Wisconsin in Story and Song; / Selections from the Prose and Poetry of Badger State Writers

BRAYLEY WINSLOW JONES.

In this group of young writers, the editors present what seems to them to be the best work done by students or young graduates of the University while unquestionably under her influence. They wish there were work by more such writers to present. Possibly there is more that has not yet been brought to their attention.
Berton Brayley has written extensively for newspapers. He has facility in rhyme and the knack of "hitting off" a verse that well fits an occasion. One has the feeling, however, that there is a power and seriousness to the man that have not yet found adequate expression. Perhaps in the next ten years the qualities of ease, leisureliness, and reflection will assert themselves more in his poetry. But from the first there has been a wholesome tone about his work.
Horatio Winslow, son of Chief Justice J. B. Winslow, showed marked ability while an undergraduate. He was a collaborator in the writing of a play which was presented by University students. As with Mr. Brayley, we would say of him that his best work has not yet been published. There is power and strength and grace latent in him that have not yet found expression, but that are unmistakably foretold in the things he has already produced.
Howard Mumford Jones is the youngest of these three men, and comes from the spirit-haunted region of the Mississippi. While his poems have not yet attained absolute surety of touch and evenness of movement, yet of those presented in this group they probably evince the most grace and music, together with the highest and warmest poetic feeling. "When Shall We Together" has real sweep and atmosphere and glow. It is the production of a poet who loved the subject he was writing about.

SOMETIMES

Sometimes I long for a lazy isle,
Ten thousand miles from home,
Where the warm sun shines and the blue skies smile
And the milk-white breakers foam—
A coral island, bravely set
In the midst of the Southern sea,
Away from the hurry and noise and fret
Forever surrounding me!

For I tire of labor and care and fight,
And I weary of plan and scheme,
And ever and ever my thoughts take flight
To the island of my dream;
And I fancy drowsing the whole day long
In a hammock that gently swings—
Away from the clamorous, toiling throng,
Away from the swirl of things!

And yet I know, in a little while,
When the first glad hours were spent,
I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isle
And cease to be content!
I'd hear the call of the world's great game—
And battle with gold and men—
And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame,
Back to the game again!

—Berton Braley.
Saturday Evening Post, January 15, 1916.

THE PIONEERS

Current Opinion. Volume LIV. Page 497. (First published in The Coming Nation.)

We're the men that always march a bit before
Tho we cannot tell the reason for the same;
We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door—
Play and lose and pay the candle for the game.
There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go;
There's no painted post to point the right-of-way,
But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselves
To Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday.

It's infrequent that we're popular at home,
(Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,)
And we scoff at living a la metronome,
And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap.
True—we cannot hold a job to save our lives;
We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore—
'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and rest
And we rope and tie the world and call for more.

Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words—
But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned;
Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds—
And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand.
So they jail us and we lecture to the guards;
They beat us—we make sermons of their whips;
They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said.
That shall burn upon a million living lips.

Are we fighters?......By our fellows we are fanged.
Are we workers?......Paid with blows we never earned.
Are we doctors?......Other doctors see us hanged.
Are we teachers?......Brother teachers have us burned.
But through all a Something somehow holds us fast
'Spite of every beast-hung brake and steaming fen;
And we keep the torch on high till a comrade presses by
When we pass it on and die—and live again!

A LITTLE BOOK OF LOCAL VERSE

Author of "The Masque of Marsh and River."
Copyright, 1915, by the Author. Pages 13-14.

When shall we together
Tramp beneath the sky,
Thrusting through the weather
As swimmers strive together,
You and I?

How we ranged the valleys,
Panted up the road,
Sang in sudden sallies
Of mirth that woke the valleys
Where we strode!

Glad and free as birds are,
Laughter in your eyes,
Wild as poets' words are,
You were as the birds are,
Very wise.

Not for you the prison
Of the stupid town;
When the winds were risen,
You went forth from prison,
You went down,

Down along the river
Dimpling in the rain,
Where the poplars shiver
By the dancing river,
And again

Climbed the hills behind you
When the rains were done;
Only God could find you
With the town behind you
In the sun!

Don't you hear them calling,
Blackbirds in the grain,
Silver raindrops falling
Where the larks are calling
You in vain?

Comrade, when together
Shall we tramp again
In the summer weather,
You and I together,
Now as then?

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