flame to fire. Time, a cocoon, is for our passing woven, A dream whose waking plumbs a deeper vast, We _thought_ before mortality was chosen, Back of a pre-born past. Though sense and time cry, “Why the Hun and hate, Why the agony, and where the goal?” I cannot doubt my mastership of fate, Nor bind my boundless soul. I will not start nor stumble ’neath the wrong, Nor drink the draughts that lurk in mud and mire, Fingering with faltering touch a broken lyre, Forgetting heights majestic, mind and song. I hold it true free-will is God’s revealing, Arch-angelship the goal, our bodies dust (But for our time the mystery concealing), That God is love, that love is law - - and just. For I am Will, and I the master; time Craves no empire save by thought winged free, I ride victorious winds of day and hour, And claim the triumph of eternity! THE RETURN This was tomorrow once and tomorrow is always, All yesterdays are today and will be forever, Though the sun rise only in Egypt or Alaska Or backwards circle through the cosmic blue. Life like a mosaic glows, infinity Breathed in beauty. We view only in part Our earth, nor circumscribe its radiance, Nor call complete its planning. How can birth Begin that which always has been? How death end That which always shall be? Fools we are! Remembering not our decision at conception To circumvolve our souls with laws called physical, To beat against still another dimension - - The earth - - our souls for nobler mellowing! Remembering not the smiling farewells flooding Our departure upon the magnetic streams Of love’s desiring! Even as we swirled in vortex We called back: “Angels be to me Until as victor I return! My mission Fortify, that fear of death be shattered With the accursed creed of sleep until a future Resurrection, and the creed of hateful hell, Though mercy endureth forever and forever!” This I called back, and more I feel I called, “Let light break the mysteries through ages accumulated By dogmas preached in error, with ignorance wed By false loyalty to a written word. Man has no language even untranslated That can express the subtleties of _all_ Of spirit and of truth, though inspiration Flows directly from the throne of God. I shall return though life on earth be called A span of three score years, I shall return, I shall return - - - _Today_.” January 1945 Written after Myrtle’s passing. WEIRD IS THE SPELL Where the old barns loom in the north light Once there were cattle, and callings Of men at milking, and whinnying Of horses listening for footfalls, Waiting the hand of the master Who always kept faith in the gloaming On warm flanks, with low voice and soothing. When the old barns melt in the north light Darkness and silence and loneness Press like a pall, and the present Drifts into dream. Realities Other than earth rise for utterance, Surge as on bird wings uplifted. Vast as the caves whose creating Thundered and boomed to the sea waves Ten thousand eons in making. Weird is the spell of the north light, Space and time are illusions, Cosmic seconds whose fingers Flash on the face of eternity. LET THERE BE LIGHT Dim shadows on far shores, through mists of rain A light of love serene I sense again, I fling to you in triumph Love-gladdened days, Jewel-crowned, aurora-tinted Memories. Dim shadows on far shores, the veil is thin, I see your faces smiling through again; The light is breaking - - breaking Across the sea, And now your loved hands beckon Back - - to me. Sun-drenched, O golden glorious living Love! Grey veiled mists are gone, Below - - above, For truth, tolled long, has burst the bonds of night, There are no dead, O world - - - - Let there be light! PAEAN OF ETERNAL PLAN Little Butterfly, Frail flower on wings, Thy golden flutterings Flash like fevered hopes and dreams to be, Fade not upon the shadowed frieze Of memory! Stay - - Wee galleon of life, and free, Art drunk with thy new birth Whose reality Drowns the dull dream of grovelling worm And grubbing form? Hast thou memory Of silent shroud that bore thee liberty? Speak - - Paean of Eternal Plan! Thy passing, like a mighty span Lifts doubt from dark and lowering sea To mountain peak! O Emblem of Immortality, Can Law that clothes thy gloried ecstasy Fashion me? BITTERSWEET Like the bittersweet some women are beautiful, Sparkle and nod, Swing free in the sun Certain of admiration, While the arms they choke and twine about Bend to lift, Heavy with weariness, Their prayers etched in rhythmic monotones Across the sky. “Strength! Strength! The