Hilda Conkling

“ BLUE GRASS Blue grass flowering in the field, You are my heart's content. It is not only through the day I see you, But in dreams at night When you trudge up the hill Along the forest, As I do! You are small to shine so, Nobody speaks of you much, Because of daisies and such summer blooms. When you wonder why I like you It makes me wonder too! Maybe I remember when you grew high Like a tree above my head, Because I was a fairy. ”

“ Wait till the fires arise! Wait till the sky drops down and touches the spear, Crystal and mother-of-pearl! The sunlight droops forward Like wings. The birds sing songs of sun-drops. The sky leans down where the spear stands upward. . . I hear music . . . It is the end . . .
PEACOCK FEATHERS On trees of fairyland Grow peacock feathers of daylight colors Like an Austrian fan. But there is a strange thing! I have heard that night gathers these feathers For her cloak; I have heard that the stars, the moon, Are the eyes of peacock feathers From fairy trees. ”

“ You had to pass a cloudy gate To reach the color . . . Bridges do sometimes begin on the earth And end in the sky.
NIGHT GOES RUSHING BY Night goes hurrying over Like sweeping clouds; The birds are nested; their song is silent. The wind says oo—oo—oo—through the trees For their lullaby. The moon shines down on the sleeping birds. My cottage roof is like a sheet of silk Spun like a cobweb. My apple-trees are bare as the oaks in the forest; When the moon shines I see no leaves. I am alone and very quiet Hoping the moon may say something Before long. ”

“ WATER The world turns softly Not to spill its lakes and rivers. The water is held in its arms And the sky is held in the water. What is water, That pours silver, And can hold the sky?
SHADY BRONN When the clouds come deep against the sky I sit alone in my room to think, To remember the fairy dreams I made, Listening to the rustling out of the trees. The stories in my fairy-tale book Come new to me every day. ”

“ He was happy in his heart, And he had golden hair Till the sun loved him. "Siegfried!" I will call him! "Siegfried!" But he will not hear me. He could talk to birds and rivers, And he is gone.
MOON SONG There is a star that runs very fast, That goes pulling the moon Through the tops of the poplars. It is all in silver, The tall star: The moon rolls goldenly along Out of breath. Mr. Moon, does he make you hurry?
SUNSET Once upon a time at evening-light A little girl was sad. There was a color in the sky, A color she knew in her dreamful heart And wanted to keep. ”

“ The moon shines on his silver hair, On his quick feet. The Sandman comes searching across the Bay: He goes to all the houses he knows To put sand in little girls' eyes. That is why I go to my sleepy bed, And why the lake-gull leaves the moon alone. There are no wings to moonlight any more, Only the Sandman's hair. ”

“ The stars make the sky sparkle like gold-fish In a glassy bowl. Bluebirds are gone now, But they left their song behind them. The moon seems to say: It is time for summer when the birds come back To pick up their lonesome songs.
SNOWSTORM Snowflakes are dancing. They run down out of heaven. Coming home from somewhere down the long tired road They flake us sometimes The way they do the grass, And the stretch of the world. The grass-blades are crowned with snowflakes. They make me think of daisies With white frills around their necks With golden faces and green gowns ”

“ The pinks smell like more of them In a blue vase: The mint smells like summer In many gardens.
THE WHITE CLOUD There are many clouds But not like the one I see, For mine floats like a swan in featheriness Over the River of the Broken Pine. There are many clouds But not like the one that goes sailing Like a ship full of gold that shines, Like a ship leaning above blue water. ”

“ Oh, gorgeous blue mountain of my heart And of my love for you!
II Sea-Gull From a yellow strip of sand I watch a gull go by. He is bright-eyed To see the world of waves. All his dream is of the sea. All his love is for his mate. ”

“ It will never go away Until it meets the glad gold wave Of happiness! Wandering over the monstrous rocks, Looking into the caves, I see my island dark, all cold, Until the gold wave sweeps in From a sea deep blue, And flings itself on the beach. ”

“ The short feathers smooth along your back Are the dark color of wet rocks, Or the rippled green of ships When I look at their sides through water. I don't know how you happened to be made So proud, so foolish, Wearing your coat of many colors, Shouting all day long your crooked words, Loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful!
TREE-TOAD Tree-toad is a small gray person With a silver voice. Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadow That sings. Tree-toad is never seen Unless a star squeezes through the leaves, Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch. ”

“ THE DEW-LIGHT The Dew-man comes over the mountains wide, Over the deserts of sand, With his bag of clear drops And his brush of feathers. He scatters brightness. The white bunnies beg him for dew. He sprinkles their fur, They shake themselves. All the time he is singing The unknown world is beautiful! He polishes flowers, Humming "Oh, beautiful!" He sings in the soft light That grows out of the dew, Out of the misty dew-light that leans over him He makes his song . ”

“ Then night comes The mountains turn dark gray And faint away into night. Not a bird chirps his song. All is drowsy, All is strange, With the moon and stars shining round the world: The wind stops, The windmills stop In Holland . ”

