P s 
 
 3537 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap......... Copyright J^o...... 
 
 ShelCLyT^^ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
CAMF f\m COTTAGE, 
 
 rOEMS 
 
 . . BY 
 
 LTMflyS H. 5FR0ULL, 
 
 Author op "hours at Home." 
 
 
 hiOV 9 ^^^^ 
 
 FRANKI^IN, OillO: 
 
 ^^^^ 
 
 THE EDITOR PUBLISHING COMPANY, " " VV *^ 
 
 "l«'\- 
 
 ^' 
 

 .?Vn 
 
 Copyrighted, 1896, 
 
 BY 
 I^YMAN H. SPROULL. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 nr^HERE are many kind, true and appreci- 
 ative hearts in the camps and cottages 
 of the Rockies, whose friendly faces brighten 
 the rugged desolation of the mountain trail, 
 the monotony of the secluded ranch, and 
 the gloominess of the chambered mine. It is 
 among these that the author lives and labors; 
 it is in the daily lives of these that he sees 
 the joys and sorrows which he vStrives to 
 portray; and it is to these that he respectfully 
 dedicates his book. 
 
 E. H. S. 
 Crippi<e Creek, Colo., July, 1896. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 At the Mine, 
 
 7 
 
 The Playmates, 
 
 • 9 
 
 The Boy Brave, 
 
 II 
 
 In the Cabin, ..... 
 
 . 12 
 
 The Spider and the Bee, 
 
 14 
 
 At the Mouth of the Cation, 
 
 . i6 
 
 The Sculptor, 
 
 17 
 
 On the Peak, 
 
 . 20 
 
 A Ranchman's Troubles, 
 
 21 
 
 Before the Storm, .... 
 
 . 22 
 
 Struck for Cake, 
 
 23 
 
 In Camp, 
 
 . 28 
 
 The Morning Hour, .... 
 
 30 
 
 A Boy's Balloon, .... 
 
 . 31 
 
 A Pack of Winds, 
 
 33 
 
 Visiting, 
 
 . 35 
 
 In the Mood, ...... 
 
 . 38 
 
 A Domestic Storm, .... 
 
 • 39 
 
 Death of the Ivy, 
 
 40 
 
 After Sunset, 
 
 . 42 
 
 Mountain Daisies, 
 
 43 
 
 Reminiscences, 
 
 . 44 
 
 Finale, 
 
 . 48 
 
CAMP AND COTTAGE. 
 
 AT THE MINK. 
 
 When the cold and piercing fingers 
 Of the sunset points and lingers 
 Thro' the sombre clumps of pinions 
 
 That are scattered round the mine, 
 I come up to watch the dying 
 Of the wintry sunset, lying 
 On the cold and snowy backbone 
 
 Of the Continental line. 
 
 There I see the broken edges 
 
 Of the mountain chain which hedges 
 
 The precipitous dominion 
 
 Of that bright aerial bay; 
 See the frowning night which arches 
 O'er the spear-like points of torches 
 Standing wake-like o'er the hidden 
 
 Head of the departed day. 
 
 (7) 
 
8 
 
 Now the night is gently hov'ring 
 Low and lower, softly cov'riug 
 All the broken land in darkness, 
 
 While its western wing is bright 
 With the less'ning glow, which falters 
 Faintly on the snowy altars 
 Of the ranges, disappearing 
 
 In the mystic hold of night. 
 
 Here I tarry till the twilight 
 Gathers on the arching sky-light. 
 Hung with thin and vapory curtains 
 
 Waving in the frosty dome; 
 And the fairy hands have driven 
 All the starry spikes in heaven, 
 While the echoes thro' the mountains 
 
 Tell my tired soul of home. 
 
 6)\im 
 
 [9 
 
THE PLAYMATES. 
 
 Once some little sunbeams strayed 
 To a nest, 
 Where a downy fledgling gazed 
 At the visitors, amazed 
 At their softness as they played 
 On the leafy twiglets woven 
 Round her breast. 
 
 And they chattered all together. 
 
 All together, all together. 
 In a wild and joyous ecstacy of fun; 
 
 And the one loved the many. 
 And the many praised the one; 
 As the weather courts the feather. 
 
