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SONGS FROM 
 THE SAGE BRUSH 
 
 BY 
 KATHER1NE FALL PETTEY 
 
 TUCSON: 
 STATE CONSOLIDATED PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 1910 
 

 COPYRIGHTED 
 1910 
 
 GLA268301 
 

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CONTENTS. 
 
 Contentment 7 
 
 A Hunting Song 8 
 
 Happiness 10 
 
 Vagabonds 11 
 
 (Reproduced by Courtesy Out Door L,ifc.) 
 
 At Guaymas 13 
 
 (Reproduced by Courtesy Sunset Magazine.) 
 
 Sahuaros 14 
 
 Judge Not 16 
 
 The Prospector's Toast 17 
 
 To Omar Khayam 19 
 
 Dolores of the Placita 20 
 
 A Song of the Plains 21 
 
 Late Flowers 22 
 
 Beasts of the Fields 23 
 
 Paths 25 
 
 The Secret 26 
 
 A Grievance of the West 27 
 
 Alone 28 
 
 (Reproduced by Courtesy West Coast Magazine.) 
 
 Old Tige— My Pard 2*J 
 
 (Reproduced by Courtesy Out Door Life.) 
 
 Morning on the Desert 33 
 
 The Puncher in New York 35 
 
 The Embers' Requiem 36 
 
 The Invincible 38 
 
 The Exile 30 
 
The Sun Worshiper 41 
 
 A Lover Loves All the World 42 
 
 Wanderers from Arcadia 43 
 
 The Aristocratic Orphan 45 
 
 Idleness 46 
 
 Frederick Remington (an Acrostic) 47 
 
 The Aztec Descendant 48 
 
 The Cowpunch and James Whitcomb Riley 50 
 
 Three Friends 51 
 
 Ladies of the Canyon 52 
 
 (Reproduced by Courtesy Sunset Magazine.) 
 
 The Cowpunch Converted 53 
 
 Modjeska and F. Marion Crawford 56 
 
 The Women That Don't Fit In 57 
 
 The Meteor's Message 59 
 
 The Dance of Chonita 60 
 
 An Interlude 61 
 
 (Reproduced by Courtesy West Coast Magazine.) 
 
 Destiny 62 
 
 General Porfirio Diaz (an Acrostic of Appreciation) 63 
 
 In New Mexico 64 
 
 Just a Stickin' Aroun' 65 
 
 The White Sea 67 
 
 To Have Found a Flower 6S 
 
 A Prayer — An Answer 69 
 
(Contentment 
 
 A little 'dobe casa in the Plainsland heat — 
 
 A wife and brown-eyed baby, a guitar so sweet; 
 
 A chili patch, a burro and a goat or two — 
 
 This world's a good old place to live, I think, don't you? 
 
Jb Hunting SaxiQ 
 
 Come along Dad, with your gun and dog, 
 
 And we'll tramp the wide plains over. 
 
 We'll hunt the cottontail, sly young thief, 
 
 That eats all the ranchman's clover. 
 
 For the day is fresh and the air is fine, 
 
 And the warmth of the sunshine's just like wine. 
 
 Come along Dad, I can hear the quail; 
 
 I can hear the quail a-calling. 
 
 AVe'll come back home with a bag of game 
 
 When the twilight soft is falling. 
 
 O, the night so fair with its stars so sweet, 
 
 And its fragrant flowers for our weary feet. 
 
 And Dad and I, and the good old dog, 
 
 Go forth in the wondrous weather. 
 
 With steps as free and with hearts as light 
 
 As a dancing wind blown feather. 
 
 And the early sun makes the rabbits run, 
 
 You can bet your life there will be some fun. 
 
 Skip along Jack, with your long old ears 
 Like sails to the wind upstanding. 
 You're not our style, you can lope along, 
 Y r ou are not the meat we're landing. 
 He's a queer old guy with his ears laid back 
 And the puff of dust on his backward track. 
 8 
 
Through levels of sage and mesquite brush, 
 
 Through fields of alfalfa clover, — 
 
 The quail are swift on frightened wing, 
 
 enough a dozen have tumbled over. 
 
 And the good old dog hunts the dead ones out, 
 
 For a nose most keen has this knowing scout. 
 
 It's home now Dad, for the day is done; 
 
 Your pockets bulge with the slaughter. 
 
 What are the odds if we're hungry and tired, 
 
 And starved for a drink of water. 
 
 For the day's been fine and the sport's been good; 
 
 You've handled the gun as a Nimrod should. 
 
 It's tramping, now, for a feast of cheer, 
 
 And a pull at the meerschaum after. 
 
 In the glowing firelight, soft and warm, 
 
 That mellows the time worn rafter. 
 
 Oh the home is sweet and the mother's fair 
 
 With the touch of time on her silv'ry hair, — 
 
 A supper she'll set with dainty care, 
 
 While she lists to her hunters' deeds so rare, — 
 
 Dear home! it's a shelter beyond compare, 
 
 A place that is meant for laughter. 
 
Happttuss 
 
 Folks is mighty curious, restless like and queer, 
 Always huntin' happiness; searchin' far and near. 
 Jack o' Lantern's bobbin' light leads 'em on and on 
 Through the Swamps of Lonesomeness to Disappointin' Dawn. 
 
 Some is huntin' mines of gold; some for peace of heart. 
 Others follows on because 'fraid to walk apart. 
 Many staggers on the road, others drops and stays, 
 Huntin' and a-wearin' out their souls for "Better Days." 
 
 Seems to me it's foolishness chasin' Will o' Wisps, 
 Gimme my ole corn cob pipe, plenty 'f brown ole twists; 
 Fireplace full of piney knots losin' juices sweet, 
 I ain't chasin' happiness, it's layin' at my feet. 
 
 10 
 
Just a shaggy, good fer nothin', ole brown dog; 
 Kinder stiff an' weary with our life's hard jog 
 
 Ain't you? 
 Well you know, sir, you can go, sir, on back home again, 
 Where the mother 'd feed you fer the sake of me, her Ben. 
 
 I ain't nothin' much to boast of, just a tramp, 
 
 Don't know why you love me so, you ole brown scamp, 
 
 Do you? 
 Wish you'd leave me, but 'twould grieve me, wonder if you 
 
 know 
 How a ragged tramp can love a shaggy brown dog so? 
 
 Course you know how, or you wouldn't stick to me 
 When you're tired an' stiff an' hungry's you can be, 
 
 Ain't you? 
 Oh, I know it; your ribs show it, pokin' out that way, 
 Don't go waggin' all your tail off tryin' to be gay. 
 
 Sort of lonesome on life's highway, long an' hard; 
 'Ristocratic dogs won't notice you, ole pard, 
 
 Will they? 
 An' you feel it; can't conceal it; almost every day 
 You just sadly set an' watch 'em as they bark an' play. 
 
 I am feelin' sort of guilty, good ole frien'; 
 Nothin' in the world to love but ragged Ben, 
 
 Is there? 
 Go an' wash up, sorter slosh up in the river there, 
 An' come back — I'll try an' comb out all your shaggy hair 
 
 11 
 
So's the high tone dogs won't know you are a cur; 
 Hold on there a minute, think I feel a burr somewhere. 
 Now you go, sir, don't be slow sir; what! you're layin' down? 
 What's that pucker mean there 'tween your eyes of honest 
 brown? 
 
