Chapter 5

Ere Pan's pipes skirled
To the gay young world
    The leaves on the trees
            were as one;
In buds softly curled
And when fully unfurled
    They were round, just as round
                as the sun!

Then Pan came along
With his laughter and song
    And his fancy the round
            leaves caught:
When shadows grew long
He plotted deep wrong,
    And, oh, what havoc
            he wrought!

Each fairy and sprite
With a glow-worm for light
    He told to assemble
            at dark;
And he promised them quite
An adventurous night
    If unto his scheme they
            would hark.

The sun, he declared,
Too heavily shared
    In all that went on in
            the land.
Too hotly it glared,
Too brazenly stared
    At the doings of Pan's
            gay band.

Why not, so Pan pleaded,
(And well he was heeded)
    Do something the sun
        to displease.
The thing that was needed
He said 'twas conceded
    Was punishment for
        the trees.

For in bog and in brake,
By stream and by lake
    Their circular leaves told
        the story:
They might sizzle and bake
And be burned at the stake
    Yet roundly they sang the
        sun's glory.

"It's time for a change,"
Pan exclaimed, "Let's arrange
    "To do some nocturnal
            clipping;
"We'll carve figures strange
"On the leaves as we range
    "Through the forests playfully
            snipping!"

Don't ask me, my dears
How they found enough shears
    For sprites know a great deal
            of magic;
And please have no fears,
For from all that appears
    The thing that they did was
            not tragic!

Before daylight arrived
Their task they contrived
    To finish, though tired
            and warm,
And each leaf was deprived
(Though of course it survived)
    Of its perfect, circular
            form.

Now as Pan had directed,
And fully expected
    The designs were models
            of beauty,
And the more he inspected
The more he reflected
    The sprites had done well
            their duty.

One tree was entangled
With stars five-angled—
    The sweet-gum, towering
            and gray;
And another was spangled
With ribbons that dangled—
    The sandbar willow
            today!

This tree was cleft
By elf-shears deft
    Into locust and ash
            leaf pairs;
And that was bereft
Until all that was left
    Was the loblolly pine's
            stiff hairs.

And another leaf clan
Was carved like a fan—
    The poplar and linden
            trees.
And the hand of Pan
Was itself a plan
    For the buckeyes and
            hickories.

Some were given a trim
Of the merriest whim—
    Sassafras, tulip and
            haw.
And some looked a bit grim
As they swung on their limb
    For their edges were notched
            like a saw!

Then the good sun came out,
Putting fairies to rout
    And he notes the new leaf
            styles:
Did he growl, did he shout?
Did he frown, did he pout?
    No! He looked on the changes
            with smiles.

"Well done!" he told Pan,
"They'll be pleasing to man
    "Who soon will be lord
            of the earth.
You've my thanks, not my ban,
"Change them back—if you can!"
    And he chuckled with
            solar mirth.

So now straight as a bee,
Go! Search out a tree
    And look at the leaves for yourselves;
And I think you'll agree
When you see what you see
    That thanks are due Pan
            and his elves!

April 25, 1931.

The miniature leaves, before they are grown old and expansive are easily carried around in a small pocket notebook. I have some and they interest all to whom I show them: The Alnus Incana, soft maple, Populs Deltoides (v. monilifera), American elm, tulip tree—strangest leaf of all, I think—cut-leaf maple, red oak, evonymus, yellow wood, and white ash. How did they come to their definite shapes and how are these passed down for ages with little change?

Selected Poems from Rough Edges and All

Call to the Hills

from Rough Edges And All, 1930

The Woodsman

from Rough Edges And All, 1930

August 7, 1930

I was thinking of paths and trails tonight; trails of the golden hills of Camp Funston and Fort Riley, where I have just been, and so by leaps of years to paths that used to be, but are not now, in the vicinity of 1684 Van Buren St., St. Paul, Minn.