burden!” And the wind blows, While the bittersweet lolls Languidly. Some women are like the bittersweet, Parasite with red blood, Certain of admiration, Though roots deep down Hidden, abiding, Suck for sap To support them. I’d rather be A thorn tree, Alone - - - On a hill, Stark and warped, Chiselled in silver moonlight Like frozen wind Against the night. NATURE PRAYER OF A PINE TREE Presence that bathes the purple twilight hour, I droop my weary ruggedness before Thy golden rifts of love that linger long, Even as echoes when the lonely loon Calls to crimson sunset, lake and hill, Tremble and are still. Might of wind and Mind of Majesty! Sway my arms tomorrow at Thy call, I, who dwell apart on this bare rock Of limpid umber and of burnished shade, Lift my head at dawn to sentinel The lone canoe upon its portaged way, To shelter tender wings their wanderings Each new day. Then when fleeting shadows fade and fall, When night drops low, and yonder cabin fast Becomes a memory laden with a song, Let my vigil long a solace be, For there two souls have seeking, found at last, Love and laughter, peace - - - and mystery. FOREST THOUGHTS Stalwart souls that silent stand, and bend and bless, Free me of my fears and all unworthiness, Pervading power, breathe on me a perfect peace, Your poignant thoughts unloose, like love That seeks release. Fashion me by your thousand prayers that fan the skies, As stars of twilight, whispering, hush the day that dies; And when at night the storm clouds gather, guard my way Dim shadows, sentinels against The coming day. For trees like angels bless and whisper, bending low, “Clay-bound your eyes if you would falter, trembling so, Blazed are life’s trails, and lo - - there we stand by Within the shadows, smiling, beckoning Toward the sky!” LIKE FALLING STREAMS Like falling streams freshening Soft shadowed farmlands, Up where the mountain mists Fade - - and are still, Like forests green waving, Fanned by some Over-Lord Breathing on mortals Deep in the lowlands, So are the thoughts From the Infinite flowing, Who would not dwell there, High, where the light streams? Lone though the glory, Deep the desiring For creedless companions, Conventions and dogmas Unregimented! Who would not dwell there Alone, where the light streams? LAUGHTER ACROSS SUNLIT WATERS Laughter across sunlit waters, The fragrance of song in the moonlight, Thoughts, unrevealed, of red roses full blown And wafted on dreams of the west wind; Such tune our souls to the Infinite, Sharpen to subtle awareness The senses of spirit within us. Lo, in the twilight about us Pulsates an exquisite presence, Down through the dream-laden, hushed filled darkness Voices melodious are vibrating, Majestic, eternal, triumphant, Bridging the inexorable silence, Calling in tones loved and loving, Caressing souls shadowed in sorrow. Listen who faint by the wayside, Listen to song and to laughter! Limitless life flames symphonic about us Fashioned by love never ending, Lyrics of law sway about us, Living, etheric, enduring, Fear not, nor falter, beloved, Listen! - - - God’s Angels are near us. STORM TRYST (To Margaret Fairfull) I long to drift in the lea of land Where the strong hills left the sky, To will my canoe over mirrored tips With my paddle idling by. But the Lord of the water, the Lord of the hills, The Lord of the air and the deep, The Over-Soul Lord of the great Everywhere Has willed me a storm tryst to keep. So I laugh at the wind when it beats and it breaks, And the green waves snarl and snap At my little canoe as it dips and it banks Each cavernous green-frothed gap. I laugh at the echoing cries of the loon, At the storm’s craven cadence ascending To souls long lost on the last portage (Mountains and moons without ending). I laugh - - for beyond the last turn there’s a trail That keeps tryst with the shore and the sea, Where the Over-Soul Lord of the great Everywhere With my Love will keep tryst with me. MILLBROOK MEADOWS It’s June in Millbrook Meadows, And down the old farm lane A tumbling Bob-o-link high trills Through glancing bows of rain Above the lush of lapping, Where watercress and stone Melt in mist-wrapped dreamboats, Lulling low-toned dreamboats, Shifting, drifting dreamboats, Calling home. The little brook holds magic Reflecting flight and song Where pixies lilt in laughter Astride each dreamboat thong, They tinkle tiny thought-bells, And dapple them in blue, Then tune them low in tonics To dreams come true! They dart about in