 Just a hungry, good fer nothin', ole brown dog, 
 Stickin' to me like the lichens on a log 
 
 Ain't you? 
 Well you've cheered me, often steered me through Life's 
 
 blindin' fogs! 
 Wonder if there's room Above fer vagabon's an' dogs? 
 
 12 
 
If the moon had not been shining on the bay with silv'ry light, 
 And the waves had not been dancing in their merry, mad'ning 
 
 might; 
 If your hand had not been lying, O so close to mine that night, 
 I'd have left you and not cared a rap for Guaymas. 
 
 Now the world that I am loving is encompassed by that town ; 
 And the streets I'm fairly haunting are the ones you've just 
 
 been down; 
 And the temple of my worship is your 'dobe casa, brown, 
 Near the sunny hills that guard the bay at Guaymas. 
 
 O the music in the plaza— and the flowers blooming there. 
 And the moonlight through the branches shaping filets for 
 
 your hair, 
 Have been busy weaving heart strings, but your fingers hold 
 
 the snare 
 That imprisons me in Ciudad de Guaymas. 
 
 13 
 
(Sentinels of the Desert) 
 
 Sentinels of arid wastes — gleaming sands and foothills; 
 Wearing naught of foliage to temper burning sun. 
 Daring thirst and silence deep — exultant in your loneliness, 
 Watching, ever watching, till your desert life is done. 
 
 Heads upreared in menacing those who love the woodland; 
 Holding back the ignorant, untutored of your lore; 
 Pointing out the sunbleached way to feet unsure of barren- 
 ness, 
 Guarding, ever guarding, at the desert's treasure door. 
 
 Naught you show to travelers born in shades of forest; 
 
 Nor to those whose pulse responds to sun flecked meadow 
 side. 
 
 Tell you naught of placid streams, of farming lands so gen- 
 erous, 
 
 Speaking, ever speaking, of a desolation wide. 
 
 But to those who know the moods of your desert homeland, 
 Wondrous treasures you display of colors green and gold; 
 Mountains clad in purple mist and beauty, rare, impregnable 
 Ramparts, stately ramparts, that surround your desert, old. 
 
 Sunlit days meet silent nights in a round of splendor; 
 Blazing stars replace the sun as dips it to the west; 
 Desert bred and loving it, I know the secrets, marvelous, 
 The Sahuaro's hiding in its fluted, thorny breast. 
 
 14 
 
Sentinels of vigilance, speaking tales of hardship; 
 Small your shade to tantalize the man from gentler lands. 
 Tragedies of parched tongue — of humans crazed by loneli- 
 ness — 
 Welcome, sweetest welcome for the man that understands. 
 
%nigz Not 
 
 Look not too deep in the heart of the singer. 
 But profit you, well, of his lay; 
 Ask not the shape of the hand of the ringer, 
 But list what his bells have to say. 
 
 You'll find the heart of the singer most faulty; 
 And calloused the sexton's old hand. 
 (Waters of ocean are bitter and salty, 
 Yet sweet are its winds o'er the land.) 
 
 They are but humans, both sexton and poet, 
 Like you they were born of the sod. 
 But in the hearts of all three, could we know it, 
 Somewhere is the message of God. 
 
 16 
 
The ^Prjasjiertar's Toast 
 
 "I've struck it rich an' I should be so happy? 
 The drinks is up to me fer all around? 
 I shouldn't look so mighty all-fired scrappy? 
 Sence the pay-streak I've been looking for is found? 
 
 "What's that you say? I'm gettin' too exclusive 
 To set 'em up till after I've been told? 
 Now friend go slow — an' don't get too e-fusive, 
 You're jest a little fresh an' ruther bold. 
 
 "I ain't a-makin' threats to try an' skeer you; 
 I usually don't take the time to warn ; 
 I ain't a-spechifyin' 'cause I fear you, 
 But I don't take no tenderfooter's scorn. 
 
 "Come, line up to the bar — I ain't no piker; 
 We'll have the best there is, the Barkeep's boast. 
 Fer them's don't like it straight I guess he'll spike 'er- 
 An' fore we drink I'll jest popose a toast. 
 
 "To Her I love; the best ole pardner ever, 
 Who's leavin' me to cross the Great Divide; 
 Of course I knew our love would have to sever, 
 That Time would cause a separation wide. 
 
 "Fer many years she shared my joy an' sorrow; 
 An' starved with me an' didn't seem to mind; 
 Jest acted like she's hopin' a tomorrow 
 Would bring the grub that shore was hard to find. 
 
 17 
 
'Her eyes was soft; her hair a salt an' pepper. 
 Her love fer me was true as finest steel. 
 In days of youth she'd been a high-tone stepper— 
 But hardship kinder run her down at heel. 
 
 'Her voice was strong an' fine fer outdoor singin' ; 
 They called her "Texas Nightingale" out there; 
 An' memory has set my ears to ringin' 
 To the echo of her song's triumphant air. 
 
 "So, drink 'em down, an' fill again the glasses; 
 Now none of that! (I thought that feller grinned.) 
 A toast to Her as o'er the Range she passes, 
 My kind ole burra, tame old Jinny Lind." 
 
 18 
 
To ©mar %tes^ m 
 
 Comes your voice through the ages forgotten, 
 With its whimsical, musical strain; 
 Has the clay that was fashioned to hold it 
 By the Potter been shapen in vain? 
 
 And the Potter, of whom you were wondering, 
 Still is moulding us, vessels of clay, 
 Till we're shaped; when our voices re-echo 
 To the query of your yesterday. 
 
 For the Truth you were restlessly seeking; 
 Is the song of our hearts, still unsung, 
 Like a chord that was broke in the stringing, 
 And is waiting some hand to be strung. 
 
 19 
 
flnlnrjes nf ih* Tlartia 
 
 In the placita, the sun warmed placita, 
 Throughout the long summer morn, 
 Dolores, the maid, bends o'er her metatl, 
 Grinding the kernels of corn. 
 
 In the placita, the high-walled placita, 
 Pomegranates throw their thick shade 
 And ripen to fruit with opaline centers, 
 All for Dolores, the maid. 
 
 In the placita, the sweet figs are purple 
 And warm in the drowsy noon. 
 Hasten Dolores! the fruit must be gathered, 
 Lusciousness comes all too soon. 
 
 In the placita, the sun kissed placita, 
 Chili pods redden and fall; 
 Dolores in time will festoon them gaily, 
 In strings on the kitchen wall. 
 
 In the placita the white goat is tethered 
 Awaiting Dolores' slim hands 
 To coax from the teats the milk that is golden 
 Like foam on the sea washed sands. 
 
 In the placita is work for Dolores, 
 Maid with the name that is sad, 
 Day is no playtime — but Jose is coming, 
 Noche's the time to be glad. 
 20 
 
& Smxg of thr Plains 
 
 I am drunk with the winds of the desert, 
 With its colors of purple and gold. 
 With the sparkle and fire of its sunshine, 
 With its nights that are silent and cold. 
 
