Listen to the _wise_-horn, desperate-to-_advise_-horn,

Listen to the _fast_-horn, _kill_-horn, _blast_-horn....

# To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper. #

Far away the Rachel-Jane

Not defeated by the horns

Sings amid a hedge of thorns:--

Love and life,

Eternal youth,

Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,

Dew and glory,

Love and truth.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.

# To be brawled in the beginning with a

snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant. #

The mufflers open on a score of cars

With wonderful thunder,




Listen to the gold-horn...



And all of the tunes, till the night comes down

On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town.

# To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune

as the first five lines. #

Then far in the west, as in the beginning,

Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating,

Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn,

Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn....

# This section beginning sonorously,

ending in a languorous whisper. #

They are hunting the goals that they understand:--

San Francisco and the brown sea-sand.

My goal is the mystery the beggars win.

I am caught in the web the night-winds spin.

The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me.

I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree.

And now I hear, as I sit all alone

In the dusk, by another big Santa Fe stone,

The souls of the tall corn gathering round

And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground.

Listen to the tale the cotton-wood tells.

Listen to the wind-mills, singing o'er the wells.

Listen to the whistling flutes without price

Of myriad prophets out of paradise.

Harken to the wonder

That the night-air carries....

Listen... to... the... whisper...

Of... the... prairie... fairies

Singing o'er the fairy plain:--

# To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song--

but very slowly. #

"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.

Love and glory,

Stars and rain,

Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet...."

The Firemen's Ball

Section One

"Give the engines room,

Give the engines room."

Louder, faster

The little band-master

Whips up the fluting,

Hurries up the tooting.

He thinks that he stands,

# To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass

of fire-engines pumping. #

The reins in his hands,

In the fire-chief's place

In the night alarm chase.

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