And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil

And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.

In bright white steele they were seated round

And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.

And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high

Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: --

# Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand

harps and voices". #

"Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;

Never again will he hoo-doo you,

Never again will he hoo-doo you."

# With growing deliberation and joy. #

Then along that river, a thousand miles

The vine-snared trees fell down in files.

Pioneer angels cleared the way

For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,

For sacred capitals, for temples clean.

Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.

# In a rather high key -- as delicately as possible. #

There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed

A million boats of the angels sailed

With oars of silver, and prows of blue

And silken pennants that the sun shone through.

'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation.

Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation

And on through the backwoods clearing flew: --

# To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices". #

"Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.

Never again will he hoo-doo you.

Never again will he hoo-doo you."

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men,

And only the vulture dared again

By the far, lone mountains of the moon

To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune: --

# Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper. #

"Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,

Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.

Mumbo . . . Jumbo . . . will . . . hoo-doo . . . you."

This poem, particularly the third section, was suggested by an allusion

in a sermon by my pastor, F. W. Burnham, to the heroic life and death

of Ray Eldred. Eldred was a missionary of the Disciples of Christ

who perished while swimming a treacherous branch of the Congo.

See "A Master Builder on the Congo", by Andrew F. Hensey,

published by Fleming H. Revell.

The Santa Fe Trail

(A Humoresque)

I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?"

He answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name,

lark, or thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane."

I. In which a Racing Auto comes from the East

# To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune. #

This is the order of the music of the morning: --

First, from the far East comes but a crooning.

The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.

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

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

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