 I exult in its glorious freedom; 
 I quaff its intoxicant wine; 
 I delight in its generous stretches; 
 I am glad, for Its beauties are mine. 
 
 Like a gem in its setting of mountains 
 It flashes its yellow and green; 
 It flushes from rose hue to scarlet, 
 It softens to silvery sheen. 
 
 And at night 'neath the star-studded heavens, 
 As near to my camp fire I rest, 
 With the smoke from my meerschaum upcurling, 
 And my head on the broad desert's breast 
 
 There are songs from the sagebrush to cheer me, 
 As the south wind caresses the leaves. 
 There are voices that whisper a welcome, 
 There are perfumes borne in on the breeze — 
 
 'Till my heart overflows with its gladness. 
 And my thoughts harbor nothing that's ill; 
 For a sweet benediction is whispered, 
 And at rest is my Plainsland so still. 
 21 
 
Lptz Flowers 
 
 I am strewing flowers where you, silent, lie; 
 I am thinking of you, though days are going by. 
 I am tardy, mother, with my flowers, bright; 
 I am hoping you'll forgive, as you sleep tonight. 
 Oh, so many flowers wait a whole life through! 
 Just to tell the words of love that I'm telling you. 
 
Beasts nf the Fields 
 
 Oh, this is the law of the Maker: -though it's long been a useless plea,— 
 "As you have done it unto these, so have you done to Me. " 
 
 The Father, who art in Heaven, made man and he shaped 
 
 the land 
 To bring forth fruit. But who made the brute 
 That is tortured on every hand? 
 Unfettered beasts of the jungles, their beds of the fragrant 
 
 fern, 
 Wake to hopeless rage in steel clad cage, 
 Do Your lessons their keepers learn? 
 They die without ever learning; for hippodromes hold a 
 
 charm. 
 Men play ugly parts in breaking hearts, 
 SHALL THE BEASTS THUS COME TO HARM? 
 
 Did You, O wise Creator! shape the bull for the gruesome 
 
 ring, 
 To glut the thirst of Your men accursed, 
 While the death of the bull we sing? 
 And the horse, a kindly creature, was he formed by Your 
 
 great hand 
 To be gored to death as he pleads for breath 
 In the Moctezuma Land? 
 
 And did You devise the burro? a patient and humble steed; 
 
 In days that are done he carried Your Son, 
 
 When in most wearisome need. 
 
 And did You dream he'd be burdened with loads of a 
 
 monstrous size? 
 He has no speech with which to beseech, 
 Save his questioning pain-struck eyes. 
 
 23 
 
We know that You made the surgeon who cuts with his 
 
 scalpel, nice. 
 The faithful dog that is strapped like a log, 
 Oh, woeful the sacrifice! 
 But who — O who, made this comrade? His torture Your 
 
 wondrous plan; 
 The skies above hold no truer love 
 Than the dog's for his master, Man. 
 
 Do You wait, O Mighty Ruler, in a love for us unspent? 
 
 Do beasts all know more than men below 
 
 Of Your ways and their wonderment? 
 
 Were they sent to teach us kindness? 
 
 Then their day has been too long. 
 
 And heinous our sin to our humble kin, 
 
 O brutal has been the wrong! 
 
 / hove sought the problem in cities; I have asked of the desert's breeze. 
 
 The rnimoer comes: " You've done onto Me, just as you've done to these. " 
 
 24 
 
%tlTS 
 
 Dim the path and slender, winding downward from the lea, 
 Now tnat dusk is softly falling and the gulls come in from 
 
 sea; 
 Clouds arrayed in royal crimson, edged with burnished gold — 
 Stand in splendid benediction o'er the mountains still and 
 
 old. 
 
 All the world is silent, waiting for the birth of night; 
 
 And my feet with restless longing seek the path from off the 
 
 height; 
 Lurid clouds have changed to lilac, shading into grey — 
 Moonbeams mark a path of silver to your home across the 
 
 Bay. 
 
 25 
 
Tte S*rot 
 
 Creation's secret is held fast and tight! 
 It burns in the sun, is enfolded by night! 
 There comes a good parson, as good as men go, 
 He preaches his Gospel, he quotes so and so! 
 
 Then the procession of seekers, forsooth, 
 
 Is joined by astronomers searching for Truth. 
 
 The crowd of onlookers is swayed here and there; 
 
 They study the heavens, they bend them in prayer. 
 
 When on the night wind a voice, sweet, is heard, 
 Its melody thrills like the song of a bird. 
 "Oh seekers of wisdom, I'm older than you! 
 I'm known of all nations, my message is true. 
 
 "No skill of human a lense can devise 
 
 Through which you can study the heart of the skies. 
 
 No eyes of a human may e'er hope to read 
 
 The Truth of Creation, when clothed in mere creed. 
 
 "Heal, first your heart wounds, by hate they've been scarred 
 Then set free your soul, for by self it is barred."— 
 The voice came now faintly from voids far above — 
 And Time was the Singer, his song was of Love. 
 
 26 
 
& (Sriexrantt of th* TOest 
 
 Times sure has changed, which the same it is true, 
 A cow man can't live as he use to do! 
 
 A cow man I was; a sheep man was he, 
 Which same is the whyfore we couldn't agree. 
 
 His sheep et my grass an' trampled the roots; 
 The sheep man he died, but he died in his boots. 
 
 My bronco was near, we hit the quick trail, 
 *or Frijole Land is some gayer than jail. 
 
 That cayuse was wise; just dusted the sod; 
 Some busy was I with my forty-some-odd. 
 
 At night time I rode through the alkali dust, 
 An' bees made of lead stung the air till I cussed. 
 
 Just over the line I give 'em the yell, 
 
 An' rested my bronco, he'd galloped like h 1! 
 
 ****** 
 An exile am I crost the old Rio Grande! 
 A cow man can't live in a d n herder's land! 
 
 27 
 
Jtfniu 
 
 Silent now are the dim, shadowed corridors; 
 Sadly the days go by. 
 
 Tangled the vines in your sun-warmed placita, 
 Eager to reach the sky. 
 
 Echo not to the danza's quaint melody, 
 Footsteps of yours so light; 
 Fading to dust is your lacy mantilla; 
 Folded your hands tonight. 
 
 Happy, you, in your long, narrow couch of earth, 
 Whitened my hair has grown. 
 
 Crumbling these walls but with roses they're covered; 
 Deep are the seeds you've sown. 
 
 Heaven? bien, I ask for no better one, 
 Bending our God to sue, 
 Than a placita, you ever beside me — 
 Roses and home and you. 
 
 28 
 
You want to pay me fer old Tige, a hundred, maybe more, 
 To Sorter even up the thing an' make me feel less sore, 
 
 My eyes less dim? 
 Well friend, I'm glad you like ole Tige, it shows you have 
 
 some sense 
 Of how a man can love a dog, but small the recompense 
 
 Per losin' him. 
 
