Class VSz^<^ 
 
 Book ^ S d C y 
 
 Gop}Tight ]*^^_ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR ARE: 
 
 THE PHILIPPINES AND FILIPINOS 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF GENERAL BEADLE 
 
 THE WOMAN WITH A STONE HEART 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF SENATOR KITTREDGE 
 
 WHO'S WHO IN SOUTH DAKOTA, VOL. I. 
 
 WHO'S WHO IN SOUTH DAKOTA, VOL. II. 
 
 HISTORY AND GEOGRAPHY OF THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS 
 
LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 By OrWf COURSEY 
 
 Published by 
 
 THE EDUCATOR SUPPLY COMPANY 
 Mitchell, South Dakota 
 

 Copyrighted 
 
 1916 
 
 By 0. W. Coursey 
 
 (All rights reserved.) 
 
 AUG -3 1916 
 
 ^CI.A433919 
 
^ 
 
 Dedicated to 
 MY THREE SONS 
 
 ]L,a;uitmt 
 
 William 
 
 May you often go into the Library, and there, 
 with Mr, Longfellow: 
 
 "Read from some humble poet 
 
 Whose songs gush from his heart 
 As showers from the clouds of summer, 
 
 Or tears from the eyelids start. 
 Such songs have power to quiet 
 
 The restless pulse of care. 
 And come like the benediction 
 
 That follows after prayer." 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The History of South Dakota has been written, 
 at various times, during the past twenty years, 
 separately, by Armstrong, Robinson, Kerr, 
 Bachelder, Foster, Ransom, Kingsbury and Smith; 
 the Civics, by Smith and Young, Ross, Johnson, and 
 Ransom; the Geology, by Todd, O'Harra, and 
 Perisho; the Geography, by Beadle, Perisho 
 and Visher; a History, by titles, of the published 
 books of the state has been made by Robinson 
 in Historical Reports, and a similar list has 
 been compiled by Kerr. But the Literature, 
 proper, of the state has never been written. The 
 nearest approach to it is a book of "Dakota Rhymes," 
 compiled by Wenzlaff and Burleigh ; but, as sug- 
 gested by the title, their book contains verse only, 
 while, as a matter of fact, much of our best literature 
 and many of our ablest writers are found wholly in 
 the field of prose. However, they deserve great 
 credit for collecting the material for their book, 
 otherwise many of our best poetical productions 
 might have been lost forever. 
 
 The compilation of this book has necessitated 
 hundreds of written communications and thousands 
 of miles of travel. It covers a period of thirty-five 
 years, and it took eleven years to collect it. In the 
 First Edition of a work of this kind, there will, of 
 necessity, be errors of ommission and errors of com- 
 mission; however, patience and tolerance are in- 
 voked. The next Edition will be perfected, as far 
 as possible. 
 
Many of our pioneer writers are dead; others 
 have scattered across the continent; few remain. 
 To collect their photographs, their biographies and 
 their literary productions ; and then to classify this 
 material and decide what is really worth preserving 
 as Literature — for Literature, proper, presupposes 
 merit — has entailed an amount of work that the 
 reader of this volume can never know. Over 2,000 
 poems were read and rejected, in addition to those 
 that have been herein preserved. About 100 
 speeches, covering a great variety of subjects, were 
 collected from old newspaper files and other 
 sources. These were read and carefully sifted in 
 selecting the material for the last chapter of the 
 book. What has been kept herein of both poetry and 
 prose has been retained to show the author's style 
 or else because it seemed to have some special value. 
 
 However, if the book, itself, merits considera- 
 tion at the hands of the public, my efforts will not 
 have been in vain. To all those who assisted me, I 
 hereby acknowledge my profoundest gratitude; but 
 pnore especially to Mrs. J. W. McCarter, of Bowdle ; 
 JVlrs. Helen D. Potter, of Canning; Miss Edla 
 jLaurson, City Librarian of Mitchell; Mrs. Demah 
 Flavin, of Sturgis ; Professor Clyde Tull, Instructor 
 in English at Dakota Wesleyan University, and Dr. 
 George H. Durand, Instructor in English at Yankton 
 College. — 0. W. Coursey. 
 
 Note. — For a list of South Dakota authors' books, 
 still in print, see Catalog of Publications in the back part of 
 this book. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 POETS AND POETRY 13 
 
 Brown, Mortimer Crane 14 
 
 Bagstad, Anna E 30 
 
 Biggar, H. Howard 86 
 
 Carr, Mrs. Daisy 42 
 
 Clark, Badger 50 
 
 Clover, Sam T 58 
 
 Cearnach, Conal (Mary Martin) 64 
 
 Carr, Robert V 70 
 
 Chamberlain, Will 80 
 
 Dickinson, Mrs. Almira J 96 
 
 Garland, Hamlin 104 
 
 Hanson, Joseph Mills 112 
 
 Holmes, Charles E 126 
 
 Lawton, Charles Bracy 138 
 
 Rivola, Mrs. Flora 150 
 
 Robinson, Doane 160 
 
 Tatro, Mrs. May 170 
 
 Van Dalsem, Henry A 186 
 
 Wells, Rollin J 202 
 
 Wenzlaff, Gustav G 218 
 
 Miscellaneous 227 
 
(Contents Continued.) 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 PROSE WRITERS 245 
 
 Novelists 245 
 
 Historians 255 
 
 Biographers 258 
 
 Journalists 259 
 
 Political 260 
 
 Religious 260 
 
 Educational 261 
 
 Descriptive 261 
 
 General 262 
 
 Scientific Writers 264 
 
 Geology 265 
 
 Music (Instrumental) 266 
 
 Music (Vocal) 268 
 
 Money 268 
 
 Religion 268 
 
 Text Book Authors 269 
 
 Agriculture 269 
 
 Bookkeeping 270 
 
 Chemistry 270 
 
 Civics 270 
 
 Economics 271 
 
 Geography 271 
 
 German 272 
 
 Law 272 
 
 Logic 272 
 
 Mathematics 272 
 
 Medicine 273 
 
 Pedagogy 273 
 
 Psychology 276 
 
 Spelling 277 
 
 Typewriting 277 
 
 Compilers 277 
 
 Critiques 278 
 
(Contents Continued.) 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 ORATORS AND ORATORY 281 
 
 Branson, 0. L 282 
 
 Conklin, Gen. S. J 294 
 
 Crawford, Sen. Coe 1 297 
 
 Egan, George W 308 
 
 Harmon, Prof. T. A 320 
 
 Kemple, Prof. R. L 328 
 
 McFarland, James G 334 
 
 Perisho, Dr. E. C 339 
 
 Sterling, William B 346 
 
 COMPLETE ALPHABETICAL INDEX 352 
 
 CATALOG OF S. DAK. AUTHORS' PUBLICATIONS 
 EDUCATOR SUPPLY COMPANY'S PUBLICATIONS 
 
* ^ 
 
 $ IN A LIBRARY ^ 
 
 I I 
 
 * Here ages wait to speak and dream with thee ^ 
 
 * Of ancient pomp and pride forever gone, ^ 
 ^ And harps are hung, whose silver strings can free ^ 
 
 * The souls of those who sang at song's first dawn. ^ 
 
 4« 7R 
 
 ^ * 
 
 4" Here paths await the pressure of thy feet, ^ 
 
 * And seas of thought the shadow of thy sail, ^ 
 
 * 
 
 ^ Whereon thy distant voyaging may meet ^ 
 
 * Thought's farthest night where stars and pilot fail. ^ 
 
 * * 
 
 * Here wait the guides of ages for thy call; ^ 
 
 * With Dante, walk the white abyss of hell; ^ 
 
 * With Shakespeare, watch in Macbeth's banquet hall; ^ 
 S With Milton, hear the voice of Gabriel. '£ 
 
 t I 
 
 tK . . ♦ 
 
 4" Here may the burdens of thy daily life, 
 
 4» As at a minster gate, be laid aside; 
 
 * Thy soul be shut from sounds of human strife, M 
 
 * Thy mind and heart be charmed and beautified. ^ 
 ^^ T 
 
 * Arthur Wallace Peach. ^ 
 
 * I 
 
 * 
 
 *^*^*^^4^^^*^^^^)K*^^*^*^^*)!^*^^*^*^*)!^^^4^^^*)i^^ 
 
CHAPTER I 
 POETS AND POETRY 
 
 The Territory of Dakota was not formally or- 
 ganized until 1861. It was eleven years later before 
 the first railroad entered the region. A lack of rail- 
 roads, and the fact that numerous bands of hostile 
 Indians still roamed the plains, made development 
 slow. The Territory was divided into North and 
 South Dakota and statehood established in 1889. 
 
 Inasmuch as the early pioneers were fraught 
 with excessive hardships, early songs of the Dakota 
 plains are not numerous ; yet, during this formative 
 period, a few writers gained recognition. The 
 stronger part of our literature has, however, been 
 produced during statehood. 
 
