Rock-ravens launch their proud black sails upon the day. The wild horses troop back to their pastures. The poplar-trees watch beside the irrigation-ditches. Orioles, whose nests sway in the cotton-wood trees by the ditch-side, begin to twitter. All shy things, breathless, watch The thin white skirts of dawn, The dancer of the sky, Who trips daintily down the mountain-side And a red-bird, dipped in sunrise, cracks from a poplar's top His exultant whip above a silver world. THE DESERT She is a nun, withdrawing behind her veil; With opals at her throat, Rubies at her wrists. And topaz about her ankles. Her breasts are like the evening and the day stars. She sits upon her throne of light, proud and silent, The Sun is her servitor, the stars her attendants, She sings a song unto her own ears, Solitary but sufficient; The song of her being. She is a naked dancer, dancing upon Irwin Russell Irwin Russell was born, June 3, 1853, at Port Gibson, Mississippi, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar. His restless nature and wayward disposition drove him from one place to another, from dissipation to dissipation, from a not too rugged health to an utter breakdown. In July, 1879, he was forced to leave New York, working his way down to New Orleans on a coast steamer, trying to rehabilitate himself as reporter on the New Orleans Picayune. But illness pursued him and the following December Russell died, cut off, in the midst of his promise, before he had reached his twenty-seventh year. Although Russell did not take his poetry seriously and though the bulk of it is small, its influence has been large. Thomas Nelson Page and Joel Chandler Harris have acknowledged their indebtedness to him; the creator of Uncle Remus writing, "Irwin Russell was among the first-if not the very first-of Southern writers to appreciate the literary possibilities of the negro character." He entered their life, appreciated their fresh turns of thought, saw things with that peculiar mixture of reverence and unconscious humor that is so integral a part of negro songs and spirituals. Blessing the Dance" and "The Song of the Banjo" (from Russell's operetta Christmas-Night in the Quarters, possibly his best known work) are excellent examples; faithful renderings of the mind of the old-fashioned, simple and sententious child of the plantation. In the latter poem the old story of Noah is told, with delightful additions, from the colorful angle of the darky; local in its setting, revealing in its quaint psychology. A collection of his poems appeared, with an introduction by Joel Chandler Harris, in 1888. In 1917, a more inclusive volume, beautifully printed, with illustrations by E. W. Kemble, was published by The Century Co.; it was entitled ChristmasNight in the Quarters. Russell died, in an obscure boarding house in New Orleans, December 23, 1879. BLESSING THE DANCE (From Christmas-Night in the Quarters) O Mahsr! let dis gath'rin fin' a blessin' in yo' sight! Don't jedge us hard fur what we does-yo' know it's Chrismus-night; An' all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right's we kin. We labors in de vin'ya'd, wukin' hard an' wukin' true; Remember, Mahsr,-min' dis now,-de sinfullness ob sin Is 'pendin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it in; An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing, A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing. It seems to me—indeed it do-I mebbe mout be wrongDat people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along; Des dance bekase dey's happy-like de birds hops in de trees, De pine-top fiddle soundin' to be bowin' ob de breeze. We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king; We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing; But 'cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we knows, An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flower bekase it ain't de rose. Yes, bless us, please, Sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night; Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right; An' let de blessin's stay wid us, untel we comes to die, An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky! Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we's a-gwine to jine 'em soon: Our voices we's a-trainin' fur to sing de glory tune; We's ready when you wants us, an' it ain't no matter when. O Mahsr! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home! Amen. DE FUST BANJO Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. Keep silence fur yo' betters! don't you heah de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter-ladies, listen! About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin': "Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn Fur Noah tuk de "Herald," an' he read de ribber column An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin' timber-patches, An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah Natchez. Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'. Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattleAn' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thun der rattle. |