 You say you'll help me sell my mine an' charge me little too? 
 I shore would like the money an' it's mighty white of you 
 
 Fer helpin' so. 
 But I'm afraid I'll turn you down; you see it's this a-way: 
 What would you do about ole Tige? fer him you'd have to pay 
 
 To let me go! 
 
 You know oie Tige's been lovin' me about eight year or more, 
 Or since the time I stole him from the Yaqui River shore 
 
 In Mexico. 
 The Yaquis was a fightin' there with Greaser Ruralees, 
 An' Tige was just a little pup, a huntin' hard for fleas, 
 
 A score or more. 
 
 I was a-hidin' in the brush an' keepin' mighty still, 
 Till I seen the Yaquis runnin' like devils up the hill, 
 
 An' Greasers, too! 
 I stuck my head most quiet like from there behint a tree, 
 An' saw some sights that to this day just sorter sickens me, 
 
 I guess 'twould you. 
 29 
 
A pile of dead men layin' 'roun' an' women, babies, too; 
 The only livin' thing was Tige a lookin' mighty blue, 
 
 An' whinin' low! 
 I called the lonesome cuss to me an' he come crawlin' there, 
 An' askin' me to let him live, a reg'lar puppy prayer. 
 
 An' beggin' so. 
 
 Well, me an' Tige we hit the trail, fer Yaquis is right queer; 
 I knew they'd make short work of me an' then there wa'n't 
 much cheer 
 
 Aroun' them camps. 
 I knew if any Yaqui lived he'd come back for that beast, 
 They's sorter superstitious an' think dogs is souls deceased — 
 
 They're cur'ous scamps! 
 
 You see they teach their dogs to fight like fiends; they never 
 
 stop; 
 Till dog or man, an' us'ly man, just short of breath will drop; 
 
 Them dogs fight hard! 
 Well, from that day that Injun pup just loved me through an' 
 
 through; 
 An' I was kinder lonesome an' I got to lovin' too, 
 Ole Tige, my pard. 
 
 An' months went by an' Tige an' me just sorter lived along; 
 I kep' on growin' ole an' gray, an' Tige kep' growin' strong. 
 
 An' could he fight? 
 I wish you'd been there at that time, soon after I struck gold, 
 The moon was hid behin' a cloud, the wind was blowin' cold — 
 
 A freezin' night! 
 
 30 
 
The camp fire's blaze had turned to gray; I's sleepin' like a 
 
 log; 
 An' curled up close beside me was ole Tige my faithful dog, 
 
 The snorin' pup! 
 I was dreamin' 'bout the river that run right through our 
 
 farm, 
 Where I, a boy, went fishin', when Tige grabbed me by th« 
 arm 
 
 An' woke me up. 
 
 I heard a somethin' creepin' long — a twig just softly crack; 
 I couldn't see two foot ahead, the darkness was so black, 
 
 But Tige could see! 
 He give a growl an' then a leap, an' he had somethin' downed; 
 I could hear the awflest scufflin' an' tearin' up the ground, 
 
 An' as fer me! 
 
 The lightnln' flashed, an' there I was a-lookin' up above 
 Into a face, a Yaqui's face more full of hate than love, 
 
 As you may know. 
 I don't much 'bleeve in dwellin' long on gruesome things of 
 
 life— 
 An' so I'll cut the details out of all that bloody fight; 
 'Twas long ago. 
 
 But one good Injun lay there still an' silent in the night; 
 The other one ole Tige had downed was shore a ugly sight 
 
 When day come on. 
 I nussed him through a tejus* spell — he was a silent ward, 
 Fer Tige had chewed right on his neck an' spoiled his vocal 
 chord, 
 
 His voice clean gone. 
 31 
 
And so I hope it's plain to you that I can't sell a pard, 
 The best that man has ever had, when life has shore been 
 hard; 
 
 Come Tige, old friend. 
 I guess we'll journey on our way, I'm much obliged to you 
 Fer likin' Tige, an' knowin' he's the stuff that will be true 
 
 On to the end. 
 
 32 
 
HHnrning an the gmrt 
 
 Morning on the desert, and the wind is blowin' free. 
 
 And it's our's jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you an' 
 
 me. 
 No more stuffy cities where you have to pay to breathe — 
 Where the helpless, human creatures, throng, and move, and 
 
 strive and seethe. 
 
 Morning on the desert, an' the air is like a wine; 
 And it seems like all creation has been made for me an' mine. 
 No house to stop my vision save a neighbor's miles away, 
 An' the little 'dobe casa that berlongs to me an' May. 
 
 Lonesome? not a minute. Why I've got these mountains 
 
 here; 
 That was put there jest to please me with their blush an' 
 
 frown an' cheer. 
 They're waitin' when the summer sun gets too sizzlin' hot — ■ 
 An' we jest go campin' in 'em, with a pan an' coffee pot. 
 
 Morning on the desert! I can smell the sagebrush smoke; 
 An' I hate to see it burnin', but the land must sure be broke. 
 Ain't it jest a pity that wherever man may live, 
 He tears up much that's beautiful, that the good God has to 
 give? 
 
 33 
 
"Sagebrush ain't so pretty?" Well, all eyes don't see the 
 same; 
 
 Have you ever saw the moonlight turn it to a silv'ry flame? 
 
 An' that greasewood thicket yonder — well, it smells jest aw- 
 ful sweet 
 
 When the night wind has been shakin' it; for smells it's hard 
 to beat. 
 
 Lonesome? well, I guess not! I've been lonesome in a town. 
 But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide an' 
 
 brown ; 
 All day through the sagebrush here, the wind is blowin' free, 
 An' it's ours jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you an' me. 
 
 34 
 
The ¥unt\\2X in N*uj ^nrk 
 
 Say, all you dudes an' you lady so fair, 
 
 An' you string-halted guy, with the sky-piece! 
 
 I ain't a circus let out fer some air, 
 
 I'm a puncher just huntin' some eye-grease. 
 
 What! you don't savvy my lingo, Oh, h 1! 
 
 Come out to Texas, we'll learn you right well. 
 
 What I can't show you my forty-five can! 
 
 The first thing we'll in-tra-dooce is a man! 
 
 Your canyons ain't bloomin' with what I call men! 
 
 I've rode all day long an' I ain't seen ten — on Broadway. 
 
 35 
 
Ttr* gmbrrs Hequtem 
 
 Come sit with me within the firelog's radiance; 
 
 And list with me the tales its gold tongue tells; 
 
 And watch with me the etchings done in wreath of smoke, 
 
 And breathe with me its breath from fragrant dells. 
 
 Come place your hand within my fingers' sheltering, 
 And lay your head upon my circling arm; 
 That I may know you heart's with mine in unison, 
 That I may feel you're safe from every harm. 
 
 Assured, the log in death-song thus, will sing us truths, 
 
 Magician-like its fading sense will know 
 
 Of all the past, and all the future's writ for us — 
 
 Of all the paths we trod and those to go. 
 
 As, sweet the words of love, and gay the madrigal, 
 
 The red gold tongues of fire are singing low; 
 
 Of days of winsome youth — a joyful roundelay, 
 
 When you were "Sweetheart Mine," and I your "Beau." 
 
