Fort Worth daily gazette. (Fort Worth, Tex.) 1882-1891, 1888-03-25
STEVENSON AS A POET,
AutObiogrsphFc Character OF His Work
ga ChiId's Garden Of Verses"
Emb3dles His Own Recollf ctions.
Boys Idea of the wind-His Poems c
berries of Photographs OF Ohilaish
Sensations.


sspsationf.
Written for the Gazette.
In sll the writings OF Robert Louis
Stevenson 1t is his own pervading per-
sonslity that gives the m their Irresistible
charm. It is his own Unborn spirit of
adventure, and sympathy with q rugged
outdoor wandering life, that makes
"Treasure Island" a classic to be placed
beside "R)binson Crusoe;" and it is his
profound imaginative sense of the posi-
billties for good and evil in every mans
soul that renders "Dr. JekYll and Mr..
Hyde" such strong snd moving piece
of fiction. His essays, even Biographical
and literary, have the personal note; they
are not sternly critical, they are the ina-
pressi1ns of rarely sensitive mind, de-
livered in style, fresh, keen, ilumi1At-
ing beyond any writer of the day.
Although he is still under forty, CON.
paratively young man, much Of his prose
is made up Of personal "reminiscences,
youthful memories and past experiences.
writer Of such prose is by nature a
poet, aud Stevenson has not only the
poetic nature bat the gift Of song, which
is sometimes wanting in these "warbiers
OF melodious prose-"
"A Child's Garden of Verses" is one
of the most remarkable productions of
this generation. AS writer in the Lon-
don Spectator ssys, at embodies the
chlld's feeling, but embodies them in a
form far beyond the reach of child 8
power OF expression"
This beautiful poem illustrates the
point:
TIE WIND.
Isaw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass
o wind, s-blowing all day long,
wind, that sings SO loud song
: saw the different things you did,
But always you Yourself you hid,
felt you push, 1 heard you call,
could not see yourself at all
o wind, ALLOWING all day long,
wind, that sings so loud song
0 you that are SO strong ami cold,
D blower, are you young or old?
Are you beast of field and tree,
Or !ust stronger child tnan me?
wiRd, blowing all day long,
Wiad, that sings go loud tong!
This Is not only a true poem, but 6
| poem that expresses the child's wonder
at the innate force of the wind in words,
which, though simple enough, are far
beyond the compass of a.child's imagtns-
ton. Or, again, take this admirable
little poem on child's msrch to bed In
the wintry night, and notice how far be-
yend the child's power of expression is
the verse, though it exactly touches the
heart of an imaginative child's feelings:
SHADOW MARCH.
All round the houee Is the jst-blsck night,
Il stares Though the window pane;
1t crawls In the corners, hiding from the light,
And 1t moves with the moving flame.
Eow my little heart goes a-heating like drum,
With the breath Of the Boyle in my hair,
and all round the candle the crooked shadows
And go marching along up the stair.
The shadow Of the balusters, the shadow of the
lamp,
The shadow Of the child that goes to bed
All the wicked shadows coming. tramp, tramp,
tramp,
With the black night owe head.
How he lifts the child's inarticulate
thought into the heavens when he sings
of the dumb lead soldier, whom the child
is supposed to have buried 10 the grass.
"He has seen the stFrry hours
And the springiDg Of the fiowers,S
And the fairy things that pass
In the forest OF the grass.
Ia the silence he has heard
Talking bee and lady bird,
And the bitterly has flown
Ger him as he lay alone.
Not . word will he disclose,
Not q word Of all he knows,
must lay him on the shelf,
And make up the tale myself"
The following Is perhaps one Of the
most charming pieces in the book:
THE LAND OF STORY BOOKS.
At evening Wi en- the lamp is lit,
Around the IRE my parents cit;
They sit at home al d talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now with my little gun crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in nay hunters camp lie,
And play al books that have read.
TIL It 10 time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry soliiudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
see the others far away
As II in fire lit camp they lay,
And l, like an Indian scout,
Around their party proWled about,
So, when my nurse comes IN for me,
Home 1 return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
Atmy dear land Of Story.bcoks.
The volume is full of the most delight
full interpretations of the child's spirit
and the child's fsncies; the verses quoted
are but random samples. 1t is 8 book
that stands alone, successful venture
in q new field. The whole idea OF ga
this passage from one Of Mr.. Stevenson's
essays: Gin the child's world Of dim
sensation, play is all in all Making be-
lieve' is the gist of his whole life, and he
cannot so much as take walk except in
chsracter-. remember as though 1t
were yesterday, the expansion OF spirit,
the dignity and sslfreliance, that came with
8 psir of mustachios in burnt cork, even
when there WAS none to see. Children
are even content to forego what We call
realities, and prefer the shadow to the
substance. When they might be speak
ing intelligently together, chatter gibber-
ish by the hour, and are quite happy be-
cause they are making believe to speak
French"
As Edmund Gasse says with most OF
US sour memories ere like breath on
the glass, like the shape Of broken wave,
but Mr.. Stevenson, alone amongst US all,
appears to have kept deguerreo-types OF
the whole series of his childish seuss-
TONS"
In his last volume Of poems, "Under-
woods" Stevenson appears as older and
h. frT&