Classic Poem

The skies yielded up their bounty unto the earth;
In the Sierra heights the thunder-cloud gave of its plenty,
And the leaden curtain of the mist of the winter moons
From seaward and the south swept in to drench the valleys;
Yea, the teeming mothers of the heavens gave birth to the rain children,
And the earth was gladdened and sent up pæans of joy.
The grass-blades were the prayers of the grateful land,
And the happy flowers were the hymns of the exultant earth.

Then all the little rillets began to sing songs of praise;
Jubilant canticles of swelling brooks arose from every mountain side,
And the voices of streams all joined in a grand halle-lujah chorus,
And the rivers chanted in deep-voiced harmony thanks-giving to the Sender of Rain.

O ye babbling brooks and mellifluous rills,
O ye laughing waterfalls and crystal cascades,
O ye joyous life-giving waters, careering deliriously downward,
Sing Te Deums triumphal on the awakening of spirit from earth!

In the mountains loom the titan watchmen pine-trees,
And the vast Sequoias near their sentinel towers anear the streams;
In the valley-lands the oaks, benignant guardians,
Spread their gnarled boughs beside the rivers.
There the wild birds come to drink,
And the thirsty bear leads forth her cubs to lap the tide,
And the native woman, grinding acorns in potholes by the river,
Scoops up the water in the hollow of her hand to quench her thirst.

Then, lo, another day, another race, another world!
The white man, he who loves power more than beauty,
The ravager of nature, the destroyer of the forest,
The slayer of all wild things, of trees and flowers and birds,
Cometh unto the land, and, glorying in his might,
Lays waste all things most fair.
He buildeth cities and the joyous streams he leadeth into murky sewers,
Yea, the sweet springs he polluteth and hideth beneath the ground.
Where once were flower-starred banks and sighing trees
He buildeth drear walls and sad unlovely temples.
But the still small voice of the brooklet aye whispers unto him,
And the mute appeals of thirsty brutes still clamor for the life-giving water.
Though the deer and the mountain lion no longer roam abroad,
The helpless beasts by man subdued look up into his face
And silent beg for drink.

Then somewhere in the great cold heart of man
Awakens the spirit of tenderness and compassion,
And the selfish monster arouses out of his lethargy,
And the God-spark kindles love in him,
And he knows that the beast is his brother;
Aye, he knows that there is but one family and one Father,
And he loves the helpless ones and stretches out a hand to them.
Come, come, O children, little brothers and great,
Let us drink together, for this is the holy sacrament,
This is the communion service in which we all may join,
This, the life-giving water, O my brothers, little birds and faithful dogs and patient horses,
The same sweet water that quenches your thirst and mine,
Drink of this holy fountain reared in the midst of the sordid city,
Drink that you may be appeased and satisfied,
Drink, for such is the will of God, my brothers,
And he who thinks of the least of the children of the all-merciful Father,
Aye he shall be rewarded with the gift of love from on high,
And the bond of fellowship shall gather him in with its benediction.