 Now, strong the peal from organ reeds, mellifluous; 
 Adown the aisle we pass — and you're my wife 
 To love and keep and guard throughout eternity — 
 To shield as best I can from every strife. 
 
 But, o'er the fallow fire that burns so cheerily 
 
 A veil of smoke in sombreness is drawn; 
 
 Yet, through its tear-dimmed mist we glimpse its heart of 
 
 gold, 
 Like love of ours that lived through shadowed dawn. 
 
 36 
 
A threnody the fire thus chants of absent ones; 
 
 Of baby voices stilled these weary years; 
 
 And childish laughter echoes through the empty rooms — 
 
 No bitterness now mingles with our tears. 
 
 O, that Great Loss that wounded, sore, your mother heart! 
 
 'Twas not for me, though loving you, to heal; 
 
 But Time, alone, that proved to us His better way, 
 
 And knowledge of His Land that's o' the Leal. 
 
 And now, Oh, Fire! sing low your last sweet slumber song; 
 And glow with love, till all your warmth is done; 
 And soothe with peace throughout this closing requiem, 
 These two old hearts that aye have throbbed as one. 
 
 37 
 
Tit* Jnmnribte 
 
 In love with Love was I; and loved I many men; 
 
 Or loved they me, or Love — and there you are again — 
 
 Back to the old vexation. 
 And thus the years went by and loved I lightly on 
 My way, till Fate, incensed, decreed a saddened dawn — 
 
 That I seek expiation. 
 
 She took from me my loves, and stole my kin away; 
 Destroyed all youth's illusions and turned my locks to gray — 
 
 Thus urging swift repentance. 
 But coward am I not! No battered heart have I 
 To fling to Love supreme. No desolated cry 
 
 That sues for lighter sentence. 
 
 But 'round my empty heart and age enwhitened head, 
 
 I'll draw the past's warm fancies, and wait to hear the dread 
 
 Verdict or condonation; 
 And there, among the Great Jurors, good men and true, 
 One may be deep in dreams so roseate of You 
 
 I'll shine by emulation. 
 
 38 
 
Th* gxtk 
 
 A cub bear, the mother of which was killed by Colonel W. C. 
 Greene, in the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico. The cub was 
 taken by him to New York City, where it was an object of intesest 
 as an occupant of the roof garden of the Ansonia Hotel. 
 
 Poor, little exile! 
 Though the pet of the hunters, 
 'Tis no chain of love that binds you so well; 
 You see in the distance the trail to your birthplace, 
 That leads through the depths of the jungle-like dell. 
 
 Twas in the dawning, 
 When the crack of the rifle 
 Brought low unto dust your mother so true; 
 She fell to the earth, and her great heart was broken, 
 As she gave at the last all her glances to you. 
 
 Woe in the forest 
 On that morning of autumn! 
 The pines sobbed their song of solemn farewell; 
 The birds hushed their greeting, scarce stirring the silence, 
 The wind ceased caressing the dainty blue-bell. 
 
 Desolate orphan 
 Are your thoughts with your mother, 
 Close to whose side you have wandered all day? 
 Searching the mountains for acorns and berries, 
 Through thickets of scrub oak and thence far away? 
 
 39 
 
Over the mountains 
 In the cool of the evening, 
 Back to your home you would wander for rest; 
 High up in a cavern, by trees and vine covered, 
 You snuggled so close to that soft, furry breast. 
 
 Softly the pine trees 
 Crooned to you a lullaby; 
 Gently the moon lady gave you her light; 
 There flamed on the mountains the gay manzanita, 
 With offering of berries so scarlet and bright. 
 
 Well may they treat you, 
 These brave-hearted hunters; 
 Sorrow enough have you had for all days; 
 Too soon they will take you from out of your home-land, 
 To learn of the city and its restless ways. 
 
 Sick will your heart be! 
 For the fragrance of woodland; 
 Quick may Time blot all the past that it can; 
 Plenty to eat and a soft bed to lie on — 
 Your portion, alone, in the strange Land of Man. 
 
 40 
 
The §tm *Htorshtp;*r 
 
 Come forth from infinitude, thou silent one! 
 And teach us, again, of thy faith in the sun; 
 Far have we wandered from worship like thine; 
 Gods have we chosen — gods far less divine. 
 
 Come chant us a pagan song, that thou did'st sing 
 When morning's fair portals were slowly as wing; 
 Build up thy altars and kneel at thy shrine; 
 Our gods are shattered, we'll bend us to thine 
 
 Come lead us through desert lands, forest and field, 
 And teach us his secrets in flowers revealed; 
 Show us his priest robe of glorious sheen; 
 Long have we wandered, our God still unseen. 
 
 Come fan up thy altar fires, too long grown dim! 
 And sing us, anew, of thy triumphant hymn! 
 Teach us to welcome its unfailing rays, 
 Sun of our futures and past yesterdays! 
 
 41 
 
& tower Lpvzs Jtll tire ^Unrlrl 
 
 In the colors of the desert I can find her beauty, rare; 
 
 For the hue of sun-kissed stretches is the gold gleam of her 
 hair; 
 
 And the soft blue, distant mountains, and the azure of the 
 skies 
 
 Hold no blue of hue that's truer, than my Western sweet- 
 heart's eyes. 
 
 There's a scarlet cactus blossom like the crimson of her 
 
 mouth ; 
 It's elusive perfume lavished on the night wind, from the 
 
 South. 
 Like the kisses I am taking, more insidious than wine — 
 There're no blisses like her kisses, as she gives her lips to 
 
 mine. 
 
 Would you be a nature lover, though your home is bleak and 
 
 grim? 
 Would you have the desert's voices sing an endless Lover's 
 
 Hymn? 
 Win you, first, a Western sweetheart such as mine, though 
 
 there's a dearth, 
 And you'll find the arid desert is a Paradise on earth. 
 
 42 
 
Wanrimrs from gcvmAin 
 
 Murder *r of aoernus born, and thief of cunning skill. 
 
 And I, who have sold my soul for gold, our ways are ill. 
 
 Wanderers from. Arcadia, and we have lost our way; 
 
 And strange are the paths our feet have trod, from day to day. 
 
 Fathoms deep 'neath the ocean blue our lost Atlantis lies 
 And grieves with the surge of waters, sad for summer skies. 
 
 Allah's Grove and the Paradise — of which our fathers knew — 
 Are lost, and forgot the watchword, sweet, their gates to sue. 
 
 Wayfarers 'neath the brilliant sun and through some shady 
 
 street, 
 We paused, and we asked the long lost way of those we'd 
 
 meet. 
 
 Residents of a village fair, but none could speed us on; 
 
 Nor none lived there who would bid us stay and rest till dawn. 
 
 Next we fared to a city grand, and sheltered at an inn, 
 Where gay were the men and women there, and steeped in 
 sin. 
 
 Good fellows, they, in lightsome mood, and sought to stay our 
 
 quest, 
 Nor cared not the way our search might lead, nor our behest. 
 
 Ministers, then, and scribe and saint, in city streets and marts, 
 The high and the low we questioned all, with saddened hearts. 
 