 For so young a state. South Dakota has pro- 
 duced an abnormally large number of literary people. 
 Historically, its authors divide themselves naturally 
 into two classes, to-wit : territorial writers and state- 
 hood writers. Then these two classes divide them- 
 selves into poets and prose writers. But this his- 
 torical division could not be maintained in the prep- 
 aration of this volume, because the works of 
 several of our best territorial writers lap over into 
 our statehood. Then, too, many of them might very 
 properly be classified either as poets or as prose 
 writers, for they have excelled in both fields of lit- 
 erary endeavor. 
 
Mortimer Crane Brown 
 Biographical — Born, Westmoreland, N. Y., September 11, 
 1857. Educated in the rural schools of New York and Iowa. 
 Went to Iowa in 1867. Came to Dakota in 1879. Settled in 
 Lincoln county. Married Miss Elma Cleveland, of Water- 
 loo, Iowa, September 18, 1884. Father of three children — 
 one girl and two boys. Farmed and taught school until 1892, 
 Sold out; bought White Lake Wave, a weekly newspaper at 
 White Lake, this state. Sold out in 1902. Moved to Sioux 
 Falls. Associated with the Commercial News, a monthly 
 trade journal, for one year. Identified with Sioux Falls Daily 
 Press, 1903-08. Purchased Spearfish Enterprise. Editor of 
 same to date. 
 
MORTIMER CRANE BROWN 
 
 As a poet, Mortimer Crane Brown takes high 
 rank among the writers of our state. He belongs 
 to both literary epochs — territorial and state — for 
 his pen has been active for a third of a century, and 
 his new poems are continually being published and 
 republished by the leading papers of the West. 
 
 The meter of his verse is most perfect, and his 
 prairie songs possess a music that is delightful. His 
 vocabulary is broad ; and, with singular ease, he in- 
 variably selects from it the right word with which 
 to complete his rhymes. 
 
 Although Brown's musings cover a wide range 
 of thought and varying sentiment, he is, neverthe- 
 less, first of all, a descriptive poet. The coloring of 
 his description is very artistic, and he weaves into 
 it a lofty sentiment that is inspirational in the ex- 
 treme. What could be prettier as descriptive poetry 
 than his two following selections? 
 SYLVAN LAKE 
 Calm, placid mirror of the skies. 
 
 Safe guarded by thy rocky walls, 
 In tranquil sleep thy bosom lies. 
 Or, sighing, gv^ntly heaves and falls. 
 
 The stern gray rocks that grandly lift 
 
 Their furrowed faces high in air 
 To where the sun-kissed vapors drift, 
 
 Smile down upon thee, sleeping there. 
 
16 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 The tall, dark pines, thy henchmen good, 
 Close to thy dancing ripples press, 
 
 Or bow their heads in pensive mood 
 To whisper of thy loveliness. 
 
 Fair Sylvan Lake! No tempests sweep 
 Across thy doubly-guarded breast; 
 
 In calm content thy beauties sleep, 
 A haven of untrammeled rest. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL BIG STONE 
 
 When from the burdens and toil of the day 
 
 Mortals, aweary, would wander away, 
 Shake from their spirits the mantle of care, 
 
 Seeking for freedom, as birds in the air. 
 Gladly they turn to thy restful retreat. 
 
 Where sister states in sweet unity meet, 
 Bathe in thy waters and float on thy breast. 
 
 Beautiful Big Stone, the Gem of the West!' 
 
 Light on thy bosom the water-fowl glides, 
 
 Deep in thy waters the finny shoal hides. 
 Tempting the sportsman his skill to employ, 
 
 Crowning each day with its measure of joy; 
 Softly re-echo from forest and shore 
 
 Puff of the steamer and plash of the oar. 
 Bearing glad heai'ts on a pleasure-bound quest — 
 
 Beautiful Big Stone, the Gem of the West! 
 
 Here gentle Nature communes with the soul. 
 
 Murmuring low in the billows that roll. 
 Singing sweet songs in the whispering trees, 
 
 Lisp of the ripple and sigh of the breeze. 
 Smoothing the wrinkle and bringing again 
 
 Sunshine and youth to the spirits of men; 
 All who are weary thou givest them rest. 
 
 Beautiful Big Stone, the Gem of the West! 
 
POETS AND POETRY 17 
 
 Poets differ as to the season of the year in which 
 they sing. Some awaken with the hum of the bees 
 and confine themselves to spring-time melodies. 
 Others find their inspiration in the green hues of 
 June. A few of them chant only in harvest time. 
 Many begin to sing when "The melancholy days 
 have come." Occasionally one of them finds his 
 only enchantment in the falling of the soft, downy 
 snow-flakes of mid-winter. 
 
 From this standpoint, Brown is a noted excep- 
 tion. He finds poetic cheer from January on through- 
 out the seasons to January again. Equally at home 
 in all seasons of the year, his inspiration seems to be 
 continuous. The various moods of seasonable poets 
 are all combined in him. His is the heart universal ; 
 his, the poetic genius complete. 
 
 One's viewpoint of Brown becomes more com- 
 prehensive when he clusters together the poet's 
 several selections that pertain to the seasons of the 
 year, arranges them in a logical sequence, and then 
 reviews them collectively. 
 
 FARMIN' IN DAKOTA 
 
 When old Winter gets his back broke an' begins ter lose his 
 
 grip, 
 An' the north end of airth's axle toward the sun begins ter 
 
 tip; 
 When the butter-ducks go whizzin' to their summer feedin' 
 
 grounds, 
 An' the medder-lark salutes us with the old familiar sounds; 
 
18 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 When the grass begins ter nestle at the news the breezes 
 
 bring, 
 An' the prairie all around us wakens at the touch o' Spring, 
 0, it's then I like ter hustle, when the day begins ter crack, 
 An' go farmin' in Dakota — when the birds come back. 
 
 In the hush of airly mornin', when the stars are still in sight, 
 An' the fleecy mists sail upward in the dim uncertain light. 
 Every sound that breaks the quiet seems ter let a feller know 
 That the seed-time is a-comin' an' it's time ter make things 
 
 go. 
 The honk o' north-bound ganders comes a-floatin' from the 
 
 blue. 
 An' the grouse fill in the chorus with a lusty "bim-bum-boo!" 
 An' the bullfrogs tease a feller with their everlastin' clack, 
 To go farmin' in Dakota — when the birds come back. 
 
 When the pussies on the willers er a-swellin' fit ter bust. 
 An' th' win' flowers poke their bunnits through the hillock's 
 
 dingy crust; 
 When the smell o' burnin' strawstacks is a-floatin' in the air, 
 An' the prairie fire its beacons is a-lightin' everywhere; 
 Then the instinct prods a feller ter prepare for time o' need, 
 An' he longs ter tear the ground up an' fling wide the golden 
 
 seed; 
 So he hooks his team tergether, o'er his shoulder slings a 
 
 sack. 
 An' goes farmin' in Dakota — when the birds come back. 
 
 In the winter time a feller kinder seems ter lose his hold. 
 An' his blood gits thick an' sluggish, till he 'lows he'.s gettin' 
 
 old. 
 He'll poke round among his cattle, from the haystack to the 
 
 barn. 
 With a feelin' that he'd kinder like ter jump the whole 
 
 consarn; 
 
POETS AND POETRY 19 
 
 But when his lazy nostrils git a sniff o' comin' spring-, 
 
 An' his eyes light on the shadder of a wild goose on the 
 
 wing, 
 0, it sets his blood a-prancin', an' he longs ter leave his 
 
 shack 
 An' go farmin' in Dakota — when the birds come back. 
 
 0, the independent feelin' every pioneer hez known. 
 
 When he sets his plow a-diggin' in the ground that's all his 
 
 own! 
 'Tis the way ter Nature's store-house, all her treasures ter 
 
 unfold, 
 An' the man that keeps it punchin' never fails ter git the 
 
 gold; 
 So while many er a-kickin' at the way the world is run, 
 I'll plod onwai'd in the furrow, through the shadder an' the 
 
 sun, 
 Quite content ter trust the Giver, at whose hand we never 
 
 lack. 
 An' keep farmin' in Dakota — when the birds come back. 
 
 SPRING 
 
 Oh Spring! Ethereal Spring! 
 
 Whose praise all poets sing. 
 To thee I wake the tuneful lyre 
 
 And smite its chords till I perspire 
 As wallowing through thy wealth of mire, 
 
 I drink thy beauty in. 
 While earth reviving drops descend 
 
 And drench me to the skin. 
 
 Best season of the year. 
 When heaven seems ever near. 
 When geese and poets plume their wings, 
 And soar above terrestrial things, 
 
20 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 When the small boy his mud ball flings, 
 
 Against my Sunday coat, 
 When navigation is played out. 
 