“ SUMMER-DAY SONG Wild birds fly over me. I am not the blue curtain overhead, I am the one who lives under the sky. I swing to the tree-tops, I pick strawberries, I sing and play, And happiness makes me like a great god On the earth. It makes me think of great things A little girl like me Could not know of.
PINK ROSE-PETALS Pink rose-petals Fluttering down in hosts, I know what you mean Sometimes, in Spring. It is love you mean. Love has a gray bird That flutters down; A dove that comes flying Saying the same thing. How happy it makes me to think of it, Rose-petals . ”

“ They do not wet you: I think you are not real In your green feathers! You are not a humming-bird at all Standing on air above the garden! I dreamed you the way I dream fairies, Or the flower I lost yesterday! ”

“ I am sprinkling my best, every day, But ice is holding you fast. Can't you get out? Can't you lift yourself with sun? I am tired waiting for slow cold water To fling about the air: Can't you wake yourself up? ”

“ SILVERHORN It is out in the mountains I find him, My snowy deer With silver horns like dew, Horns that sparkle. I think I see him in the hollow, He is on the high hill! I think I see him on the hill, He is leaping through the air! I think I can ride upon his back, He is like moonlight I cannot hold, He is like thoughts I lose. He flows by All white . . . He makes me think of the brook Out of the hills With its little foamy points Like his twitching ears, Like his horns of silver Sparkling. The brook is his only friend When he travels . ”

“ Birches like silver bars they can hardly lift With grass so thick about their feet to hinder . . . They have not gone far In the time I've watched them . . .
ADVENTURE I went slowly through the wood of shadows, Thinking always I should meet some one: There was no one. I found a hollow Sweet to rest in all night long: I did not stay. I came out beyond the trees To the moaning sea. Over the sea swam a cloud the outline of a ship: What if that ship held my adventure Under its sails? Come quickly to me, come quickly, I am waiting. I am here on the sand; Sail close! I want to go over the waves . ”

“ The spruce tree is feathered and rough Like the legs of the red chickens in our poultry yard. I can study my geography from chickens Named for Plymouth Rock and Rhode Island, And from trees out of Canada. ”

“ Some poets think in rhyme, some do not; Hilda evidently belongs to the second category. "Treasure," and "The Apple-Jelly-Fish-Tree," and "Short Story" are the only poems in the book which seem to follow a clearly rhymed pattern. If any misguided schoolmistress had ever suggested that a poem should have rhyme and metre, this book would never have been "told." In "Moon Doves," however, there is a distinctly metrical effect without rhyme. But the great majority of the poems are built upon cadence, and the subtlety of this little girl's cadences are a delight to those who can hear them. ”

“ To my thinking, the most successful poems in the book—and now I mean successful from a grown-up standpoint—are "For You, Mother," "Red Rooster," "Gift," "Poems," "Dandelion," "Butterfly," "Weather," "Hills," and "Geography." And it will be noticed that these are precisely the poems which must have sprung from actual experience. They are not the book poems, not even the fairy poems, they are the records of reactions from actual happenings. I have not a doubt that Hilda prefers her fairy-stories. They are the conscious play of her imagination, it must be "fun" to make them. ”

“ But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather. These are dark and quiet And stay alone. I know you, Velvets, Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine!
TWO SONGS After Hearing the Wagner Story-book The birds came to tell Siegfried a story, A story of the woods out of a tree: How the ring was fairy And there were things it could do for him Day and night: How the river flowed green and wavy Under the Rainbow Bridge, And Brunnhilda slept in a wreath of fire. ”

“ To be an adequate companion to childhood, one must know so many things. Hilda is fortunate in her mother, for if these poems reveal one thing more than another it is that Mrs. Conkling is dowered with an admirable tact. ”

“ It makes the whole more healthy, more sure of development. When the subconscious mind of Hilda Conkling takes a vacation, she does not "nod," as erstwhile Homer; she merely reverts to type and is a child again.
I think too highly of these poems to speak of the volume as though it were the finished achievement of a grown-up person. Some of the poems can be taken in that way, but by no means all. The child who writes them frequently transcends herself, but her thoughts for the most part are those proper to every imaginative child. ”

“ A period of imitation is, I fear, inevitable, but if consciousness is not induced by direct criticism, if instruction in the art of writing is abjured, the imitative period will probably be got through without undue loss. ”

“ Hilda tells her poems, and the method of it is this: They come out in the course of conversation, and Mrs. Conkling is so often engaged in writing that there is nothing to be remarked if she scribbles absently while talking to the little girls. But this scribbling is really a complete draught of the poem. Occasionally Mrs. Conkling writes down the poem later from memory and reads it afterwards to the child, who always remembers if it is not exactly in its original form. No line, no cadence, is altered from Hilda's version ”

“ And here I think we have the answer to the why of Hilda. She and her sister have been their mother's close companions ever since they were born. They have never known that somewhat equivocal relationship—a child with its nurse. They have never been for hours at a time in contact with an elementary intelligence. If Hilda had shown these poems to even the most sympathetic nurse, what would have been the result? In the first place, they would, in all probability, have been lost, since Hilda does not write her poems, but tells them ”