 To uphold her 
 In the beaming and esteeming 
 
 Of the sun. 
 There she flapped her tiny wings, 
 lyist'ning to the many things 
 
 Which they told her, 
 
10 
 
 When 'twas even, still they tarried 
 In their playmate's leafy bower; 
 Some half covered and half buried 
 In the shadows which were carried 
 
 Onward by the passing hour; 
 And they would not leave until 
 From the distant sunset hill 
 They were quickly called away 
 By the day. 
 
 Then they left their playmate hid 
 Deep the rustling leaves amid, 
 While a dream-like murmur lingered 
 
 On her brain, 
 Which resembled in its calling 
 Much the elfin music, falling 
 From the leafy organs fingered 
 
 By the rain. 
 But in whisp'ring their farewell 
 To this little birdie belle, 
 They told her they would come again, 
 And come again they did. 
 
11 
 
 THE BOY BRAVE. 
 
 Bedecked in his bright eagle feather, 
 
 Which waved o'er the brow of the brave, 
 He emerged thro' the soft, hazy weather. 
 And took to his boat on the wave; 
 And paddled away — away — 
 In the shade of the fast falling day, 
 In the stern of his little canoe. 
 
 The sunset grew softer and softer. 
 And smiled on the watery scroll. 
 I shaded my eyes and looked after 
 This free, unapproachable soul; 
 
 And I saw but a speck on the crest 
 Of the lakelet afar to the west. 
 Where he rowed in his little canoe. 
 
12 
 
 IN THE CABIN. 
 
 Night is stealing up the creeks, 
 And his breath is cold and damp; 
 
 Day is fading from the peaks — 
 Shut the door and light the lamp. 
 
 Let the pale and ghostly wane 
 Of the moon adown the even, 
 
 Glimmer on our door again 
 
 With the straggling stars of heaven. 
 
 Let the prowling wind arise 
 With a shriek of wild appall, 
 
 Till the frowning midnight skies 
 Throw a darkness over all. 
 
 Let the tumbling creeks fall down 
 In the darkness and the gloom, 
 
 With their echoing voices blown 
 Through the caiion's rocky room. 
 
13 
 
 Let that sad, prolonging howl 
 
 Of a coyote vagabond 
 Echo 'neath the heaven's scowl, 
 
 Dying on the cliffs beyond. 
 
 These will fill our hearts tonight 
 With such wild enchanting dreams 
 
 Of the mountains, while the light 
 O'er each quiet sleeper streams. 
 
14 
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. 
 
 Now, here is a story — I heard it in camp — 
 'Twas told by a jovial, meanderous scamp. 
 And it may be all right, and it may be but boo^ 
 But I'm half-way inclined to believe it is true. 
 
 There once was a cowboy, A. Spider by name, 
 Who made a good living by lassoing game; 
 While not far away there roamed, fearless and 
 
 free, 
 A steer which the people had christened D. Bee. 
 
 "Ho, ho!" shouted Spider; "a whopper, by 
 
 Jim! 
 I'll just have a hand-to-hand tussle with him! " 
 So up to D. Bee, Spider went on a lope, 
 Hopped off his bronco, with flexible rope, 
 And threw it quite cunningly round D. Bee's ear, 
 But got his foot in it much worse than the steer. 
 
15 
 
 They both came together in battle array, 
 And D. Bee proved the High-muck-a-muck of 
 
 the day, 
 For he stabbed him with something — he didn't 
 
 know what, — 
 But Spider climbed onto his pony and got ! 
 Nor tarried henceforth on his side of the fence, 
 And he hasn't done anything notable since. 
 
16 
 
 AT THE MOUTH OF THE CANON. 
 
 'Tis here the canon rears its gate, 
 
 To wonder-lands of mj^stery ; 
 'Tis here the hurried waters wait 
 For rest from off their high estate, 
 Ere journeying onward to the sea. 
 
 The morning sun beams o'er the plains 
 
 From broken cliff-lines in the east : 
 Smiles o'er the scattered herds and flocks, 
 And falling on these mossy rocks, 
 lyooks up a yaw^ning gulf of mist. 
 
17 
 
 THE SCUIvPTOR. 
 
 From the marble depths of the Great Unknown, 
 
 The quarry-men Hfted the pure white stone, 
 Which a sculptor bought 
 With his gold, and brought 
 
 To a dingy shop, where he planned and 
 wrought 
 
 An image from it, unseen, alone. 
 
 The curtains were drawn but the folks could 
 
 hear 
 A chip, chip, chip, that was near and clear ; 
 
 And they said, "Oh, what 
 
 Has the old man got 
 Which keeps him so close to that dreary spot, 
 With a world so bright and so sunny near?" 
 