 Unless you own a boat. 
 
 Hi ♦ :JJ * * 
 
 Sweet time of bud and bloom, 
 
 Dispelling all our gloom. 
 When Spring begins her gentle reign. 
 
 When birds are in the trees again, 
 And back to the schoolhouse in the lane 
 
 The schoolma'am comes, God bless her! 
 And the glib-tongued tree man takes you in 
 
 And likewise the assessor. 
 
 APRIL 
 
 The robins have come back again. 
 
 The meadow-larks are here, 
 And bashful little wind-flowers 
 
 In every nook appear. 
 The frogs have been thawed out three times, 
 
 They now are "in the swim," 
 And wake the evening echoes 
 
 With their old accustomed vim. 
 
 The sun shines bright at nine o'clock, 
 
 High winds prevail at noon. 
 Then on the roof the raindrops play 
 
 Ere night, a merry tune. 
 From out the dingy last year's growth 
 
 Young grass begins to peep, 
 And soon the prairies' emerald slopes 
 
 Will swarm with frisking sheep. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 21 
 
 There's health and strength and deep content 
 
 In every breath we draw. 
 Fresh life and vigor come with spring, 
 
 For this is nature's law. 
 Though ears and toes have long been cold, 
 
 Yet now with joy we sing: 
 " 'Tis worth the whole of winter time 
 
 To get a taste of spring." 
 
 MAY 
 
 Month of flowers! We smile to see 
 Warmth and light return with thee; 
 Trees that leafless were and sere, 
 Now in emerald robes appear; 
 Birds we missed the winter long. 
 Thrill thy praise in joyous song. 
 From the carpet of the grass 
 Nodding at us as we pass. 
 Flowers we oft have known before, 
 Smile upon us as of yore. 
 Overhead the skies are blue 
 E'en as when the earth was new; 
 White above the swaying tree 
 Fleecy clouds float lazily; 
 All things cold and dead appear 
 Quickened, as thy steps draw near. 
 From the dullness of the tomb 
 Into sudden life and bloom. 
 And into the hearts of men 
 Creeps the warmth of youth again; 
 Calling back the blossoms fair 
 Crowded out by toil and care. 
 All the joys of other years, 
 Shrouded by a mist of tears 
 Brightly o'er our memories play 
 At the coming of the May. 
 
22 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 AFTER HARVEST 
 
 The binder now is silent 
 
 And the trim stacks dot the plain, 
 The thresher, through the hazy air, 
 
 Drones forth a soft refrain; 
 Like golden sands the winnowed wheat 
 
 O'erleaps the measure's rim, 
 While stack-bound crickets murmur sweet 
 
 To swell the harvest hymn. 
 
 Upon the slowly ripening grass 
 
 The sleepy cattle feed. 
 While lazy zephyi-s wander past 
 
 To stir the tumble-weed. 
 Among the glinting stubble spears 
 
 The skulking chickens run. 
 Or — where no hunters rouse their fears — 
 
 Lie basking in the sun. 
 
 Content and plenty seem to brood 
 
 O'er hamlet, field and farm; 
 Brown autumn, with her stores of food 
 
 Imparts an added charm. 
 And as our garners overflow 
 
 Our hearts are turned above 
 To Him who sends to all below 
 
 Rich tokens of His love. 
 
 ON THE HAY 
 
 Oh, very far back in the pathway of life 
 
 In the days yet untarnished by trouble and strife. 
 
 There are scenes that shine bright in my memory yet, 
 There are pleasures and pains I never forget. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 23 
 
 I remember the days when a boy, on the farm, 
 
 When all things were touched by youth's magical charm, 
 
 When I wandered at will 'neath the whispering trees. 
 
 And at pleasure communed with the birds and the bees. 
 
 Yet e'en in those bright days some sorrows I knew. 
 
 Some dark tints to soften life's radiant hue; 
 Some hope unfulfilled, some desire unattained, 
 
 Oft would darken my eyes to the joys that remained, 
 And then, when the world seemed to mock at my grief. 
 
 To seclusion I turned in my quest for relief. 
 From the source of my sorrow stole softly away, 
 
 To crawl up in the barn and lie down on the hay. 
 
 There, safe from derision, unseen and unheard. 
 
 New thoughts and ambitions my youthful heart stirred. 
 As prone 'neath the long, sagging rafters I lay 
 
 And drank in the scent of the fresh-garnered hay. 
 While through the wide door came the stir of the leaves. 
 
 And the swallows' quick notes as they toiled 'neath the 
 eaves, 
 A balm from above seemed to fall on my heart. 
 
 And a feeling of infinite peace to impart. 
 
 And now, 'mid the toils and temptations of life, 
 
 When every new day with its danger is rife, 
 When with each seeming pleasure some sorrow is found. 
 
 And the snares of the spoiler lie thickly around. 
 My spirit turns backward in memory sweet 
 
 To those blessed hours spent in peaceful retreat; 
 And I long from earth's battles to scurry away. 
 
 Crawl up in the barn and lie down on the hay. 
 
24 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 AUTUMN DREAMS 
 
 When the maples turn to crimson 
 
 'Neath the fingers of the frost, 
 When the gardens and the meadows 
 
 All their summer bloom have lost, 
 When from off the lowland marshes 
 
 Blue, etherel vapors rise. 
 And a dreamy haze is flooding, 
 
 Through the mellow, sunlit skies. 
 
 Then I know the year is dying. 
 
 Soon the summer will be dead; 
 I can trace it in the flying 
 
 Of the black crows overhead. 
 I can hear it in the rustle 
 
 Of the dead leaves as I pass. 
 And the south wind's plaintive sighing 
 
 Through the dry and withered grass. 
 
 Oh, 'tis then I love to wander, 
 
 Wander idly and alone; 
 Listening to the solemn music 
 
 Of sweet nature's undertone; 
 Rapt in thoughts I cannot utter. 
 
 Dreams my tongue cannot express. 
 Dreams that match the autumn's sadness 
 
 In their longing tendei'ness. 
 
 Thoughts of friends my heart hath cherished 
 In the summer days gone by; 
 
 Hopes that all too soon must perish. 
 E'en as summer blossoms die. 
 
 Luckless plans and vain ambitions. 
 Stranded, long ere summer's prime, 
 
 Buried, as will be the flowers, 
 
 'Neath the winter snows of time. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 25 
 
 Yet, although my thoughts are sadder 
 
 Than in summer's wealth of bloom, 
 'Tis a sadness that makes better, 
 
 And is not akin to gloom. 
 Oh, the human heart seems purer. 
 
 Much of earth's defilement lost, 
 When the maple turns to crimson 
 
 'Neath the fingers of the frost. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 Oh! balmy and blue are the skies of September 
 
 And cool are her breezes through forest and dell. 
 Her calm, mellow days are a thing to remember. 
 
 All nature seems wrapped in her magical spell. 
 But lose not the thought that the summer is ended. 
 
 And fast on its footsteps stern winter will stride. 
 For in dreamy September 'tis well to remember 
 
 A season draws nigh for which all must provide. 
 
 This life is a year, with its various seasons. 
 
 Gay youth is its springtime, its summer our prime, 
 While softly aslant fall sunbeams of autumn 
 
 On paths that slope down on the hillside of time; 
 But the mildness of fall cannot linger forever. 
 
 The boughs will be stirred with a frostier breath. 
 Oh! heed the bright days as they hurry us onward, 
 
 And wisely prepare for the winter of death. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 The woodland is ablaze 
 
 With the glory of dying leaves. 
 And over the sun-browned ways 
 
 Come homeward the ripened sheaves. 
 The amber sunset gates 
 
 By the ruddy orb are kissed. 
 While the harvest moon, as a bride who waits. 
 
 Beams soft through the rising mist. 
 
26 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 O saddened, yet sacred days, 
 
 When the harvest of life is done! 
 How sweet, through the soft'ning haze. 
 
 Smiles backward the sinking sun! 
 The glory of days well spent 
 
 Shines forth on the dying leaves, 
 As the chariot of God is sent 
 
 To garner life's ripened sheaves. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 November brings the mellow haze 
 Of smoky Indian summer days. 
 
 The last warm throb of Nature's heart 
 Ere Winter, with his ice-tipped dart. 
 
 Cuts short the life of bud and bloom 
 And weaves his ermine o'er her tomb. 
 
 Aslant, yet kind, the sunbeams fall, 
 
 In vain endeavor to recall 
 The rose's smile, the wild bird's lay 
 
 And all that made the summer day 
 A time to revel and rejoice 
 
 In sympathy with Nature's voice. 
 
 Above the brook the willows lean 
 To drop their robes of faded green 
 
 And watch each cast-off vestment float 
 As lightly as a fairy boat 
 
 Out to the far and unknown sea 
 That symbols our eternity. 
 
