ContentsAs dawn crept in on noiseless feet
To listen quietly
The leaves were whispering to the tree.
They told her plaintively
Jack Frost had visited that night
And in his cruel way
Had injured their poor tender hearts
Ere he had gone away.
Then kindly Sol came strolling by
And kissed away the tears
That stood upon their blushing cheeks
And quieted their fears.
Bluff wind dashed up all jubilant
And said "How do you do?"
If you will dance a bit today
I'll play a tune for you.
He drew his bow across the boughs
(They were his fiddle strings)
And started in, as is his style,
To play the wildest things.
They danced and danced to lively tunes
In joy jumped up and down
For they had donned their festive garb
Red-gold and russet-brown.
Old winter blustered in to say
They must be put to death,
And cowering at his attitude
In fear they held their breath.
Then shivering before the lash
Of cruel tongue and whip,
Until exhausted set adrift
Like some rudderless ship.
Or crazily to flutter down
As wounded birds in flight
To be there sobbing quietly
Throughout the lonely night.
Then lying there in grief and pain
One shudder last they gave
Ere down a phantom trail they slipped
To drop into their grave.
- Beulah B. Pearson
(From a hand-written draft.)
While wandering through Death's garden,
I found a little flower
Which claimed my waning interest
And held it hour by hour.
It blossomed in my weary heart
And shed a perfume, sweet,
Till Lo! behold I found I had
A tree of strength complete.
- Beulah B. Pearson
(published in the Sunday Oregon Journal)
Forgetfulness would be so sweet
If I could only, only meet
It in the dead of night
When thoughts come tauntingly to me
Each one to sting my memory
As I am seeking light.
Each morn I straighten after pain
As flowers after dew or rain
To meet him with a smile;
Though doubt has severed peace of mind
There, still, are little ties that bind --
Oh God, make it worthwhile.
- Beulah B. Pearson
A spark fell into needles dead,
Burst into flames of sunset red.
It licked a tree that stood nearby
And darted to its top so high.
Then on into the scrubby pine
Devoured them and in just no time
Fanned briskly by the mountain breeze
It raced into the virgin trees.
A demon it became by now
Searing trunk and burning bough.
As firebrands shot from tree to tree
Quicker than the eye can see
Against the sky there was a glow
Cast by this blazing inferno
The forest's wild, before it's breath
Dashed madly on or fell in death.
Firefighters worked with fevered haste
To check the blaze, prevent the waste
Of virgin timber,beauty, game
But all their efforts were so vain
Before this raging torent red
From tiny spark and needle bed.
The workman fought with sweated brow
to save their homes, endangered now
One man was crushed beneath a tree trunk,
His broken body deaply sunk
'Neath what had been a monarch tall
A sheet of flames soon covered all
And as those homes deserted stood
It ate them up like tinder wood
And raced down to the river side
Where it was checked by waters wide.
All this was caused by a cigarette
Tossed carelessly with no regret
For virgin timber seared and charred
And for the landscape badly scarred
For death of game and mankind
For grieved and homeless left behind
You can see the warnings every where
Yet some folks do not seem to care
That devastation, ruin, heartbreak
Is left within their careless wake.
When ere you see a blazing sign
Stop and consider while there's time
Because you may start that fire
Please help prevent the forest fire.
- Beulah B. Pearson
(Probably written for a contest -- from hand
written draft.)
I look into the embers
And see your face aglow
I see it out the window
As folks go to and fro.
I see it in the raindrops
That fall beside my door
And in the patterns of the rug
Which lies upon the floor.
No matter where I go I see
Your eyes and then your face.
But your handclasp is elusive
I can't find it any place.
-Beulah B. Pearson
A heart to let and you can bet
It's built of sturdy stuff;
Its last tenant, on mischief bent,
Just treated it quite rough.
A heart to let and don't forget
It's cozy and quite clean;
Although the paint has cracked a bit
And lost some of its sheen.
A heart to let where two folks met
And threw away the key.
The one broke out and left without
The other going free.
A heart to let that's free of debt
No one has claims you see.
It's mended up and you can sup
There, if you care, with me.
- Beulah B. Pearson
I've traveled the road to Heartbreak House.
It's a rough and lonely way.
I hope no other soul must tread
The path I have trod today.
You pass the sign "Lost Confidence"
And the village of Broken Vows
Where many lonely hearts reside
With saddened tear-wet brows.
You drink from the well of Misery
Where Memory pulls the rope
And journey through the Vale of Tears
To the Valley of Lost Hope.
Then down the Trail of Broken Dreams
To the banks of The River Sorrow
And on across the Bridge of Sighs
to the Land of No Tomorrow.
- Beulah B. Pearson
With strangled hopes she trod strange land,
A broken heart clasped in her hand.
Along her path big boulder strewn,
Rough boulders which falsehood had hewn.
She stumbled then caught up again
To see a smoother, broader plain;
Although the sky was yet obscure
She knew the rest she could endure.