 But the curtains raised and the neighbors 
 
 viewed 
 The head and the shoulders, pure and nude, 
 
 Of a maiden fair 
 
 With her flowing hair. 
 
18 
 
 Carved out from the stone with the greatest 
 
 care, 
 And they all exclaimed in a breath, "Who 
 
 could?" 
 
 They entered the shop where the old man sat 
 As still as death in his old slouch hat, 
 
 And asked, ' ' What face 
 
 Have you sought to trace 
 That beams so full of the love and grace 
 Which we see outlined in the work of that?" 
 
 The old man raised neither hand nor head, 
 And gave no heed to the words they said ; 
 
 And they touched his old 
 
 Thin hand, so cold. 
 Which the pitiful end of the sculptor told. 
 And they started back, for the man was dead ! 
 
 There looking down like a dreamy one, 
 
 In the marble dust with the chippings strewn, 
 
 He seemed to say. 
 
 In a silent way, 
 To a crumpled picture which near him lay, 
 They will know you now by the work I've 
 done. 
 
19 
 
 She has long been gone — so the people say — 
 
 And from early dawn to the close of day, 
 This old man roved 
 Through the world unloved, 
 
 By the joys and the griefs of the world un- 
 moved. 
 
 With his mind on a face that had passed away. 
 
 So the daughter's face, it was brought to light, 
 By her father's hand, by her father's might ; 
 
 But the old thin one 
 
 That the work had done 
 Was gone like the light of a day-spent sun, 
 To sleep unseen thro' eternal night. 
 
20 
 
 ON THE PEAK. 
 
 The wintry sun hangs blear and low, 
 And red the light is on the snow. 
 
 I hear the whisp'ring winds go b}^ 
 And mingle in the upper sky. 
 
 Far, far below, the little town 
 Darkens with night, descending down; 
 
 While treetops still remain aglow 
 With arrows glancing o'er the snow. 
 
 Those granite needles, tipped with fire, 
 Grow darker as the beams retire. 
 
 The distant landscapes fade away, 
 In beauty, with the dying day; 
 
 Yet lingering, tremulous and weak. 
 The last faint ray illumes the peak. 
 
21 
 
 A RANCHMAN'S TROUBLES. 
 
 That savage river on its way 
 
 Has swiped the profits of my ranch, 
 And soon along with other clay 
 
 'Twill start the dread malarial stench. 
 'Tis " robbing Peter to pay Paul," 
 
 And these 'ere hills will peter out, 
 If still continues constant fall 
 
 Of hail, and rain, and water-spout. 
 
 Last week's alfalfa blooms were fine ; 
 
 But who could ever calculate 
 That they'd be salted in the brine 
 
 Of every whirlpool in the state ? 
 And out from every canon wall — 
 
 Now that the water's had its fun — 
 Comes bears and bugaboos — beats all 
 
 What man can see without a gun. 
 
 My cow looks at me in despair 
 
 And moans for more alfalfa hay — 
 Her baby went to feed a bear, — 
 
 Now what in conscience can I say ? 
 For all on earth that's left us now 
 
 Are those big rocks you see up there ; 
 And they're no good for man or cow. 
 
 And only kind o' forts for bear. 
 
22 
 
 BEFORE THE STORM. 
 
 From peak to peak the daylight dies ; ' 
 From rock to rock the darkneSvS lies ; 
 While on the hill a coyote's cries 
 Are mingling with the wind, which sighs 
 About his shaggy form. 
 
 A miner on his homeward trail, 
 Harks to the wind and coyote's wail, 
 And glancing at the clouds which sail 
 Above the snowy range so pale, 
 He prophesies a storm. 
 
 Oh, what a scene when day is dying. 
 And night about the rocks is lying ; 
 While on the hill the coyote's crying 
 Is mingling with the wind's sad sighing. 
 Desolate, forlorn ! 
 
 A tired miner homeward trailing. 
 Harks to the wind and coyote's wailing, 
 And gazes at the snow-caps sailing 
 Above the distant range, fast paling — 
 Paling into storm. 
 
23 
 
 STRUCK FOR CAKE. 
 
 One day my playmate Jack and I, 
 Upon a sloping hill hard by 
 Our village home, with wagons new, 
 Were rolling down with wild halloo, 
 Directly past our neighbor's door, 
 Where oft we'd dashed along before. 
 