 The squirrel in his winter den 
 
 Feels the warm touch of life again, 
 
 The field-mouse nestles in her cell 
 
 And dreams of Spring's enchanted spell 
 
 When through the torpor of her sleep 
 A wakening voice shall softly creep. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 27 
 
 Glad respite from a tyrant's sway, 
 
 All hail, however brief thy stay! 
 And when the last bright day is done 
 
 And wintry clouds obscure the sun 
 Thy smile shall still remain to cheer — 
 
 A sweet remembrance through the year. 
 
 FALL 
 
 After the heat of Summer 
 
 Come the cool, sweet days of Fall, 
 When field and wood re-echo, 
 
 With the gathering wild-birds' call; 
 The bloom of the Spring is faded 
 
 But beauty is with us still 
 For purple and gold and crimson 
 
 Blaze forth from each vale and hill. 
 
 The purple of smiling asters, 
 
 The plumes of the golden-rod, 
 And the frost-touched leaves of Autumn 
 
 Seem to mirror the smiles of God; 
 And our hearts bow down in homage 
 
 To Him who is over all. 
 For the sense of His love vouchsafed us 
 
 In the beauties of the Fall. 
 
 WHEN THE SNOW IS ON THE PRAIRIE 
 
 When the snow is on the prairie 
 
 N' the drift is in the cut. 
 An' life gets a trifle dreary 
 
 Joggin' in the same ole rut, 
 Nothin' like a good ole fiddle 
 
 Takes the wrinkles out o' things. 
 There's the chirp o' larks an' robins 
 
 In the twitter of the strings. 
 
28 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 When the whizzin', roarin' blizzard 
 
 Is a shuttin' out the day, 
 An' the balmy breath o' summer 
 
 Seems a thousand years away, 
 You kin start the eaves a drippin' 
 
 With the tinklin' of 'er strings. 
 You kin hear the water bubblin' 
 
 From a dozen different springs. 
 
 Rub the bow across the resin. 
 
 Twist the pegs an' sound your A, 
 There'll be bobolinks a clinkin' 
 
 When you once begin ter play. 
 Bees'll waller in the clover, 
 
 Blossoms whisper in the sun. 
 All the world a runnin' over 
 
 With the sunshine an' the fun. 
 
 Git the gals and boys together. 
 
 Partners all for a quadrille: 
 Cheeks aglow with frosty weather. 
 
 Hearts that never felt a chill, 
 Youth an' music never weary — 
 
 Though they meet in hall or hut- 
 When the snow is on the prairie 
 
 An' the drift is in the cut. 
 
 "Sashy by an' s'lute yer pardners, 
 Sashy back an' how d'ye do!" 
 
 Everybody's feelin' funny 
 
 An' the fiddle feels it too. 
 
 Out o' doors the storm may sputter, 
 But within the skies are bright, 
 
 Pansies peekin' out, an' butter- 
 Cups a bobbin' in the light. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 29 
 
 O, the joy ov healthful pleasure! 
 
 O, the trip ov tireless feet! 
 While the fiddle fills each measure 
 
 With its music soft and sweet; 
 Glints ov sun the shadows vary, 
 
 Though from out the world we're shut, 
 When the snow is on the prairie 
 
 An' the drift is in the cut. 
 
 ANOTHER CHANCE 
 
 • 
 
 When the winter closes round us 
 
 And the skies are cold and gray, 
 Oft' a sense of desolation 
 
 Fills the spirit with dismay. 
 But when earth to life is waking 
 
 In the joy of springing plants 
 Nature, kind, indulgent mother. 
 
 Offers us another chance. 
 
 Oft' we toil throughout the summer 
 
 And our work seems all in vain. 
 Autumn brings us empty garners 
 
 When we hoped for golden grain, 
 And the woz-ld seems all against us 
 
 As the winter days advance, 
 Yet we know the spring is coming 
 
 When we'll have another chance. 
 
 Courage, then, be ever with us. 
 
 As in hope we labor on. 
 Looking forward to the harvest 
 
 When our better day shall dawn, 
 Knowing that, although our castles 
 
 Fall before Misfortune's lance. 
 When the Spring in beauty wakens 
 
 We shall have another chance. 
 
Anna E. Bagstad 
 
 Biographical — Born on farm near Yankton, Feb. 27, 1879. 
 Parents, pioneers. They came to Dakota in 1867. She at- 
 tended country school, and Yankton Academy. Began teach- 
 ing when quite young. Spent 1900-01, Chicago, doing uni- 
 versity work. Taught, Northland college, Ashland, Wis., 
 1901-02. Next year attended Yankton college. Was 
 graduated in 1903 from the department of elocution and 
 oratory, and won the state and inter-state oratorical contests, 
 Took B. A. degree, Yankton, 1905. Principal Vermillion 
 high school, 1905-06. Insturctor history and German, North- 
 land college, 1906. Went abroad, 1908. Toured Europe. 
 Spent 1910-11 Emerson College of Oratory, Boston. Instructor 
 Aberdeen, S. D., Normal, three years. In 1915, removed to 
 state of Oregon. 
 
ANNA E. BAGSTAD 
 Miss Bagstad has written a number of good 
 poems that have been published at various times. 
 Among these are "Greeting and Farewell," a tribute 
 to Dr. G. W. Nash ; "Magic," "Bought and Paid For," 
 and "Voltaire." Her place in the literature of the 
 state will, however, rest largely on two poems, 
 "What is Life," and "A Fragment;" and upon her 
 translation from the German of "The Sistine 
 Chapel." The two poems and the first two stanzas 
 of the translation are herein given : 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE 
 
 A poet asked the question of a rose, 
 
 As one fair day drew lingering to a close. 
 
 Breathing the incense of her heart above 
 
 She answered blushing: "Life — ah, life is love!" 
 
 A songbird from his deep embowered nest 
 Sang to the glories of the purpling west 
 
 A song of gladness, pure, without alloy. 
 The poet heard: "This life is only joy." 
 
 "And what say ye?" — this to the ants that low 
 
 Beside his feet on busy errands go. 
 A thousand-voiced reply from out the soil — 
 
 And myriads caught the echo: "Life is toil." 
 
 Into the twilight wood the poet strayed 
 
 And found within the solitude a maid; 
 Waiting a skiff approaching o'er the stream. 
 
 She murmured: "Life — oh, happy, happy dream!" 
 
LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Softly the darkness settles, and on high 
 
 Myriads of stars begem the dusky sky. 
 Faint whispers breathe 'twixt heaven and earth and sea, 
 
 "Life is an everlasting mystery." 
 
 Now to the hermit's cave the wanderer hied. 
 
 He to the question wearily replied, 
 Sighing, as low his wavering taper burned: 
 
 "Life is a school where nothing can be learned." 
 
 The penitent — the midnight long since sped — 
 Upon the wayside stones reclined his head. 
 
 "How long," he said, "how full of strife appears 
 The pilgrimage through this dim vale of tears!" 
 
 Celestial artists change from somber gray 
 To rainbow tints the curtains of the day. 
 
 Till at God's bidding these are upward rolled 
 And mortals view the morning's court of gold. 
 
 From each unfolding bud the shadows flee; 
 
 Earth echoes with a living melody, 
 And through the anthems of exulting birds 
 
 There thrills a voice — the poet hears the words: 
 
 "If even comes, O man, to find thee more 
 
 Like to the great Ideal than before; 
 If thou art nobler when this day is spent, 
 
 Then hast thou lived: life is development." 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 Daylight that came upon the hills of Rome — 
 Looking upon the city's majesty 
 And on the country's loveliness without, — 
 Saw hanging, pierced and bleeding on the cross 
 
POETS AND POETRY 33 
 
 A dying saint; the first pale sun-ray smiled 
 
 On youthful Julia's face where agony 
 
 Since yesternoon had held its cruel sway; 
 
 Beamed on the form that once had burned with life, 
 
 And burned with love for one that hung before 
 
 Upon the cross; and for this love she died. 
 
 A Roman youth returning from a scene 
 Of nightly revel, wandering o'er the hills 
 To cool his heated brow — where rested still 
 The wild voluptuary's laurel crown — 
 Found himself face to face with her that hung 
 Upon the cross. No more her countenance 
 Bore trace of pain. The spirit as it rose 
 To him she loved and died for, left a look 
 Of triumph, holiness and joy and peace. 
 And the young Roman gazed upon the face 
 In its transfigured beauty till there rose 
 Within his soul a high and holy fear. 
 Thoughts of unknown and of eternal things — 
 And underneath the pierced and bleeding feet 
 In reverence he laid his withered crown. 
 
 O holy Truth, the morning surely comes 
 When Eri'or, issuing from his nightly haunt. 
 Crowned from the revel meets thee face to face. 
 He finds thee bleeding, dying, crucified 
 And yet immortal. And thou shalt not be 
 As some crushed martyr, but a conqueror. 
 Through suffering made strong and sanctified. 
 And when the glory of the dawning day 
 Shines on thy face, God's fear shall smite his heart 
 And he shall lay his laurels at thy feet. 
 