Now when she looks into small faces
And feel her little ones' embraces,
With trusting eyes her only sun,
She knows her battle is half won.
- Beulah B. Pearson
There was a man lived next to me
Who had a Ford -- a Model T.
He bought it back in twenty two
And kept it looking just like new.
He'd brush and polish, scrub and clean,
Kept it well filled with gasoline.
He loved that car, cherished it, too.
That's what he did, this man I knew.
And thought that he would always be
Contented with his Model T.
But men are fickle at the best
He'd look around and see the rest
In nicer, newer cars than he
Still he stuck to his Model T.
In '38 there came along
A Model A just for a song.
He argued with himself all day
But finally took the Model A.
Next day I saw him out behind
As if he'd something on his mind.
I wondered why he looked so sad.
A newer car should make him glad.
And then his wife whispered to me
"He's grieving for his Model T".
As time passed on as time will do ,
He found his troubles were so few
The Model A just won his heart.
In fact he loved it from the start.
But deep down in his heart he kept
A corner and he sometimes wept
A tiny bit in memory of
The Model T, his first true love.
- Beulah B. Pearson
The clock can't stop because of me,
It must always keep going.
No matter how my bones may ache
I must be up and doing.
I'd like my breakfast served in bed.
Toast, fruit and coffee steaming'
But there's a dress to make for Sue
I must get at the seaming.
If time gave me a little gift
I'd just have to reserve it.
I can't have breakfast in my bed --
There is no one to serve it.
- Beulah B. Pearson
"How do you write a poem?"
A friend ask of me one day.
"I couldn't think of a thing to write
If I thought till my hair was gray."
Then to this friend I gently said,
"A poet never thinks,
There's just a lot of stuff in his head
That's all done up in kinks."
"When he gets an inspiration,
That's when a knot comes loose,
And he needn't try to forget it
For there isn't any use."
"So he sits down at the table"
I said to this kind friend
"On a paper he places a pencil
And the poems runs out at the end."
- Beulah B. Pearson
As I gazed out of the window
Through a spray of silver mist,
I saw a lake of midnight blue
Which pale moonbeams had kissed.
The moon was cradled on a cloud
The stars hung all around it --
I've searched for this so many times
But never have I found it.
Each star was just a diamond
In the water down below --
Where I was I cannot tell you
For you really shouldn't know.
But I gazed out into heaven
And forgot the world and then
Someone said, "It's time to go now,"
And I'm back to earth again.
And I found that I was leaning
Then upon the window sill.
At two A.M. this morning
In an old and noisy mill
That the lake was just a mill pond
And no silver on the blue
But don't tell me that I imagined
Someone there that looked like you.
- Beulah B. Pearson
I'M JUST A ROUGH OLD LUMBERJACK
I'm so out of peace, it's a disgrace
In the city here I know
Just a lumberjack, from away, way back
Where tall timbers grow.
I'm just an old moss-back use to the snow and rain --
And I've got no learnin' so I'll be returnin'
Back to the hills again.
1st Chorus:
I'm just a rough old, tough old, moss-back lumberjack,
Longin' for the "timber" call.
I wanta hear the music of saw and ax --
I wanta see the tall trees fall;
I wanta drink my whiskey like a real He-Man
When I go out on a spree.
Rather be with the cooties than with these city snooties --
They're more friendly to me.
2nd Verse:
Wanta feel the breeze come through the trees
I'm tired of this city air;
Gonna wash my face just any old place
When I get back there.
Gonna sleep in my shirt, yes, whenever I please
And let my whisker grow while I'm makin' the dough
Cuttin' the old pine trees.
2nd Chorus:
I wanta eat my breakfast in the old cook-shack
As the sun comes o're the hill'
I wanta see the smoke from the old smoke-stack
I wanta hear that whistle shrill.
I wanta feel a Kant-Hook in my hand again
Now, that ain't a muley cow.
Just let me be a logger or let me be a dogger
Up where the pine trees grow.
- Beulah B. Pearson
Dated August 15, 1938, with the following notation:
"This little western was born out here in the heart of the lumber industry this last winter just seeing so many poor old lumberjacks out of work during the strikes and shut downs of the big mills here."
IN MEDFORD GROWS FOR YOU, A ROSE
"In Medford grows for you, a rose,"
The doctor said one day
As he went on about his calls
Along Hospital Way.
A single rose, yet no one knows
What that rose meant to me.
To gaze into its pastel heart
And not, eternity.
Always at hand, there on my stand --
Fresh, in my water glass
It gave each hour a gentle shove
As laggingly it passed.
It said, "I'm here just for your cheer
So let your eyes devour me;
And rest your heart within my heart.
It's always soft and flowery."
And as each petal drooped and fell
It still some comfort lent
For consolation stole within
And brought my heart content.
He's on his toes, the man who knows
That patient's heart needs healing.
And that he, also, has a heart
Is sometimes worth revealing.
- Beulah B. Pearson