dreamboats, Swishing, swaying dreamboats, Linking happy memories With dreams come true! [Illustration: MILLBROOK MEADOWS] THE HILLS OF HASTINGS [3]I know a place where breathe the silences, Where streams hold converse with the pine tree’s reach, With broken bracken and with towering trails, Where float the milkweed folk on eager wing To catch the fairy wanderings of a cloud, Up where the wide world’s arms, encircling The hills of Hastings, veil the door of Heaven. I know a place where forests flame in heartbeats Of hills - - - the Hastings hills! Where muted dreams Lift like fountains shattering silver thoughts Deep in the blue, to touch the Gown of God. ----- [3] County of Hastings, Ontario, Canada, which lies on the fringe of the Laurentian Hills. DO SHADOWS CREEP THROUGH SOULS OF PINE? Do shadows creep through souls of pine That sweep a little cabin’s air, I wonder? Miss they silent tread Where moon-mist streams on forest bed, A hand upon their weathered bark When thrush is still and trails grow dark? In melting dawn, or high-noon glare? Do shadows creep through souls of pine? The present there in passing - - - seems, Like drifting petal have I caught A tremor, as of forest thought, For shadows creep through souls of pine, And peace unfolds a realm of dreams. HYMN OF ALGONQUIN PARK God of all living creatures Guarding the vast everywhere, Bless Thou Thy fox in his hill home, Bless Thou Thy beaver and bear, Bless all Thy wild-weary children, Expressions of Thee, every one, Soon may humanity’s concept Transcend the trap line and the gun. Thy wandering canoe and portager Who roam Thy broad valleys and streams, Who glide over lakelands in sunlight Or skim them mist-laden, like dreams, Who sing with the pines and the hardwoods, Who leap in the health giving spray, Watch over each wanderer’s sojourn Throughout all Thy playgrounds, we pray. God of the living in uplands, God of the life in the air, God of the lake and the forest, God of the great everywhere - - May Canada’s beckoning northlands Inspire all who long to be free, Seekers of truth, may their labours Turn earth into heaven’s sacristy! THE SOULS OF THREE TREES The souls of three trees went soaring aloft To seek lone shelter from storm and strife, The first found hold in a field at night, Among green growing things, and soft, And tall it grew, and dark and still, A sepulchral emblem on a tear-drenched hill. Down the misting lanes of a melting moon The March wind blew on softening wing, And morning broke, and a living thing Lay mute and quivering, and about to swoon, And white it grew, and slim, and fine, In the cradled arms of a sun-drenched pine. Then the Spirit of Night, in a silver gown Of shimmering dreams and silent prayer, With a little lost seed swept low, and where A mountain shadowed a starveling town It grew, love-drenched, an angel’s throne Where God keeps watch above His own. SONGS [4]I BEHELD THE BLOOM OF A THOUSAND BLOSSOMS I beheld the bloom of a thousand blossoms Banked against a burning sky, I saw the tender elm tips tinting The flame of a cloud, as I passed by. O Soul of mine, unfettered, smiling, When the glorious gold of the night is past, And the din of the day has died - - - in the doing, Will you take me home, at last? ----- [4] Set to music by Aileen O’Hara Vanderwater. PRAYER AT DAYBREAK Reach out, O seeking soul of mine, reach out Far in thought-forests of infinity, Touch thou some secret spring of spirit fire, Then through the awful silence - - - tenderly, Prayerfully, fearlessly, Implant another tiny seed of truth Within this templed clay of mine - - - today. HARP ON A HILL My heart is a harp on a hill, The soul of the world is a song, The hum of a million thoughts thrum low In the hush of a waiting dawn. My heart is a harp on a hill, The cry of the world rings long Down the ether streams, and night’s dark dreams Pluck on the strings - - - and are gone. [5]A HEALING HYMN FOR HOSPITALS God of all lands, we humbly seek Thy blessing, Grant us Thy presence everywhere this hour, Breathe through each life Thy fire divine, O freely Quicken our faith in Love, Thy healing power! Space there is none, for thought, Thy force supernal, Faster than voice doth pierce the ether night, Love-laden power! each healing thought a magnet, Potent, triumphant, glorious in Thy sight! Bless all who seek Thy help in meditation, Far-flung though many flaming altars be, Lead them to know that even as the sunlight, So may their thoughts light up that silent sea. Radiant we come, a happy human