34 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL 
 
 (Translated from the German.) 
 
 In the dim and lofty chamber of the Sistine Chapel grand 
 Sits the sculptor with the Bible clasped within his nervous 
 
 hand; 
 Michael Angelo the mighty, lost as in a waking dream; 
 Near him one small lamp suspended sheds abroad a feeble 
 
 gleam. 
 
 He is speaking! Through the arches loud and long his words 
 
 resound. 
 Are these friends to listen to him by the midnight wrapped 
 
 around? 
 Now he speaks as if almighty powers hearkened at his word; 
 Softly now, as if by human ears the saddened tones were 
 
 heard. 
 
H. Howard Biggar 
 
 Biographical — Born, Aurora, S. D. Graduated, Brookings 
 high school, 1905; South Dakota State College, 1910. As- 
 sistant Agronomist, S. D. S. C. Experiment Station, two 
 years. Postgraduate work, Oregon Agricultural College, one 
 year. Instructor in Agriculture, Northern Normal and In- 
 dustrial School, Aberdeen, S. D., two years. At present 
 (1916) identified with Bureau of Plant Industry, Washington, 
 D. C. 
 
H. HOWARD BIGGAR 
 
 One of our young poets who suddenly found 
 himself and began to write with an inviting rhythm 
 is H. Howard Biggar, a native born South Dakotan. 
 Almost before his friends realized it he produced 
 enough poems for a whole volume. They cover a 
 wide range of subjects. Five of his shorter ones 
 are herein given : 
 
 HARNEY PEAK 
 
 When yer feeling* sad and lonely, 
 
 And the days just drag along, 
 When you'd give most all yer pleasure 
 
 Fer a bit of laugh and song. 
 When the clouds are hangin' heavy, 
 
 In the sky no brilliant streak. 
 Mount a Rocky Mountain burro; 
 
 Hit the trail fer Harney Peak. 
 
 When the friend you thought sincerest, 
 
 Like a traitor proves untrue. 
 When the shadows quickly gather. 
 
 Hiding ev'ry tint and hue, 
 Seek the trail that's v^^inding upward 
 
 Where old Nature seems to speak, 
 Mount a Rocky Mountain burro, 
 
 Hit the trail fer Harney Peak. 
 
 And you'll canter through the gulches 
 Where the streams reflect the blue, 
 
 And you'll wander through the forest 
 Where the sun is hid from view; 
 
38 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Through the pine-clad peaks a trailin' 
 Where old Nature seems to speak, 
 
 Mount a Rocky Mountain burro 
 Hit the trail fer Harney Peak. 
 
 THE SUNSET LAND 
 
 Have you ever dreamed in your fondest dreams 
 
 Of the land v^here the sunsets die? 
 
 Where you catch the gleams of the silv'ry streams 
 
 'Neath the blue of a cloudless sky? 
 
 Where the waters leap to the canyons deep 
 
 And the pines in their splendor stand, 
 
 Then I know for you, 'twas a vision true 
 
 For you dreamed of the Sunset Land. 
 
 Have you ever sighed at the close of day, 
 
 As you gazed from the open door. 
 
 For a glimpse of the peaks where Nature speaks 
 
 For the sound of the ocean's roar? 
 
 Have you ever thought of a blissful spot 
 
 With the touch of an artist's hand? 
 
 Then I know for you, 'twas a longing true 
 
 For you longed for the Sunset Land. 
 
 Have you ever paused at the dawn of day 
 
 When the old world floods with light? 
 
 And sighed for the place where the geysers play 
 
 And the eagle wings its flight? 
 
 Where the ice-fields glare in the cooling air 
 
 And the tide-wave sweeps the sand. 
 
 Then I know your quest was the golden west 
 
 And you sighed for the Sunset Land. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 39 
 
 THE WORLD'S OUT-OF-DOORS 
 
 'Tis joy to ride o'er the grassy plains 
 
 And follow the wild stampede, 
 
 To rest at night 'neath the star's pale light 
 
 By the side of your faithful steed; 
 
 There's health in the chase for the wily game 
 
 And joy in the sport that thrills, 
 
 As you listen at morn for the huntsman's horn 
 
 And canter away to the hills. 
 
 There are forests vast where I fain would roam. 
 
 There are mountains with caps of snow, 
 
 There are canyons steep where the waters leap 
 
 To the chasms so far below; 
 
 And whether we ride o'er the billowy plains 
 
 Or sail o'er the surging sea. 
 
 There's joy in the quest for the life that's best. 
 
 The life that is wild and free; 
 
 I love the scent of the towering pines, 
 
 The gleam of the heaving seas. 
 
 The tints that glow when the sun is low. 
 
 The life that is wild and free, 
 
 I love to stand by the cascade's brink 
 
 Where the water in splendor pours, 
 
 And catch the spell of the throbs that swell 
 
 From the heart of the world's outdoors. 
 
 THE CALL OF THE WEST 
 
 I see in my dreams oftentimes as I rest. 
 
 The peaks where the snow-caps are glowing, 
 
 And I hear the dull roar of the waters that pour 
 
 In the land where the rivers are flowing. 
 
 I list and I hear the clear beckoning call 
 
 Of the woods and the mountains — and then 
 
 I am gripped by the spell — there's a feeling of — well 
 
 I just wish I were out West again. 
 
40 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 I sit by the hearth where the embers are bright 
 
 And they crackle a message so cheery, 
 
 There's a hush in the street and there's no one to greet, 
 
 And the world seems so lonely and dreary. 
 
 But I drift far away, where the cataracts play, 
 
 I am lost in the grandeur — and then 
 
 There's a spell I can't tell or express very well, 
 
 But I wish I were out West again. 
 
 I hear in my dreaming, the sound of the sea, 
 
 Where the breakers are roaring and crashing. 
 
 In the midst of the deep, where the ships proudly sweep, 
 
 And the waters are foaming and dashing. 
 
 On the hurricane deck, we are off — soon a speck 
 
 We are lost in the distance — and then 
 
 I am gripped by the spell, there's a feeling of — well 
 
 I just wish I were out West again. 
 
 THE CALL OF THE RANGE 
 
 I have played my part in the bustling mart 
 
 Where the restless thousands dwell, 
 
 I've been swept aside by the restless tide 
 
 Where they barter and buy and sell. 
 
 I have fought my fight as I saw the right. 
 
 In the battle with knavish men, 
 
 And I cease my quest in the great unrest 
 
 For the call of the range again. 
 
 I have taken heed of the lust and greed 
 
 Where the masters wrest the spoil, 
 
 I have spent my time 'mid the dust and grime, 
 
 In the ranks where the minions toil; 
 
 And I loathe the glare and the strife and care 
 
 And the surge of the human sea. 
 
 So I've slung my pack and I'm going back. 
 
 For the range is a-calling me. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 41 
 
 I can feel the thrill of the stampede still, 
 
 As it swept o'er the prairies wide, 
 
 I have caught the spell of the tales they tell 
 
 At the close of the long day's ride. 
 
 I have known the zest of the boundless West 
 
 Of the region of fearless men. 
 
 So I cease my life in the city's strife 
 
 For the call of the range again. 
 
 Men may spend their time 'mid the dust and grime 
 
 Where the great steel structures rise, 
 
 But in sweet content, I will pitch my tent 
 
 'Neath the blue of the rangeland skies; 
 
 For there's health I know where the sunsets glow, 
 
 There's a life that is wild and free, 
 
 So I've slung my pack and Fm going back 
 
 Where the range is a-calling me. 
 
Daisy Dean-Carr 
 
 Biographical — Born in Mower county, Minnesota. Came 
 to Dakota in 1883. Educated in the rural schools of Minne- 
 sota and South Dakota; under a private tutor at Jackson, 
 Mich; in the Flandreau, S. D., public schools and at the Madi- 
 son, S. D., state normal; also took special training, Chicago 
 University. Taught school at Bethel, Michigan; in the rural 
 schools of South Dakota and in the village of Egan. Elected 
 superintendent of Moody county in 1902. Refused re-election 
 in 1904. Married Frank W. Carr in 1905. Husband died 
 February 3, 1910. Mother of one child— a girl. Re-elected 
 superintendent of Moody county in 1908, and elected again 
 in 1910. At present, critic teacher in the Madison state 
 normal. 
 
MRS. DAISY DEAN-CARR 
 
 Mrs. Carr writes both prose and poetry, with 
 equal skill and grace. But her reputation as a 
 writer will, in all probability, rest upon her poetical 
 productions. She sings with a melody that is dis- 
 tinctly feminine, and her musings revel in nature 
 and immortality. 
 
