To My Pen

[Fringilla loquitur]

"What means your finch?"
"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,
He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."
     Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried
     his pipe in better days, and then was
     scared by random shots, he is fain to
     lift the migrant wing once more towards the
     humble perch, among the trees he loves. All
     gardeners own that he does no harm, unless
     he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very
     choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is
     now too wise to commit such indiscretions.
     Perhaps it would have been wiser still to
     have shut up his little mandible, or employed it
     only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last
     winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering,
     even in their most downy nest, has made them
     kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter
     and no hearth for warmth.
     Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,
     if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody,
     he will not be surprised, because he has never
     satisfied himself.
     May-day, 1895.

NOTE

With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, "Buscombe" returns in altered form from the other side of the ocean. Two other little tales appeared of old, but nobody would look at them, and now they are offered after careful trimming.

Standing afar. I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which are not mine. They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, and high art announces them as her last transfiguration. Moreover they are highly recommended-- as the purest art not always is--by the modesty of the artist.

The cover design, borders, initial letters and the whole of the full-page illustrations--with the exception of the three to 'Pausias and Glycera' by James W. R. Linton--are by Louis Fairfax-Muckley.

    I
    Thou feeble implement of mind,
      Wherewith she strove to scrawl her
        name;
    But, like a mitcher, left behind
      No signature, no stroke, no claim,
        No hint that she hath pined--
    Shall ever come a stronger time,
        When thou shalt be a tool of skill,
      And steadfast purpose, to fulfil
    A higher task than rhyme?
    II
    Thou puny instrument of soul,
      Wherewith she labours to impart
    Her efforts at some arduous goal;
      But fails to bring thy coarser art
        Beneath a fine control--
      Shall ever come a fairer day,
        When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,
        To soar, where clearer suns illume,
      And fresher breezes play?
     III
     Thou weak interpreter of heart,
       So impotent to tell the tale
     Of love's delight, of envy's smart,
       Of passion, and ambition's bale,
         Of pride that dwells apart--
       Shall I, in length of time, attain
         (By walking in the human ways,
          With love of Him, who made and sways)
       To ply thee, less in vain?
     If so, thou shalt be more to me
       Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;
     With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,
       Despising gold, and sham renown;
         But truthful, kind, and free--
       Then come; though now a pithless quill,
         Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,--
         In time, thou shalt be taught to write,
       By patience, and good-will.