A TOAD AND A SONG
There had been a period of aimless talk in the rear car after the Miner
had concluded, but this resolved itself finally into a lively discussion
regarding the probable quality of the hidden country round about. Some
declared that there existed only the abomination of desolation while
others spoke of the amazing wealth concealed beneath the surface of the
earth and asserted that neither the Land of Ophir nor Pennsylvania could
endure comparison with the region in which they were now marooned.
"Is this place in the midst of the ore-producing or the coal region?"
some one asked, "or is it in neither? How about it, Mr. Miner?"
"I don't know," responded the Miner, "I only know that if it's coal,
it's better than metal. When you find coal, you've got something. When
you find silver or gold, you don't know how hard it may be to extract it
from its rock or how soon the find will peter out. Even bonanzas peter
out. When you find gold or silver, you're just flirtin'. When you strike
a coal bed you've got married."
There was a laugh at the Miner's simile and then a reflection from
another seeker after information, Mrs. Livingston this time.
"I wonder which is the older, the ore or the coal? It would be
interesting to know."
"I imagine, madam," said the Professor, as he was only known, "that the
ore deposits, formed by volcanic upheavals, far antedate those of coal,
originating from vegetable deposits, great forests, fern-like forests it
may be, which had their being long after earth had become productive.
Besides, as I understand, a toad has been taken from a coal mine and the
toad, thus discovered, belongs to a modern order of batrachians."
"Was the toad alive?" was asked.
"So I understand," said the Professor. "It was in a comatose condition
but revived when brought into the air and light."
There was much comment among the party and then an idea came suddenly to
the Young Lady, who was by no means lacking in sentiment or fancy. "I
wonder," she mused, "what that toad was thinking of during all the
centuries of his dark imprisonment? Mr. Poet," she broke out, "You are
to retire to the end of the car and, for one hour, at least, no word may
you utter. I will find you paper and pencil now, and you may not speak
again until you have written a poem telling of the sensations of that
toad when he was restored to light and air again."
The Poet was gallant. "One cannot do well always under duress," was his
response, "but one should certainly make an effort, under the
circumstances. I'll do my best, at least."
And so, amid the laughter of the passengers, he was hustled off to a
corner and left to his fancies and his struggle. The conversation went
on and the sufferer in the corner was almost forgotten save, of course,
by the Young Lady. It was a little after the hour's end, when he
emerged, exhibiting a rather graceful diffidence. And this is what he
read:
THE TOAD FROM THE MINES
I am a toad,
Squat and grimy and rough and brown,
I come from a queer abode,
From down, down, down,
Where, for centuries, no light
Had fallen on my sight,
Until, with sudden shock,
Parted the rock,
Yielded the stony clamps
And blazed in my dim eyes the miners' lamps!
What view is now unfurled!
It is another world
From that I left
Centuries ago, to which they've brought me
Since the black rock was cleft
Where thus they caught me.
Centuries ago, one day,
I was upon a river bank, at play.
Nature was very fair;
I fed on buzzing insects of the air,
Beneath tall palms that grew beside the stream
In which huge monsters bathed. It did not seem
A world like this at all. It was more grand.
The mighty waters washed a teeming land
And life was great and fervid. Suddenly
Upheaved the land, upheaved the awful sea;
The earth was riven; toppling forests bent,
To sink and disappear in that vast rent!
Down, down, down.
The landscape plunged from light and life away
And now again, to me alone, 'tis day.
How odd it all appears!
Encysted in the rock ten thousand years,
I am a stranger here; I cannot praise
Those who released me; mine are not your ways.
In this new life I have no enterprise;
The sunshine in my eyes
But gives me pain.
Put me in some niche of the rock again,
It is the only fit abode
For me--a prehistoric toad.
There was a buzz of applause as the Poet concluded. Then up rose Colonel
Livingston.
"The Toad's experience has made me sentimental and dreamy of mood.
Personally, I'd like to have my savage breast soothed by some music.
Has anybody a piano? No? Well, we can get along without one. Will not
some one sing? Who can sing? Mr. Stranger,"--and he addressed himself to
a recent and as yet unrecognized addition to the party--"you seem to
enter into the spirit of the occasion and to enjoy our fancies indulged
here in this, our preposterously direful strait. Will you sing for us?"
[Music:
1. We are the Dreamers of Dreams,
We're the creators of fancies; ...
We are whatever it seems, ...
The owners of reason that dances.
We are the Dreamers of Dreams.
2. We tread the paths that are vagrant,
And we do the deeds that are flagrant, ...
But ever, without any goad, ...
We find our way back to the road.
We are the Dreamers of Dreams.
3. For we are the Dreamers of Dreams, etc.
]
And to the amazement of all, the Stranger did not hesitate a moment.
"Certainly," said he. "I believe in fancies." And this is what he sang:
THE DREAMERS OF DREAMS
We are the Dreamers of Dreams;
We are the creatures of fancies;
We are--whatever it seems,--
The owners of reason that dances,
We are the Dreamers of Dreams.
We tread in the paths that are vagrant,
And we do the deeds that are flagrant;
But ever without any goad,
We find our way back to the road.
For we are the Dreamers of Dreams;
We are the creatures of fancies;
We are--whatever it seems,--
The owners of reason that dances,
We are the Dreamers of Dreams.