 Now Jack was on his downward ride. 
 With dust-clouds rolling at his side. 
 When veering from our usual course, 
 He struck the doorstep with a force 
 That spilt him out in dust and dirt. 
 And scratched his face, but not to hurt. 
 
 The inmates, startled by his cry. 
 Came out with many a "dear!" and 
 
 "my!" 
 And brushed his clothes with kindly beat. 
 And filled his hands with cookies sweet, 
 Till Jack forgot his tumble down, 
 And was the happiest boy in town. 
 
24 
 
 Well now, thought I, if people like 
 Such things as that, I'll make a strike; 
 I'll hit that doorstep — have a fall — 
 Set up a loud, heart-rending bawl, 
 Until they come with "dears!" and 
 
 "mys!" 
 And dry the tears within my eyes. 
 And set me straight upon my feet, 
 And give me cake and cookies sweet, 
 Until with goodies I'm supplied, 
 And paid quite well for all I've cried. 
 
 Well, after all my plans were laid, 
 The boyish venture then I made. 
 Down, down the dusty hill I dashed, 
 Till on the street I fairly flashed. 
 And aimed for our good neighbor's door, 
 Where Jack had struck it rich before. 
 
 I hit the doorstep, as I meant. 
 
 And — as I didn't mean to — went 
 
 Like lightning through the open door, 
 
 Across the carpet on the floor ! 
 
 A lady seated quietly, 
 
 Who was not then expecting me, 
 
 With brush in hand and many paints, 
 
25 
 
 Was fixing land and sky with tints ; 
 
 But hitting her in my advance 
 
 I scattered easel, brush and paints. 
 
 I know it was not fair at all 
 That I should make her such a call ; 
 But nothing different could I do, 
 I'd started, and I must go through ; 
 So dashing on I left her there, 
 With colors scattered everywhere. 
 
 On through the open parlor door. 
 
 Into the kitchen with a roar, 
 
 I bounded in a single breath. 
 
 And scared the cook almost to death ! 
 
 On through the kitchen door I shot 
 
 To open air and garden lot. 
 
 Where dowmward in my awful swoop, 
 
 I keeled a latticed chicken coop, 
 
 And in the shade of leafy trees, 
 
 Capsized a hive of busy bees. 
 
 The honey- workers filled the air, 
 And laid their plans for open war ; 
 Each sharped his rusty bayonet, 
 And used it, too, you'd better bet ! 
 
26 
 
 The chickens fled on every path 
 To miss the bees' increasing wrath ; 
 The cat, with tail erect from it, 
 Scaled high the fence wath hiss and spit ; 
 
 The strutting dove with loving coo, 
 Postponed his song — abrubtl}^ too ; 
 The vv^atch- dog's stern, demanding growl, 
 Changed off into a dreadful howl ; 
 A pig, receiving pointers too. 
 From quarters which he little knew, 
 Set up a squeal and danced a jig 
 Becoming to a city pig ! 
 
 Meanwhile the bees b}^ bush and tree, 
 'Mong other things did not miss me ; 
 Some downward flew my toes to seek, 
 While others sailed to shoot m}^ cheek ; 
 And one a-dashing wildly by 
 Sat down to rest above my eye ; 
 A dozen searched my back with care, 
 And ten got tangled in my hair. 
 
 The inmates gathered on the stoop. 
 To gaze on boy and hive and coop, 
 But as the bees spread out afar 
 To find new enemies to war, 
 
27 
 
 They soon retreated through the door, 
 Where I could hear their shout and roar. 
 My still increasing, wild boohoo, 
 Brought out a hundred heads to view, 
 As pushing through the storm of bees, 
 But not by any slow degrees, 
 I dashed away for heaven's sake 
 And left without a blasted cake ! 
 
28 
 
 IN CAMP. 
 
 We are here tonight 
 
 'Neath the canvas white, 
 In the midst of these lonely hills ; 
 
 Where the windy sigh 
 
 Of the stormy sky, 
 Our hearts with a sadness fills. 
 
 The river moans 
 
 O'er the tumbled stones. 
 From the clefts of the canons torn 
 
 By the hand of frost ; 
 
 While the peaks are lost 
 In the wings of a mountain storm. 
 
