Evening star., 1924-07-23
THIS AND THAT
BY G. Il. TRACEWELL.


"A home on the rolling deep,
"nere the scattered waters rave,
ana the winds their revels keep,
Llke an eagle Gagged I pine
On this dull unchanging shore;
on, give me the flashing brine,
Ihe spray and the tempest's roar"
Lacking the oceans wave, the spray,
and the tempest's roar, the city dwell
Ter must be content with sprinkIing
the Iawn.
1t might seem great come down
from rolling deep and flashing brine
10 coiling rubber hose and misty
spray yet the main thing Of both
| Is the same.
Water.
WI Whether one gets it where the scat
they rush out of fifty feet of gar
den hose, the mystery and charm
| is much the same
r,ars dhose eo;sa Gagged eagles who pine for
more oolsterous scenes may be con-
tent for a while, yet, with the hum
Bile back yard task OF watering the
grass grass In In the evening, during the
by the benevolent government.
| Watering the yard, if entered into
IN the right spirit, is not task at
1t may become, looked at rightly,
something of a rite, wherein the
high priest who presides at the noz-
zie communes with the heart of
nature mature Or or; to steal Harry Leon Will
| where men are men"
| The sprinkler. rightly oriented to
his task, becomes one with all wis
| mist that floats over his yard, senses
the mystery of great spaces of water
| in little, and comes about as near
| communing with the infinite as any
Does this seem a great deal to
| be doing merely while sprinkling the
yard? Why. back of any one calmly
| going. about a dreary task may be
ish the world. And if not that, then
| thoughts that lift a mere drudgery
| not only to pleasant diversion.
| but to greater things.
Surely your government watchman,
sitting in the halls of our great
| public buildings day after day, must
| have dreams he never tells to the
| world.
He does not sit there like an in
! sensible clod, from 9 o'clock in the
| morning to 4:3O in the afternoon,
| merely cooling his heels through the
hours, waiting for the time to go
home.
be a superior wisdom. Surely he
sits there brooding over the woes
of the world, and some day Will
produce a poem that will make
men sit up and take notice, If not
So stands your true sprinkler in
his back yard.
The base, mechanical detail of con-
Meeting the hose to the faucet has
been attended to. the Tightening OF
the washers looked after; all is in
readiness for the real job of water
ing the lawn and howers.
The true sprinkler both stands and
sits at his work
Your ordinary waterer only STANDS.
He makes a pure task out OF IT,
The connoisseur stands TO the JOB
at first, too, but when he begins to
tire-he sits down. Nothing could be
simpler. He just sits down on the
X X
The detail of taking his weight off
his feet relieves his brain, releasing
it for flights into the ether. After all,
radio waves are not more marvellous
than thought waves.
Thought is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.
While the sprinkler is lulled by
the rhythmic swish of the water, as
he shoots it over sweet peas, nastur-
tiums, phlox' roses, zinnlas' there
sea, the booming roar of the surf,
the scudding white clouds in the blue,
blue sky, the salt tang of the wind.
X x
Far on the horizon stands a sail.
just where the sky and ocean meet.
Near in lies a steamer, trail OF
| black smoke arising.
How the wind beats down the
beach, rolling the narrow iron hoops
| of the children along the boaroWalk
| without any assistance from thGia h
stick now and then to keep them
on the boards. Faster and faster
| spin the hoops, until boys are lett
getting nearer and nearer the eoge.
until suddenly they dive off the walk
and plunge down into the sand
Yellow fiddler-crabs scurry across
the sand, beating it sideways to their
holes, their pop-eyes standing up on
stalks, as they survey the world on
all side at once.
Great waves, curling green, pound
into the shore, breaking with a roar
| of froth to scatter out into roam
fecked carpet, which rushes high
upon the beach, then receoeS, leaNIhs
a f1eck of seaweed and shells along
its edge to mark its progress until
it shall do better next time.
The feel of the sang on bare feet.
the sharp, pleasant blowing Of the
cool air, the pleasant odors from the
brine, the sense of being alone in
great world all ones own-all this,
and much more, comes back to the
sprinkler.
X
Let no one, then, confined to his
city task of sprinkling the back yard.
bemoan his fate. My dreams take
me back to the seashore, yours may
transport you to the "ol swimmin'
hole" or great river where the
canoes float yet. =
Wherever water is, there man finds
| his sport and his dreams, An ocean
compressed becomes sea, and q
sea a lake, and a lake river, and
| a river a brook, and the brook-a
stream of water out of a hose!
InI C,~a~n0xuo~