 43 
 
Weary our way, and through a wood where shadows still and 
 
 cool 
 Besought us to stay and rest awhile, by moss-fringed pool. 
 
 A tiny child was playing there, of silence undismayed; 
 She gave to us, each, a dimpled hand, all unafraid. 
 
 Questioned we these, this little maid of mien so grave and 
 
 sweet, 
 The path to the lost Arcadia, for weary feet. 
 
 "Why," answered she, "Why, don't you know, it's found 
 
 where'er you go — 
 In towns and on deserts — hill and dale, in lands of snow. 
 
 "Weary ones from Arcadia just bide awhile with me, 
 And play at the game by world's forgot — it's Charity." 
 
 Murderer of avernus horn, and thief of untold woe 
 
 And I, who had told my soul for gold, we know— we know. 
 
 U 
 
Tbr iVrtstorattr (Drphan 
 
 An orphan am I, if that's any ban, 
 I don't know my father from any dog man. 
 I don't know my mother, or if she lives now; 
 To tell you the truth, I don't give a bow wow. 
 
 In motors I ride. I have a nice maid; 
 To brush my white teeth she is very well paid. 
 I wear coats and boots, I sleep on fine silk; 
 I eat whitest meat and I drink richest milk. 
 
 And once every year I'm sent to the shows; 
 I take all the prizes, as every dog knows. 
 My name it is Kid; I sure am the candy — 
 A Willie, you know — a howling, Jim Dandy. 
 
 45 
 
Wearied are we with the round of games, with which the days 
 
 are fined, 
 Meeting those whom our hearts might seek were the pulse 
 
 of life less chilled? 
 
 Well may we long for the simple days, and which our 
 
 mothers knew; 
 With time to spare for happiness, but none to be seeking rue. 
 
 Distaff and loom, and the quilting frame, were touched by 
 
 shapely hands; 
 Whiter hands than my Grandmama's there are none in idler 
 
 lands. 
 
 Distances wide were from home to home, but hearts then 
 
 bridged the space — 
 And pulsed with joy and eagerness at a neighbor's kindly face. 
 
 Slaves have we grown to luxuries; on the wheel of progress 
 
 bound ; 
 Spurning the days of long ago and the joys our mothers found. 
 
 46 
 
Frederick ftmxmgtmt 
 
 (An acrostic of remembrance) 
 Frowning mountains greeted us the day he took The Trail; 
 Rugged peaks flung back the echo of the wind's wild wail; 
 Every bush of sage and mesquite bowed before the blast. 
 Dust in heavy clouds of sadness hung a-high, then passed. 
 Every truth he knew and pictured of the desert's kin 
 Rose and moved a wondrous phalanx to the troubled din. 
 (Into fancy has this wandered, woven of the wind?) 
 Could it be a sob of sorrow stirred the desert's breast? 
 Kind his brush and true his pencil to the great, wide West. 
 
 Redman, soldier, cowboy, horses, pioneer and scout, 
 Each in place, a long procession, moved and wheeled about. 
 Minds and hearts atuned to sadness for the quiet hands 
 Into which rich gifts were trusted, gems for many lands. 
 Naught betrayed this magic workman, to his task was true,* 
 Great his courage, strong his purpose, painting scout or Sioux. 
 (Thus the world is heavy hearted, Remington has passed.) 
 Over all the sunny desert hang the clouds depressed — 
 Naught but kindness showed his pencil for the great, wide 
 West. 
 
 47 
 
Tin gtzttt gesrnrdHut 
 
 In the cathedral, cool and dim, I sit at ease. Fleckings of 
 early sunlight, wraiths of gold, creep to the knees of 
 a woman bent and old, and weave into her gown a 
 wondrous tracing, 
 
 O'er her poor raiment, dress and shawl, and o'er her head 
 powder the golden sun-motes; and her face glows in 
 the red of the morning's light and grace that falls so 
 gently o'er the window casing. 
 
 And come memories to me here! I think of days born of 
 pagan centuries when forbears of her's, who prays, while 
 her ros'ry tells the prayers — built temples out of stone 
 to strange gods given. 
 
 When out the mystic days that were, I hear a voice! 
 Strangely the foreign language, shrill and sweet, bids 
 all rejoice and the Morning Sun to greet and chant its 
 praises, that their souls be shriven. 
 
 Then to the kneeling woman, old, methinks 'tis said: "For- 
 sake thy Romish dogmas! Know thou not, above thy 
 head and around thee, on this spot, there once was 
 proudly reared our Aztec temple?" 
 
 And through the incense-laden air the voice speaks on: ''Van- 
 dals those Spanish soldiers! Thrown to dust our 
 altars; shorn of their meaning! Full of lust for gold 
 and vict'ry's crown and treasures ample. 
 
 "And in thy heart beats scarce one drop of their blood, foul. 
 Turn from thy Spanish padres! Who are they? 
 Shaven heads, cowl and cassock teach not to pray, nor 
 to thee riches bring; thou seem'st starving." 
 48 
 
In the cathedral, cool and dim, the woman stands. Aged and 
 ignorant, the past unguessed, her rev'rent hands sign 
 the cross upon her breast, then passes through the door 
 of wondrous carving. 
 
 Thus turns the cycle on and on, to meet each need. Pagan 
 and padre, saintly, did their part to still the greed of 
 the erring heart and tell to human ears of veiled glory. 
 
 And of the future? What of us whose tongues are rife boast- 
 ing our better knowledge o'er those gone? We, vain 
 of life as known to us, shalt move on that some new 
 priest may speak his wondrous story. 
 
 49 
 
Tit* (£mxjjmnth anri %umts 3tthttrmnb fttto 
 
 I'm sure some weak on poetry; 
 I don't savvy it right well, 
 When it tries to rope in flowers, 
 And a cool and peaceful dell. 
 
 For there ain't no dells in cowland, 
 Just a water hole or two; 
 Where the mav'ricks wash their faces 
 In the alkali, for dew. 
 
 But there's one Jim Whitcom' Rily, 
 He can bust the bronco pen, 
 Till it's gentle as a baby — 
 And you wish he'd bust again. 
 
 50 
 
Three Friends 
 
 (To Mrs. E. B.) 
 I have three friends; alike are they to flowers 
 That blossom in my garden in the golden summer hours. 
 
 And one I seek when joyous; she's like unto a rose, 
 And when I speak my happiness, she glows and glows and 
 glows. 
 
 And when I'm rarely penitent, I seek my Lily, pure. 
 She's like a light from Heaven in her stately virgin lure. 
 
 But when I've tasted sorrow to its bitter noxious lees, 
 I seek the nook where pansies grow and find my dear Heart's 
 Ease. 
 
 51 
 
Th* partes of the (Hanson 
 
 In the evening through the silence, 
 When the breezes, soft, are still, 
 Then the Ladies of the Canyon 
 Come a-creeping up the hill. 
 
 And these Ladies of the Canyon, 
 In their garments pale, of gray, 
 Are as silent as the night clouds 
 That are closing out the day. 
 