 We can hear the pelt, 
 
 On the canvas dealt, 
 Of the snow and the driven sleet ; 
 
 While our fancies rove 
 
 To the homes we love, 
 And the ones that we f^in would meet. 
 
29 
 
 Here under the roof 
 
 Of our water-proof, 
 We may dream of the valley land ; 
 
 Of the garden fair, 
 
 And the cottage there, 
 And the touch of a loved one's hand. 
 
 We may dream tonight 
 
 Of the nursery light, 
 And the ones we would die to save ; 
 
 Of the prayer said 
 
 By the baby's bed, 
 And the kiss which the mother gave ; 
 
 We may dream tonight 
 
 Of the cottage light, 
 Forgetting the dark and cold 
 
 Of the present place ; 
 
 And our eager race 
 Thro' these lonely lands for gold. 
 
30 
 
 THE MORNING HOUR. 
 
 When the morning steals to the kingl}^ tower, 
 The bell in the belfry proclaims the hour. 
 
 When it brushes the tips of the songsters' wings, 
 He opens his eyes to the day and sings. 
 
 When it reaches the peaks of the mountains 
 
 high. 
 They smile in the light of the morning sky. 
 
 When it kisses the flower, so fair, so bright, 
 She bows her head to the welcome light. 
 
 When it falls on the lakelet far away. 
 It sparkles and sparkles, and all is day. 
 
31 
 
 A BOY'S BALIvOON. 
 
 With hammer, hatchet, saw, and nails, 
 
 I worked, through all the noon. 
 With strings and wings like flapping sails, 
 
 To make a 7'eal balloon. 
 My mother watched and smiled at how 
 
 I worked beneath the sun; 
 But she has ceased her smiling now 
 
 At what the thi7ig has done. 
 
 The bed-time came; I went to rest; 
 
 But through the window soon 
 I saw outlined against the west 
 
 My little white balloon; 
 And running to the window-sill, 
 
 I leaned far out in glee, 
 While through the ev'ning air so still 
 
 It floated up to me. 
 
 Then in its little basket frail 
 
 I clambered witli a shout, 
 And gaily hoisting up my sail, 
 
 I through the blue struck out. 
 Above the trees, the evening breeze, 
 
 Above the cloudy bars, 
 I traveled with the greatest ease 
 
 To seek the lovely stars. 
 
32 
 
 The moon hung o'er a silvery cloud 
 
 That barred the east afar, 
 While in its cup-like concave proud 
 
 There blazed a little star; 
 And higher, higher in the blue, 
 
 Enriched by starry bowers, 
 I quickly passed away from view 
 
 Of this wee world of ours. 
 
 Beneath the arch of milky-way 
 
 I soared to higher skies. 
 As if I neared the brilliant day 
 
 Of some sweet paradise. 
 A wind stirred with the coming light, 
 
 And I was tossed about, 
 Till all at once, — ah, dreadful plight! 
 
 My strings and wings gave out! 
 
 Down through the boundless blue I went, 
 
 Through clustering stars I tore, 
 Till earth's low-floating clouds I rent, 
 
 And landed — 07i the floor! 
 And looking round with startled stare 
 
 And bumped, bewildered head, 
 I found myself within a square 
 
 Of sunshine by my bed. 
 
33 
 
 A PACK OF WINDS. 
 
 Now in and out at the open door 
 
 They stray and play 
 At their own sweet will; 
 I hear them now on tlie cabin floor, 
 
 And now on the brow 
 Of the rocky hill. 
 
 They fl}^ to the caiions deep and lone, 
 
 And frisk and whisk 
 On the cold rocks there; 
 And then depart with a sweeping tone, 
 And wail and trail 
 Thro' the pinon's hair. 
 
 They go to the caves in the granite cliff. 
 
 And creep on the sleep 
 Of the darkness there; 
 Then leave with a growl and an angry sniff, 
 And stray away 
 In the evening air. 
 
34 
 
 They scud to the peaks where the snow Hes cold 
 And white and bright 
 In the sunset's ray; 
 And there they chant on the summit bold, 
 And grieve thro' eve 
 For the dying day. 
 
 And then in the morning, soft and still, 
 They lie and sigh 
 On the cabin floor; 
 Then in and out at their own sweet will, 
 They stray and play 
 Thro' the open door. 
 
35 
 
 VISITING. 
 