family, Thy healing ministry goes forth from Thee, Hearing Thy call we go upon Thy wayside, Bless Thou our works for Thy humanity. ----- [5] May be sung to tune ‘Peek’ THE PICTURE I saw a tree look up to God, I felt it quiver in the sod, A bird of gold on tallest tip Sang to the blue enframing it. Then deep within the eye of mind I placed the picture, there to find On darkest days, when clouds ride low, The glory of that summer glow. And now I often, like the bird, Sing in my heart the song I heard, And O! the rapture of the frame That trusts, until it shines again! A SONG We heard an angel sing one night When the world was hushed, and a holy light Of love was hung in the hovering gloom Of doubt and death. And now we know that angels smile When souls faith free (creed-crushed the while), Go laughing, winging, soaring, singing Up to God! NEW YORK NIGHT (From a Fourteenth Floor) I stand in a dreamland of God, In the tumbling heart of a town, Where rumbling roar and restless feet Surge ceaselessly up and down - - - Surge ceaselessly up and down A mile or so, at my feet, And a window’d world of a million fires Fling their labyrinth lights to a million stars, Like quivering codes of a million prayers, Where Heaven and earth - - - - meet. I move in a thoughtland of God, Monuments molten by mind, Materialized visions, swung through the blue, Vitalized, vivid, recaptured anew! Skyscrapers, they call them, man-made alone, But to me they are dreams, jewelled in stone, Symphonies, dramas, flashed from God’s thoughtlands - - - Magically sown. FOR CHILDREN OF THE SUNRISE AND SUNSET [Illustration: STORY HOUR WITH JENNY O’HARA PINCOCK _and her Story Book Children_] RADIO A little angel in the realms of light Had been very good, so God said, “I shall find you a teacher all shining and bright Who will take you down to earth to play A radio game with your little sister - - - All day.” Now, this little angel slipped from sight On earth one night, Before she had heard a singing bird, Or the soft rain patter, like laughter and chatter, On a shingle roof. But very soon she learned to dial Her little earth-sister, the sweetest thoughts Tuned to a smile, Like a radio game of hide and seek, Though not quite the same In heaven. Sometimes the little earth-sister would cry To her chum, Margaret, “O my! I’ve the grandest idea! Let’s play heaven! You be an angel and I’ll be me, And we’ll go sailing, trailing, sailing, Trailing, sailing over a sea - - - - - A blue, blue sea - - - - - to a far, far shore That veils the sky from our front door, And never get wet, not even the tip Of the top of our toes - - - - One bit!” OUT OF THE DAWN (To Little Colleen) Little One, Little One out of the dawn, Why skip you thus over the lawn Like fleeting dream or fairy fawn? Up to my face her soul blue eyes She lifted, in wondering surprise, Then shaking the curls from their golden bed, And nodding her child-wise little head, “I might step on the dandelions!” she said. DID YOU EVER? (To Little Colleen) Did you ever see the music waves That play a summer shower? Did you ever smell a happy smile Or hear a crimson flower? Did you ever touch the fairy flutes In a fountain’s magic light, Or catch the dream-thoughts drifting Through a garden - - - Sunday night? Did you ever follow flights of love In rainbow streams ascending, Or sense the songs the elms sing With radiant sunset blending? I’m sure - - aren’t you? - - the things we hear, And think, and do, and see, Will someday all together play Our spirit’s symphony! NORTHERN LIGHTS On the tippiest, tippiest top of a Tamarac tree I spied a little elf, and he spied me, For the moon was riding low, and the summer night afar Was filled with northern lights, and a great white star. I tip-toed to the Tamarac and I tapped the trunk of tan, And whispered to its shadow, just before it jumped and ran, “It’s only me, dear shadow, can you tell me, please, just why I cannot reach that elf that swings against the midnight sky?” The shadow dipped and curtsied, so I melted close beside, Its arms so soft about me that I just leaned hard - - - and cried, Then I felt the Tamarac tremble and I heard a voice cry, “Hop!” And there was I beside the elf, on the tippiest tip top! The world up there was crystal bathed, and sparkling like a sea Of dancing, flashing rainbows, and I felt all hushed and wee, “Shall I forget, O little elf, this magic spell was spun? I’m sure ’twill seem quite silly when the world is bright with sun!” The elfin voice was tingly as he tripped