 They come creeping, gray robes trailing, 
 Gray veils floating 'round their hair; 
 On they're stealing up the canyon, 
 Till they reach my house up there. 
 
 Then they circle 'round and rest them, 
 As their garments, gray, they spread 
 Over flowers and my roof tree, 
 And the chimney's gray old head. 
 
 And i know them for no spirits, 
 Though they have a ghostly way, 
 For these Ladies of the Canyon 
 Are but mists from off the bay. 
 
 52 
 
The (Umujmnrh (SmuxtxtiA 
 
 I hit the trail for the lonesome town 
 On a shiny and Sunday morn; 
 The C. T. U. had corralled the place, 
 She was dry as a powder horn. 
 
 Old Red Dog's joint was a-boarded up, 
 An' my heart was a-beatin' slow; 
 Not a drink of booze to cheer me on, 
 The saloons they had had to go. 
 
 I rode the streets of that lonesome town— 
 Not a puncher to see was there; 
 Not a bronco stood at the hitchin' posts 
 That encircled the plaza square. 
 
 I slapped my spurs to my busted bronc, 
 An' we loped to the 'dobe jail; 
 We was huntin' some fer a con-trite frien' 
 An' we thought we had hit the trail. 
 
 Bill Hix, the dep., an' the jailer Jones, 
 Sure was gloomy an' full of woe; 
 They had had no fun an' was rustin' out, 
 Jest a feedin' a darned hobo. 
 
 I says: "Ain't your inn a crowded none? 
 Where's the boys from the H. McCord?" 
 They says: "Go an' gaze into the church, 
 They's a-learnin' to serve the Lord." 
 53 
 
I felt the earth was a-slippin' some, 
 As I camped on the backward trail; 
 A hustlin' to church to find my friends, 
 When I thought they was sure in jail. 
 
 I jingled on to that ed-i-fise, 
 
 An' I seen that the gang was there; 
 
 Their hats was off, an' their heads was bowed, 
 
 To the words of a solum prayer. 
 
 'Twas not no man with a long-tail coat, 
 An' a face like a hungry steer 
 That spoke them words so low an' soft, 
 An' that handled the Godly cheer. 
 
 A girl it was; she was tall an' slim, 
 An' her hair was a crown of gold; 
 She looked at me with her pleadin' eyes, 
 An' my knees shook some with the cold. 
 
 She sung a song to the organ tune, 
 Which was: "Where is my boy, tonight?" 
 I grabbed that seat like a bronco's mane, 
 Fer I knowed I must hold on tight. 
 
 That heart of mine bucked over the range, 
 Then it kicked like a two-year colt; 
 She throwed the rope an' she tied me down 
 With a gen-u-wine puncher's holt 
 
 I hit the trail when the church let out, 
 
 An' I knowed I was busted well; 
 
 Fer she'd put her brand plum on my heart, 
 
 An' had rode me straight from h 1. 
 
 54 
 
Some years has passed an' I still am tame, 
 Since she learned me the way to ride; 
 Them hands of her's sure can guide me straight 
 To the Range o'er the Great Divide. 
 
 55 
 
Httarijzska and F. ^tartan GJratufnrri 
 
 Out from the world we know and are loving, 
 Into the Land of the Silence so deep — 
 Two artist souls have gone forth a-faring, 
 Borne on the wings of that last, dreamless sleep. 
 
 One was a man who told for us stories; 
 Co that when cares of the daytime were done — 
 We gathered joys, or sorrowed with others — 
 And basked in the rays of Italy's sun. 
 
 One was a queen in realms histrionic, 
 Portraying days of Shakespearean youth; 
 Speaking for us the words of this master — 
 Living his moods in unvarying truth. 
 
 Gone? Yes, their forms so dear to us mortals; 
 Deathless their art, until Time is no more. 
 Binding our hearts with love links unbroken, 
 Through silent space to Arcadia's shore. 
 
 56 
 
Th* flttanuTi That grni't Fit gn 
 
 (With apologies to Robert W. Service.) 
 
 There's a race of women that don't fit in, 
 
 For they have to stay at home; 
 
 And they break their hearts, not their kith and kin- 
 
 Because of this ache to roam. 
 
 They bake and sweep and they dust and sew, 
 
 When the Wander Lust is theirs; 
 
 For the Song of the Road is pleading low 
 
 Through the veins of past forbears. 
 
 And one is a woman of vacant womb — 
 
 Though the fault be not her sin, 
 
 Who must dress and pose till the day of doom 
 
 For mistakes of senseless kin. 
 
 And there are the women that join a club; 
 
 And some are a little bold — 
 
 And one I know loves a pimply cub, 
 
 For her husband's love is cold. 
 
 So they stay at home just because they must. 
 O, theirs are the narrow grooves! 
 While the man obsessed with the Wander Lust 
 Breaks the hearts of kin and moves. 
 And these women flirt till their charms they fail, 
 And with age their backs are bent; 
 Till one day they stand, and their old hearts email, 
 At the past's fool merriment. 
 57 
 
It's better, it's better to fail like a man; 
 
 To be of the stones that roll, 
 
 Than a woman with mission unfulfilled, 
 
 And a dried up, twisted soul. 
 
 Oh, better by far to have been the man 
 
 That was never meant to win! 
 
 Than to play the part of the restless heart, 
 
 Of the woman who won't fit in. 
 
 r>8 
 
Out of the Cosmos, from some fairer world, 
 
 Unto our planet a boulder was hurled. 
 
 A message it brought, but we earth men were young; 
 
 None could translate it, the song went unsung. 
 
 Ages sped onward; the Great Chemist Time — 
 Wise with a wisdom surpassing all rhyme — 
 Transmuted this fragment, so serried and cold, 
 Into a Man, and his heart was of gold. 
 
 Simple and humble, He gave of His bread 
 To others freely, that all might be fed; 
 Forgot Him His hunger and longing to rest, 
 Cheered He the lonely, the poor and oppressed. 
 
 He's but a memory, His earth work is done; 
 Back to His home on some other world's sun. 
 Yet list'ning, we earth men have heard, from above, 
 Borne on the night wind, a message of Love. 
 
 :>9 
 
Thr gant* nf (£ltoritta 
 
 Brown eyes now tender, now flashing like fire light; 
 Lips like the crimson of glowing poinsettas; 
 Hair like the shadows of night in the canyons; 
 Hands in their fairness like creamy magnolias. 
 Swaying her body to throbs of the music, 
 Like water willows atune to the breezes; 
 Look not too long on the dance of Chonita, 
 Lest you forget she is mine, mi Chulita. 
 
 Fast fly her feet to the plaint of the harpster; 
 
 Like leaves awhirl to the music of forest. 
 
 Lacy mantilla and fan so coquettish, 
 
 Tube roses kissing her ear of pink coral — 
 
 All of these charms will sweep over your heart strings, 
 
 Thrilling it may be to friendship's undoing; 
 
 Look not too long on the dance of Chonita, 
 
 Lest you'd forget, and cannot, mi amigo! 
 
 60 
 
£n ;£hii:erltt:d;e 
 
 A gray house and a gray sky and a gray mist o'er the lea; 
 A veil of gray o'er the mountains lay, 
 
 And gray ghosts came from the sea. 
 
