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....

# To be sung or read with great speed. #
Hark to the _pace_-horn, _chase_-horn, _race_-horn.
And the holy veil of the dawn has gone.
Swiftly the brazen car comes on.
It burns in the East as the sunrise burns.
I see great flashes where the far trail turns.
Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons.
It drinks gasoline from big red flagons.
Butting through the delicate mists of the morning,
It comes like lightning, goes past roaring.
It will hail all the wind-mil