 While yet a mere girl, at the time of her gradu- 
 ation, she was chosen poetess of her class. In 1896 
 she wrote many poems — the best of which is her 
 "Education's Everest." However, in 1898, her poet- 
 ical instinct began to give expression to more mature 
 poems, as is evidenced by her "Hidden Beauties." 
 The next year her "Good Night" appeared, and then 
 nine years passed by. Training children in the 
 schoolroom has given way to her own babe, standing 
 at its mother's knee. Maternal responsibilities, 
 grief and patient thought, wean our poetess from 
 the rambling verses of childhood, which bordered on 
 poetastry, so that, in 1908, we find her in deeper 
 reflection ; and from her poetical meditations of that 
 year we have selected the following poems which 
 illustrate most acceptably her easy style : 
 
 TREASURES 
 
 Covered now by dust and cobwebs. 
 
 In an attic chamber bare. 
 Are some treasures far more precious 
 
 Than much gold or jewels rare. 
 
44 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Would you view these treasures with iixe?- 
 Come and I will gladly show — 
 
 None but I could tell you rightly — 
 None but I their value know. 
 
 See you this most ancient rocker; 
 
 Sit you down — 'twas once my sires'; 
 His descended from his father's, 
 
 Formerly from Devonshire. 
 
 Note the richness of the carving — 
 Quaint the beauty of design; 
 
 Massive — strong — a fitting relic 
 Of the Brittons of that time. 
 
 See this heavy oaken cradle; 
 
 This for generations three 
 Rocked my mother's mother's kindred — 
 
 Finally it served for me. 
 
 Here's a spinning wheel much valued 
 
 As a relic of the day 
 When we as a puny nation 
 
 Dared defy King George's sway. 
 
 And my grandma often told me 
 Of the spinning night and day, 
 
 Done by mothers, wives and sisters 
 For their heroes far away. 
 
 As this very wheel did service 
 In that cause so just and right, 
 
 You'll not wonder at the value 
 It acquires in my sight. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 45 
 
 Over 'gainst the wall you notice 
 
 Hang a rusty sword and gun; 
 Those my great grandsire carried 
 
 Through the war from Lexington. 
 
 Right beneath these hangs a musket 
 
 Much more modern in its make; 
 This my father bravely carried 
 
 In the war between the states. 
 
 These and many other relics 
 
 It would take too long to show; — 
 I'll not tax your patience further 
 
 With my tales of "long ago." 
 
 You are young, and in the present 
 Live your thought and hopes so dear; 
 
 Mine, as ever do the ageds' 
 Oft revert to by-gone years. 
 
 Here within this dusty attic 
 
 With my treasures worn and old, 
 Happy mem'ries hover round me 
 
 Bringing peace and joy untold. 
 
 SPRINGTIME IN DAKOTA 
 
 Winter's reign is nearly over — 
 
 Many signs portend; 
 Jack Frost's frolicsome adventures 
 
 Very soon must end. 
 Broken are the icy fetters 
 
 Of the lakes and streams; 
 Feathered emigrants already 
 
 Flying north are seen. 
 
46 LITEEATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Ducks and geese by scores and hundreds 
 
 Flock to pond and lake, 
 Where the mink and muskrat early 
 
 Winter haunts forsake. 
 Meadow larks and robin redbreasts 
 
 Whistle loud, and sing, 
 Telling that the winter's over 
 
 And again 'tis spring. 
 
 Soon the cotton-wood and maple 
 
 And box-elder trees 
 Put forth buds beneath whose cov'i'ing 
 
 Lie the germs of leaves; 
 Pussy willow soft and downy 
 
 Hangs its tasseled head; 
 Apple trees are gay and fragrant, 
 
 Decked in pink and red. 
 
 And upon the sunny hillsides. 
 
 Pale anemones 
 Meekly lift their starry faces 
 
 To the kindly breeze; 
 Soon the sturdy crocus follows 
 
 Dressed in royal hue; 
 Tulips clad in gorgeous raiment 
 
 Southern breezes woo. 
 
 Violets and johnny-jump-ups 
 
 In the meadows hide; 
 Also buttercups so golden 
 
 Nestle side by side. 
 Almost hidden by the grasses — 
 
 There content to grow. 
 Sweetly fragrant, in their corner 
 
 Snugly sheltered so. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 47 
 
 Thus, the growing time advancing 
 
 All God's laws obey; 
 Germ and bud and early blossom — 
 
 For as night and day 
 Follow each in perfect order 
 
 Likewise follow they, 
 Bringing hope and joy in living 
 
 Now, and too, alway. 
 
 OUR SUNSHINE STATE 
 
 Not many years ago our state 
 
 Lay unexplored prairie lands; 
 To boundless areas, the gate; 
 
 The home of nomad Indian bands, 
 Who with each other fought to gain 
 
 Supreme dominion of the plain. 
 
 The herds of giant buffaloes — 
 
 A common foe or prey they fought 
 
 Through summers' heat and winters' snows- 
 Supremacy as ever sought. 
 
 'Till from the East, a greater came 
 To conquer, vanquish, rule and reign. 
 
 The white man from the eastern shore, • 
 Had forged ahead o'er mount and plain, 
 
 In quest eternal — wanting more 
 Of pow'r, adventure, riches, fame. 
 
 He reached our land — all else gave way — 
 The Anglo-Saxon held full sway. 
 
 But those who for adventure came. 
 Or whom the craze for gold had won. 
 
 Passed onward, seeking e'er the same 
 In lands far toward the setting sun. 
 
 Dakota's commonwealth was formed 
 By those who never labor scorned. 
 
48 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 The honest settler came to stay, 
 And from the soil a living wrest; 
 
 Unflinching facing night and day 
 
 Those grimmest terrors of the west — 
 
 The redskins with their stoic might 
 And real or fancied wrongs to right. 
 
 But soon through treaty, peace was gained, 
 The tomahawk no more was seen, 
 
 And where most deadly war once reigned, 
 The dove of Peace then slept serene, 
 
 Dakota's sons, too, side by side 
 In fellowship secure abide. 
 
 Neat homes, now dot the prairie wide — 
 The forts of sturdy sons of toil. 
 
 With wife and children at their side, 
 
 Staunch through the years of weary moil. 
 
 Aye, proudly may we claim to be 
 Descendents of Nobility. 
 
 Dakota, won through warfare grim. 
 
 Despite climatic terrors too. 
 Of drought and blizzard — hail and wind. 
 
 With confidence we look to you, 
 For peace and plenty — aye, and more 
 
 Are always found within thy door. 
 
 Hurrah! then for the pioneers 
 
 Who lead the way across the plain! 
 
 Let ev'ry hill resound with cheers. 
 Reverberating yet again, 
 
 "Our Sunshine State"— "Thy Builders true"- 
 All honor, praise, we give to you. 
 
Charles Badger Clark 
 
 Biographical — Born, Albia, Iowa, Jan. 1, 1883. Brought 
 to Dakota by his parents at three months of age. Educated 
 in the public schools of Mitchell, Huron and Deadwood, and 
 at Dakota Wesleyan University. At nineteen, went to Cuba. 
 Remained two years. Came back and spent one year at 
 Deadwood. Went to Arizona for four years. Employed on 
 a cattle ranch twenty miles from Mexican border. During 
 this experience wrote his cowboy lyrics. Returned to Hot 
 Springs, S. D., in 1910. 
 
CHARLES BADGER CLARK 
 
 Conspicuous among Black Hills' writers is 
 Charles Badger Clark — known in literary circles as 
 "Badger Clark." Educated in the public schools of 
 the state and at Dakota Wesleyan, Clark had a good 
 foundation for his literary work. To this he added 
 that widening influence that comes from travel, by 
 sojourning for a year in Cuba and by spending four 
 years as a cow-boy in Arizona. His poems, there- 
 fore, while dealing largely with local affairs, have, 
 nevertheless, a wide horizon. 
 
 His cow-boy lyrics were first published by the 
 old Pacific Monthly and other magazines. Later, 
 twenty-two of them were collected and published in 
 book form by the Richard G. Badger Co., Boston, 
 under the caption "Sun And Saddle Leather." From 
 this volume two poems have been selected for re- 
 publication. The first one, entitled "A Cowboy's 
 Prayer," is Clark's best production. A weird piece 
 of poetic imagery is his "Legend of Boastful Bill." 
 These two lyrics give one a general idea of his style. 
 
 A COWBOY'S PRAYER 
 
 (Wi-itten for Mother.) 
 
 Oh Lord. I've never lived where churches grow. 
 
 I love creation better as it stood 
 That day You finished it so long ago 
 
 And looked upon Your work and called it good. 
 
52 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 I know that others find You in the light 
 
 That's sifted down through tinted window panes. 
 
 And yet I seem to feel You near tonight 
 In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. 
 
 I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well. 
 
 That You have made my freedom so complete; 
 That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell. 
 
 Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. 
 Just let me live my life as I've begun 
 
 And give me work that's open to the sky 
 Make me a partner of the wind and sun. 
 
 And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. 
 
 Let me be easy on the man that's down; 
 
 Let me be square and generous with all. 
 I'm careless sometimes. Lord, when I'm in town, 
 
 But never let 'em say I'm mean or small! 
 Make me as big and open as the plains. 
 
 As honest as the hawse between my knees, 
 Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, 
 
 Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze! 
 
 Forgive me. Lord, if sometimes I forget. 
 
 You know about the reasons that are hid. 
 You understand the things that gall and fret; 
 
 You know me better than my mother did. 
 Just keep an eye on all that's done and said 
 
 And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside, 
 And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead 
 
 That stretches upward toward the Great Divide. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL 
 
 At a roundup on the Gily, 
 One sweet mornin' long ago. 
 
 Ten of us was throwed right freely 
 By a hawse from Idaho. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 53 
 
 And we thought he'd go a-beggin' 
 
 For a man to break his pride 
 Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin', 
 
 Boastful Bill cut loose and cried — 
 
 "I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt; 
 
 I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt; 
 I kin ride the highest liver 
 
 'Tween the Gulf and Powder River, 
 And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt." 
 
 So Bill climbed the Northern Fury 
 
 And they mangled up the air 
 Till a native of Missouri 
 
 Would have owned his brag was fair. 
 Though the plunges kep' him reelin' 
 
 And the wind it flapped his shirt, 
 Loud above the hawse's squealin' 
 
 We could hear our friend assert 
 
 "I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke. 
 
 Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke! 
 If you think my fame needs bright'nin' 
 
 W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin' 
 And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke." 
 
 Then one caper of repulsion 
 
 Broke that hawse's back in two. 
 Cinches snapped in the convulsion; 
 
 Skyward man and saddle flew. 
 Up he mounted, never laggin'. 
 
 While we watched him through our tears, 
 And his last thin bit of braggin' 
 
 Came a-droppin' to our ears. 
 
54 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 "If you'd ever watched my habits very close 
 You would know I've broke such rabbits by the 
 gross. 
 
 I have kep' my talent hidin'; 
 I'm too good for earthly ridin' 
 
 And I'm off to bust the lightnin's — Adios! 
 
 Years have gone since that ascension. 
 
 Boastful Bill aint never lit, 
 So we reckon that he's wrenchin' 
 
 Some celestial outlaw's bit. 
 When the night rain beats our slickers 
 
 And the wind is swift and stout 
 And the lightning' flares anl flickers, 
 
 We kin sometimes hear him shout — 
 
 "I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly; 
 
 I'm the ridin' son-of -thunder of the sky. 
 Hi! you earthlin's shut your winders 
 
 While we're rippin' clouds to flinders. 
 If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die! 
 
 Star dust on his chaps and saddle. 
 
 Scornful still of jar and jolt. 
 He'll come back some day, astraddle 
 
 Of a bald-faced thunderbolt. 
 ' And the thin-skinned generation 
 
 Of that dim and distant day 
 Sure will stare with admiration 
 
 When they hear old Boastful say — 
 
 "I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed. 
 
 Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best. 
 Huh! you soft and dainty floaters. 
 
 With your a'roplanes and motors — 
 Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the 
 West!" 
 
POETS AND POETRY 55 
 
 A dainty little lullaby of Clark's is his "long- 
 ing" to return to Dakota, which appeared in an old 
 issue of the Deadwood Pioneer-Times. It follows : 
 
 Though a restless man may wander from Johannesburg to 
 
 Nome, 
 There is always some one country that he dreams about as 
 
 "home." 
 Here and there I camp and sojourn in my roamings back and 
 
 forth 
 But my dreams are always drifting to the Black Hills of the 
 
 north. 
 
 Now, while western skies are glowing like an open furnace 
 
 mouth 
 And the soft, gray shadows gather on these deserts of the 
 
 south 
 And the coyote's first weird night-cry down the dim arroyo 
 
 shrills. 
 Like a sinner's dream of Heaven come my visions of the 
 
 Hills. 
 
 In addition to the foregoing poems, it has been 
 deemed wise, in order to give the reader a broader 
 view of Clark, to reproduce two of his more recent 
 poems which were not included in his book : 
 
 THE SPRINGTIME PLAINS 
 
 (From Scribner's Magazine, 1915.) 
 
 Heart of me, are you hearing 
 The drum of hoofs in the rains? 
 Over the Springtime plains I ride, 
 , Knee to knee with Spring 
 
 And glad as the summering sun that comes 
 
56 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Galloping north through the zodiac. 
 
 Heart of me, let's forget 
 
 The plains death white and still, 
 
 When lonely love through the stillness called 
 
 Like a smothered stream that sings of Summer 
 
 Under the snow on a Winter night. 
 
 Now the frost is blown from the sky 
 
 And the plains are living again. 
 
 Lark lovers sing on the sunrise trail. 
 
 Wild horses call to me out of the noon, 
 
 Watching me pass with impish eyes. 
 
 Gray coyotes laugh in the quiet dusk 
 
 And the plains are glad all day with me. 
 
 Heart of me, all the way 
 
 My heart and the hoofs keep time 
 
 And the wide, sweet winds from the greening 
 
 world 
 Shout in my ears a glory song, 
 For nearer, nearer, mile and mile. 
 Over the quivering rim of the plains 
 Is the valley that Spring and I love best 
 And the waiting eyes of you! 
 
 THE MEDICINE MAN 
 
 (From "The Bellman," Minneapolis, 1915.) 
 
 (The following is taken from an actual occurrence described by 
 Parkman, which happened in what is now western South Dakota, in the 
 year 1844.) 
 
 "The trail is long to the bison herd. 
 
 The prairie rotten with rain. 
 And look! the wings of the thunder bird 
 
 Blacken the Hills again. 
 A medicine man the gods may balk — 
 Go fight for us with the thunder hawk!" 
 
POETS AND POETRY 57 
 
 The medicine man flung wide his arms. 
 
 "I am weary of woman talk 
 And cook-fire witching and childish charms. 
 
 I fight you the thunder hawk!" 
 So he took his arrows and climbed the butte 
 While the warriors watched him, scared and mute. 
 
 A wind from the wings began to blow 
 
 And arrows of rain to shoot 
 As the medicine man raised high his bow, 
 
 Standing alone on the butte, 
 And the day went dark to the cowering band 
 As the arrow leaped from his steady hand. 
 
 For the thunder hawk swooped down to fight 
 
 And who in his way could stand? 
 The flash of his eye was blinding bright 
 
 And his wing-clap stunned the land. 
 The braves yelled terror and loosed the rein 
 And scattei'ed far on the drowning plain. 
 
 And after the thunder hawk swept by 
 
 They found him, scorched and slain, 
 Yet — fighting with gods, "who fears to die?" — 
 
 He smiled with a light disdain. 
 That smile was a glory to all his clan 
 But none dared touch the medicine man. 
 
SAMUEL TRAVERS CLOVER 
 
 ? 
 
 I Compliments of Chicago Evening; Post.) 
 
 Biographical — Born, London, England, August 13, 1859. 
 Academic education. Began newspaper career in 1880. Made 
 trip around the world. Associated with Dakota newspapers 
 five years. Staff correspondent Chicago Herald. Reported 
 Indian Uprising of 1890 and Messiah Outbreak of 1891. Last 
 white man who saw the famous Indian chief. Sitting Bull, 
 alive. Managing editor Chicago Evening Post, 1894. Now 
 (1916) editor Los Angeles Graphic. Married Mabel Hitt, 
 Oregon, 111., April 3, 1884. Author of five books and of 
 numerous poems and sketches of the west. 
 
SAM T. CLOVER 
 
 No literature of South Dakota could be complete 
 without some space in it being given to the writings 
 of Sam T. Clover. Although foreign born, his 
 sympathies are essentially American and his style 
 is typically western. There is a keenness and a 
 breadth in his prose that excites wonder, while his 
 poetry is universal ; that is, it touches all humanity. 
 For this reason some of his better poems are destined 
 to live. The universality of his "Sublimity" would 
 entitle it to a place in any literature. It touches on 
 heart strings that tingle with memory as well as 
 imagination. 
 
 SUBLIMITY 
 
 I asked a maiden in the blush of youth, 
 In whose gray eyes there shone the germs of truth, 
 Whose soft red lips were parted in a smile, 
 Whose lovely face was innocent of guile: 
 "What do you hold the dearest thing in life?" 
 "To be," she answer made, "a happy wife!" 
 
 I asked the mother, as she softly pressed. 
 With tender care, an infant to her breast. 
 Whose gentle glances hovered o'er the child — 
 Which, sleeping, of the angels dreamed and smiled — 
 "What is the sweetest pain there is on earth?" 
 She bent and kissed the babe: "In giving birth!" 
 