 The gray ghosts wept and the gray surf swept 
 
 Their grief to my very soul; 
 In the gray house, chill, where my pulse grew still 
 
 With the fear Death should claim his toll. 
 
 A gay house and a gay morn and a gay wind on the lea; 
 The sunshine, gold, warms the mountains, cold, 
 And I gaze on a gold-lit sea. 
 
 A rose in bloom 'neath my first born's room, 
 
 My love is secure from harm; 
 The low tide croons tender lullaby tunes 
 
 To the babe on its mother's arm. 
 
 61 
 
I build a fire with the wood of To Be! 
 I put on the caldron of Fate; 
 I pour in a cup of Laughter and Love, 
 A dash of the Bitter of Hate. 
 
 I stir into this a measure of Hope, 
 I flavor it well with Despair; 
 I put in a slice of Question and Doubt 
 Of Wisdom I give it a share. 
 
 Then the world comes and eagerly drinks 
 My draught of Good Cheer and of Strife; 
 Drinks to the dregs my insidious cup, 
 And mournfully says, "This Is Life!" 
 
 62 
 
(general %rftriu jbxnz 
 
 President of the Republic of Mexico. 
 
 (An acrostic of appreciation.) 
 
 Possess you years when a weakling would have lain his 
 
 scepter down. 
 O but the head grows weary that carries a nation's crown! 
 Resolute hand, a kindly heart and a soul that's true as steel — 
 Found you need of a hero's strength to shape your country's 
 
 weal. 
 If the burden grows heavy — and your young, old heart is sad, 
 Renew your joy in past success; alone this should make you 
 
 glad. 
 Into the hearts of our countrymen and wisest of your land, 
 O you have won a lasting place — Man of the Iron Hand. 
 
 Desolate would your country be without your regal sway; 
 Impotence and a weaker hand had failed to still the fray. 
 After battle there comes sweet peace, and so — whene'er 
 
 you go, 
 Zealous the hearts you'll leave behind, for You and your 
 
 Mexico. 
 
 63 
 
3n New Utoiru 
 
 In this Manana Land I am glad that my heart beats slow; 
 For O, the peace ineffable, with which my days are filled. 
 Naught of snow-laden winds haste my steps, 
 But like the enchanted sunflower that turns to meet its God, 
 I move around my casa, where'er the sunbeams go. 
 
 The brown adobe walls are steeped in cordials warm, distilled 
 In the sun's eternal caldron; libations have been spilled 
 O'er all the quiet plains and the hills 
 That lie ensheathed in the blue-gray haze of endless summer 
 
 days, 
 As I lean against my casa in the sunbeams' glow. 
 
 In the short twilight time fires of eve on mountain side are 
 
 laid; 
 Like unto blush of love that stains the cheek of Indian maid. 
 Anon the world lies slumb'ring in the net 
 Woven by the Moon Maid's fingers, of fair and silver threads, 
 And I dream within my casa, in New Mexico. 
 
 04 
 
^Ittst a Sitrktn' Jkvnun 
 
 Just a stickin' aroun', just a stickin' aroun', 
 Can't drive him away, ole flop yeared houn'; 
 If the sun shines bright, or the rain comes down, 
 Or the snow lays white on the freezin' groun', 
 He'll be stickin', stickin' aroun'. 
 
 He has slep in shacks an' he's slep' in camps; 
 He has rode in hacks an' he's walked like tramps 
 On the trails zig-zag over rough ole groun' — 
 Just a stickin', stickin' aroun'. 
 
 While the luck was good an' I had the coin, 
 If I et he would, whether round or loin; 
 If I made the kicks there were none he foun', 
 While a stickin', stickin' aroun'. 
 
 When I woke up broke from a game of cyards, 
 Not a word was spoke by my best of pards; 
 Not a howl or whine, or a holy frown 
 From him, as he's stickin' aroun'. 
 
 If I got a souse an' a cloudy eye, 
 He was not no spouse for to set an' sigh; 
 But he'd look out sharp that I'd not fall down 
 On him, just a stickin' aroun'. 
 
 "Why, he's most like folk," said a man to me; 
 Must have been a joke or 'twas meant to be; 
 Ain't no human friends like my good ole houn' — 
 To be stickin', stickin' aroun'. 
 65 
 
When the coin is tossed as to where I'll bide, 
 If my trail is lost to the Great Divide; 
 An my head won't fit any shiny crown, 
 He'll be there, a stickin' aroun'. 
 
 With his gay ole tail a whackin' the groun', 
 He'll be stickin', stickin' aroun'. 
 
 66 
 
•< The famous snow white sands of New Mexico, which have 
 never uncovered the bones of the many men said to have been 
 murdered at different times along its confines — though the sands 
 are ever slowly shifting. 
 
 I shudder at this songless sea, 
 
 This sea of sand; 
 Its billows move so silently 
 
 Upon the land. 
 No song it sings at even tide; 
 No ships upon its surface glide; 
 No sea gulls on its breakers ride; 
 
 The sea that's banned . 
 
 A spirit of a one time sea — 
 
 A voiceless sea. 
 And pallid waves move silently 
 
 Across the lea. 
 Mere ghosts of breakers, opal pale, 
 Conceal the desperado's trail, 
 Nor «jpeak his weary soul's travail 
 
 In nights to be. 
 
 67 
 
Tn Hhkz Fnund n Flnuur 
 
 Just to have found one flower, to the world unknown before. 
 Just to have said one healing word to a heart that was griev- 
 ing sore. 
 Just to have sung a stanza, to gladden an hour of pain — 
 Or thrill a wearied soldier to battle and win, again. 
 
 What matters my name as a singer? Who cares so the flower 
 
 is found? 
 As long as the song links heart to heart, and girdles the 
 
 world around. 
 
 68 
 
DOUBT 
 Lord of the Universe, canst in Thy goodness 
 
 Give me some sign? 
 Dispel my blindness, groping I fail to see 
 
 Thou art Divine. 
 Destroy, in Thy tenderness, Lord, God of the Hosts, 
 
 All of my fear. 
 Forgive my ignorance wherein I fail to know 
 
 If Thou art near. 
 Subvert my heritage of Doubt and Narrowness, 
 
 Broaden my sight, 
 Letting the Sun of Faith dispel the clouds of Doubt, 
 
 Make Darkness Light. 
 
 FAITH 
 Child of the wilderness, can'st in thy longing 
 
 Hear that "Still Voice?" 
 Sweetly it calls to thee, bidding thee "Search Within", 
 
 Thou wilt rejoice. 
 Open thy blinded eyes so that thou may'st know 
 
 All that is thine 
 Love thou the golden sun, breathe thou the breath of flowers, 
 
 These are divine. 
 Give to the weary world all cheer and happiness, 
 
 Sorrows despite, 
 Extend the hand of Love, answer the voice within, 
 
 Then will come light. 
 
 69 
 

 *12 
 
 ^^^^%^f4'I^H%M^ 
 

 
 One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 JUL 14 l*Ut 
 
 
 SRS^JSte