an elfin lay, And he turned ten elfin somersaults before he paused to say, “We never war in elfland, we’ve no money here, you see, Your world looks just plain crazy from my tippiest Tamarac tree!” LITTLE FAIRY OF GLENGORRA There was a little fairy, little fairy of Glengorra, Fashioned in a glowing gown of webs and diamond dew, That sparkled with a thousand thoughts of laughing, dancing lily-bells, And tinkled as she tripped beneath the tree-tops where they grew. I’ve never been to fairyland, Glengorra’s smiling fairyland, Except in dreams when drowsy elves delight a fairy dell, They sprinkle you with a star-mist and purple lights of flower-glow, So you can learn their language, if you promise not to tell! One night the little fairy, little fairy of Glengorra Brought twenty million moonbeam sprites to lighten up my way, They led me down a portage of forgotten songs and poetry, And tied them fast with dream-bows in my hair, so they would stay! And then we sang them over, all Glengorra’s lovely poetry Of dreams forgotten, danced them on a waving moonlit sea, And when I woke to find the sun was peeping through the branches The fairies and the songs had fled - - - and left just only me! GLOSSARY BOOMCHAIN A chain attached to floating logs to intercept or confine timbers, saw-logs, etc. CHIPPEWA A tribe of Indians of the Algonquin stock that hunted between Lake Erie and Lake Superior. CRANE A support for kettles in a fireplace. JAMDOG, PIKE-POLE, CANT-HOOK and JACKSCREW Lumbermen’s tools used in handling logs. MANITOU Among the Chippewa Indians the word for Great Spirit or God. MOIRA A lake of two basins just south of Madoc village, in Hastings County, Ontario, Canada. Moira river drains into the Bay of Quinte. NOGGIN A wooden vessel, mug or tub. PRAYER-FEATHER The position of a feather in the head-dress of an Indian was symbolic. Erect on the forehead the feather indicated a prayer for strength, insight or truth; pointing down from the back of the neck a petition for peace, or an acknowledgement of its acceptance. RAMPIKE A dead tree of great height and prominence which may, or may not, have fallen. SALEM (Massachusetts) The following appears beneath an old oil painting hanging in the Senate Chamber of Independence Square, Philadelphia. “Belief in witches was common in Europe at the time of early settlement at New England and soon spread to America. The first was at Boston in 1648 . . . Any excuse might condemn a person, and to ye witch finders any blemish such as a mole on any part of ye body served as proof of guilt. In 1692, 360 persons had been hanged, tortured, or named for arrest by full sanction of ye clergy. The excesses of this year, however, aroused at last the intelligent minority who then put an end to ye whole inhuman business.” SALERATUS Pioneer women used this term for the cooking soda which they made from the ashes of corn cobs, and sometimes from a gray lichen or moss. The latter made a darker bread. SHEKINAH A radiance symbolizing the light of the divine presence. Artists have depicted it above the heads of saints and the Christ. SUGARING OFF A custom in eastern Canada called “sugaring off” is the boiling down of maple syrup until it may be poured in crackling ribbons on a pan of heaped snow. This syrup may also be stirred in a saucer until it forms a creamy cake of maple sugar. The making of maple sugar was taught the white man by the Indians. TRENCHER A wooden plate for use at the table. THE WILDERNESS The unbroken, primeval forests wherein no sun could penetrate--except in beaver meadows or on elevations overlooking an expanse of water--was so called by the pioneers. AUTHOR’S NOTE: The speech of some pioneers who came to Canada West, now the province of Ontario, was touched with a quaintness born of the Quaker movement further south. This simplicity of language was not a dialect nor did it in the remotest degree suggest illiteracy. Some Ontario pioneers were children of officers of the finest British stock who were unable to return to their motherland after the War of Independence and who passed on to their children, born in the new world, their own culture and education. These children, many who became the first pioneers of Ontario, brought their books into Canada West, donated the first school sites, hewed the first school houses and boarded free the first school masters--historic facts well worth preserving. TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. [The end of _Hidden Springs_ by Jenny O'Hara Pincock]