 I am here a-visiting, 
 
 Visiting, visiting, 
 Guest of sweet and smiling Spring. 
 O'er the field and thro' the grove. 
 By the brooklet and the cove, 
 On the mountain's woody steep 
 Where the lovely daisies peep; 
 In the garden, thro' the corn. 
 You cau hear me in the morn 
 When I perch myself to sing; 
 
 Visiting, visiting. 
 
 What will I do when the snows 
 And the savage norther blows? 
 
 Hurricane, hurricane! 
 I will fly away to where 
 All is summer in the air, 
 
 Visiting, visiting. 
 Thro' the bush and on the wing. 
 Where the cold and icy rain 
 And the maddened hurricane 
 Can not reach me while I sing; 
 
 Visiting, visiting. 
 
36 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 The east is faintly smiling 
 
 With morn's approaching light, 
 While gliding through 
 Its banks of dew, 
 The brooklet sings of night. 
 
 Behold ! on yonder mountain, 
 MajevStic, cold and lone, 
 
 A rosy red 
 
 Has tipped the head 
 Of that aerial cone; 
 
 And while we view its splendor, 
 The lower ranges greet 
 
 The morning light; 
 
 While dying night 
 lyies silent at their feet. 
 
 Now on the rocky upland 
 We catch the morning beam; 
 
37 
 
 Now, lower still, 
 Upon the hill 
 And on the rippling stream. 
 
 The daisy heads are peeping 
 From out each leafy awning; 
 And gliding through 
 Its banks of dew 
 The brooklet sings of morning. 
 
38 
 
 IN THE MOOD. 
 
 It is summer in the mountains, 
 
 And the sun is on the trees, 
 And the breezes softly whisper 
 
 To the columbines — yet these, 
 So inviting to the senses, 
 
 Can not check the gloomy tread 
 Of my fancies thro' the winter 
 
 Of a land that's cold and dead. 
 
 It is winter in the mountains, 
 
 And the snow is on the peaks; 
 And the wind about the cafions 
 
 And the caverns raves and shrieks; 
 Yet my heart knows no misgiving. 
 
 And m}^ fancies linger sweet 
 In a land of smiling summer. 
 
 With the flowers at their feet. 
 
39 
 
 A DOMESTIC STORM. 
 
 He did not mean to be so rough; 
 
 She did not mean the words she said; 
 But as it was, 'twas just enougli 
 
 To turn domestic heavens red, 
 And raise a whirlwind in the sky. 
 
 Which ruffled their tranquihty. 
 
 Oh, when the sea of hfe is dark, 
 And waves begin to surge and roll. 
 
 In what safe ship may we embark 
 To reconcile the troubled soul ? 
 
 Kind words, my friends, will often warm 
 A heart enveloped in a storm. 
 
 He knew her blustering would but last 
 Just long enough to clear the sky; 
 
 And when the storm of tears was past 
 He saw a rainbow in her eye. 
 
 With glinting sunshine on her brow, 
 And both are very happy now. 
 
40 
 
 DEATH OF THE IVY. 
 
 Oh mother, look here, all the ivy is dead, 
 And the snow and the frost they are spoiling 
 
 its bed ! 
 It looks, oh, so barren, so cold and so sad. 
 When the bloom of the ivy is gone. 
 
 lyast night in my bed, I was thinking of when 
 It would bloom in the smile of the summer 
 
 again; 
 Refreshed b}^ the breezes, the sweet summer 
 
 rain, 
 And the smile of the heavenly sun. 
 
 But now when I look on the wreck of the vines 
 Which are tossed by the knavish and snow- 
 laden winds, 
 I feel, oh, so sad, and my heart it repines 
 To know that the ivy is gone. 
 
41 
 
 Dear daughter, look there at that thin snowy 
 
 hair, 
 Which time has so frosted with trouble and care; 
 What soul would not sink to the depth of despair 
 When the bloom of life's mission is gone? 
 
 Last night I was thinking how we, at our play 
 In the days of our childhood, so happy and gay, 
 Would build airy castles, a glitt'ring array, 
 And talk of the work to be done. 
 
 But now when I look on those hopes which are 
 
 wrecked 
 By the winters of trouble, the frosts of neglect, 
 It makes my heart sad to sit down and reflect. 
 And know that life's mission is gone. 
 
42 
 
 AFTER SUNSET. 
 
 The sunset light is crowning, 
 
 Faintly crowning, 
 , The mountains in the west; 
 
 And the stars upon the breast 
 Of the east are growing lighter. 
 Growing thicker, growing brighter, 
 As the frowning 
 Of the night, 
 Trailing on the dying light. 
 Drives the sunlight, cold and gray. 
 From the snowy peaks away. 
 
43 
 
 MOUNTAIN DAISIES. 
 
 I find them just below the hight, 
 
 Where in the breeze 
 
 The aspen trees 
 Cast sweet their checkered shade and light 
 Upon them list'ning to the bees. 
 
 There scattered thro' the waving grass, 
 
 With dewy spreads 
 
 Upon their beds, 
 The3^ watch me as I come and pass, 
 
 With their sweet, clean, uplifted heads. 
 
 Here in this lonel}^ mountain nook, 
 With sun-kissed ears 
 And dewy tears, 
 I love their quaint, inquiring look — 
 A perfect little herd of dears. 
 
44 
 
 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 How .sweet the day 
 
 Which childhood knew, 
 
 When every way 
 
 We wandered through 
 Led us to some enchanting view! 
 
 When every morn 
 
 Was welcomed o'er 
 The bending corn, 
 And thro' the door 
 Of childhood's happy home of yore. 
 
 When the advance 
 
 Of night was met 
 Without a sense 
 
 Of some regret 
 To linger when the sun was set. 
 
 Now as a dream 
 
 Unharassed, free. 
 Each happy scene 
 
 Comes back to me 
 Along the aisles of memory. 
 
 The twilight skies, 
 All overcast 
 
45 
 
 With starry eyes, 
 While in the west 
 The moon hung o'er the hilly crest. 
 
 The rainbow — set 
 
 By ev'ning's hand 
 Upon the wet 
 
 Cold cloud — which spanned 
 The rain-swept hills of prairie land. 
 
 The foggy morns 
 
 Which closed around 
 The stacks and barns 
 And garden ground, 
 And wept o'er every grassy mound. 
 
 The vicious hawks 
 
 That soared and squealed 
 O'er harvest shocks 
 Which lined the field. 
 Where "cluckie" with her brood concealed. 
 
 The whip-poor-will's 
 Sweet, plaintive note, 
 
 Which set the hills 
 And dales afloat 
 With echoes, lonely and remote. 
 
46 
 
 The prairie groves, 
 
 With hazels green, 
 Which Hned the coves 
 
 And each ravine 
 Where hiding brooks and pools were seen. 
 
 The tall, green trees, 
 
 Which waving free 
 Within the breeze. 
 
 Majestic' ly 
 
 lyooked o'er the rolling prairie sea. 
 
 Now all are gone, 
 
 Those happy scenes; 
 Yet sweet upon 
 
 My mind convenes 
 The memories of those hills and streams. 
 
 Our mother's voice 
 
 At eventide. 
 When calling us 
 
 From meadows wide, 
 To gather at the fireside. 
 
 The fire-flies bright. 
 
 Fantastic gleam, 
 Throughout the night, 
 Above the stream, 
 As evanescent as a dream. 
 
47 
 
 The reapers' song 
 
 In fields afar, 
 Which all day long, 
 
 With rhythmic jar 
 And pulsing music, filled the air. 
 
 The clearing wide, 
 
 Where oft we'd stray 
 To romp and hide 
 In boyish play, 
 Thro' all the long and sunny day. 
 
 The sumach tents 
 
 We built about 
 The shady fence, 
 
 Where in and out, 
 We bravely played the Indian scout. 
 
 The fires we made, 
 
 Whose dingy smoke 
 Mixed with the shade 
 Of spreading oak, 
 And o'er our leafy wigwams broke, 
 
 And filled our heads 
 With dreams as fair 
 
48 
 
 As when the Reds 
 Were camping there, 
 Engulfed within the hazy air. 
 
 Now all are gone, 
 
 Those happy scenes. 
 Yet sweet upon 
 M}^ mind convenes 
 Those tender reminiscent dreams. 
 
 FINALE. 
 
 Farewell, friends, but not forever; 
 
 We will wander once again 
 By the rapid rolling river; 
 
 In the quiet of the glen. 
 
 O'er the mountains and the meadows, 
 In the morning's early beam; 
 
 Thro' the silence of the shadows. 
 At the sunset's parting gleam. 
 
 Thro' the streets and in the the alleys; 
 
 On the prairie and the plain: 
 Thro' the groves and thro' the valleys, 
 
 We will wander once again.