60 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 I asked the matron, who with loving pride 
 Beheld the children clustered by her side; 
 Who in the wicker chair rocked to and fro — 
 Just as she rocked and crooned in years ago — 
 "What is the greatest blessing God can send?" 
 "A home where love and sweet contentment blend!" 
 
 I asked a wrinkled woman, o'er whose head 
 
 The snows of many a winter "had been shed. 
 
 Whose children from the roof-tree far had strayed— 
 
 Whose husband in his grave had long been laid — 
 
 "What is the dearest memory of your life?" 
 
 "The day that I was made a happy wife!" 
 
 From this poem we pass to one of his beautifully 
 painted evening sketches. In a level prairie country 
 on top of the North American divide where the 
 plains are swept alternately and almost continually 
 by the tireless winds, it is but natural, in case he 
 were going to picture a scene of sunset, that he 
 should, in opening each of the first two stanzas, 
 allude to the "breeze" and the "wind." 
 
 EVENING IN DAKOTA 
 
 The breeze dies down. 
 The air is fresh and fragrant. The budding trees 
 Exhausted by the long unbroken pressure, 
 Uplift their drooping leaves and drink the dew 
 Which gives them nourishment and sustenance. 
 
 The boisterous wind 
 Is stilled at last, as though worn out 
 By its own turbulence. The flagging heart revives; 
 The tensioned nerves relax their rigorous strain, 
 Easing the fevered brow and throbbing pulse. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 61 
 
 The placid stars 
 In far-off azure heights, peep shyly out 
 And to the tired eyes bring soothing sleep. 
 A sense of rest pervades the atmosphere — 
 Nature seems hushed in quiet thankfulness. 
 
 His perfect contentment with his changed life 
 from the busy streets of London to the plains of 
 western Dakota is cozily set forth in the following 
 poem: 
 
 CONTENT 
 
 One seeks in vain 
 A fairer country than this broad domain — 
 Where freedom dwells on coteau, hill, and plain — 
 And fertile prairies, rich with growing grain. 
 Invite the men of courage, brawn, and brain. 
 
 Hither on breezy wing 
 Far from the pampered east a-wandering — 
 All gilded customs to the winds I fling; 
 Why should my heart to city pleasures cling? 
 My shack's a castle! and I reign its king. 
 
 Then come what may. 
 Here, in this cabin rude, content I'll stay; 
 Here, at my cabin door, I'll whiff away 
 The cares and troubles of a yesterday: — 
 Why should I change my lot? Why farther stray? 
 
 In addition to his poetry and his newspaper 
 work, Clover also wrote five charming volumes of 
 prose. These are his "Paul Travers' Adventures," 
 
62 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 "Glimpses Across the Sea," "Rose Reef to Bulu- 
 wayo," "On Special Assignment" and "Kathrine 
 Howard." As these books came from press, they 
 were widely read, but like other works of fiction, 
 even though they may have a firm historical setting, 
 they soon must give way for newer works along 
 the same line. 
 
 But Clover must also be associated with the 
 newspaper life of the state. For some time he and 
 Hayden Carruth, former publisher of the Estelline 
 (S. D.) Bell, published the Dakota Bell, at Sioux 
 Falls. Their clever sayings and ready poems made 
 the Bell, for the time being, one of the strongest 
 literary weeklies in the state. Their original matter 
 was quoted far and wide by the leading dailies of the 
 west, and by the magazines of the whole country. 
 They finally sold out : Clover became identified with 
 the Chicago Herald and Carruth joined the staff of 
 Harper's Weekly. 
 
Conal Cearnach (Mary Martin) 
 
 Biographical — Born, Illinois, 1881. Came to Dakota, 
 1888. Finished Eighth Grade, Tripp, S. D. schools. Attended 
 high school, Joliet, 111., 1897-98; St. Mary's Academy, same 
 city, 1901-02. Passed Teachers' Examination, but never 
 taught. Returned to South Dakota. At home with parents 
 on farm near Tripp, S. D. Furnishes poems regularly to 
 newspapers. 
 
CONAL CEARNACK 
 
 A dainty little volume of verse is one printed 
 locally, entitled "The Wind Song and Other Poems," 
 by Conal Cearnack (Mary Martin), of Hutchinson 
 county. Miss Martin whose nom de plume, "Conal 
 Cearnack," is taken fr3m one of the old Irish Kings, 
 sings with a touch that is very artistic. She is 
 philosophical, historical, prolific ; yet, withal, she 
 apparently does her best work in dialect. 
 
 "The Wind Song" is a production of consider- 
 able length, containing an Introduction, a Response, 
 and forty-five stanzas ranging from eight to 
 sixteen lines each. One of her best dialect poems 
 is herein given in its entirety : 
 
 "COME PATRICK'S DAY IN THE MORNINV 
 
 Whisht! me eyes are dim wid tear-drops 
 
 Come wid lonesomeness the day. 
 An' me heart is sore wid achin' 
 
 For a time that's far away. 
 An' I'm dreamin', dreamin', dreamin', 
 
 An' forever do I see 
 The holy hills of Ireland, 
 
 Lifted from the shinin' sea. 
 
 Sure 'tis fifty years come May-day 
 
 Since I left the dear ol' land. 
 Wid Shane O'Neil beside me 
 
 An' his gold ring on me hand. 
 We were little more than children 
 
 But God blessed us man an' wife. 
 An' sint us out brave-hearted 
 
 To face the great world's strife. 
 
66 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Faith the years were long for strivin', 
 
 An' for keepin' back the tear, 
 Sure meself is nearer cryin' 
 
 Thin I've been in many a year. 
 An' the lonesomeness that's on me 
 
 Come on in a sudden way, 
 From a tune a b'y was whistlin' 
 
 In the street this Patrick's Day. 
 
 He waked me up this mornin' 
 
 Wid his whistle sweet an' shrill, 
 That tuck me back in fancy 
 
 To the bog-land an' the hill. 
 An' I see me brother smilin' 
 
 As he waves his hand to me, 
 An' his whistle, "Whisht, God's blessin', 
 
 It is Patrick's Day ma chree." 
 
 Patrick's Day in Holy Ireland, 
 
 Wid the frost white on the bog, 
 Wid the golden sun-beams glintin' 
 
 Through the faintest wi'eath in fog. 
 Wid the whole world's jewelled beauty 
 
 Spread our eager eyes before, 
 An' Croaghpatrick's holy shadow 
 
 Reachin' to me father's door. 
 
 We were up before 'twas daylight, 
 
 Hughie, H'deen, Maeve, an' I, 
 Stealin' softly through the boreen 
 
 While the stars were in the sky. 
 Up Croaghpatrick's windin' footpaths 
 
 For it ever was our way. 
 To pluck the leaves of Shamrock, 
 
 Just as dawn turned to day. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 67 
 
 There's a thrill of music liltin' 
 
 Through the dawn-light grey an' dim, 
 Hughie's whistle, sure the thrushes 
 
 Learnt their melody of him. 
 An' the golden sunrise never 
 
 Shone on fairer heart than he 
 An' his whistle — "Whisht, God's blessin', 
 
 It is Patrick's Day ma chree." 
 
 Each with precious treasure laden 
 
 Home we'd turn our foot-steps then. 
 Past the forge of Lantie Rogan 
 
 At the bottom of the glen. 
 An' we'd linger long beside the forge 
 
 (Despite our mother's warn'n'). 
 In hopes of hearin' Lantie sing 
 
 "Come Patrick's Day in the mornin'." 
 
 Lantie's v'ice, sure 'twas the invy 
 
 In the parish far an' near. 
 Sure the likes av it in Dublin 
 
 At the Castle ye'd not hear. 
 An' I've heard my father tell it — 
 
 (Be God's mercy on his head) — 
 Lantie's singin' "Faugh-a-Ballah" 
 
 Sure was fit to wake the dead. 
 
 me heart, the long years lyin' 
 
 'Twixt the times that were an' this, 
 'Tis no wonder that the ol' days 
 
 From America I miss. 
 Thrue me childer love ol' Erin, 
 
 (Sure they learnt it at me knee) 
 But the sunrise on Croaghpatrick 
 
 Is a sight they never see. 
 
68 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 But there's hearts here just as eager, 
 
 An' there's blood that beats as high, 
 Sure I hear the music liltin' 
 
 An' I see thim marchin' by — 
 Each one wearin' the green ribbon, 
 
 An' their banners proudly wave, 
 An' it takes me back to Erin. 
 
 Hugh, Dileen, an' bonny Maeve. 
 
 Whisht, me eyes are dim wid tear-drops 
 
 Come from lonesomeness the day. 
 An' the heart of me is achin' 
 
 For a time that's far away. 
 An' the lonesomeness that's on me 
 
 Come on sudden, without warnin', 
 Whin a b'y came by me whistlin' 
 
 'Come Patrick's Day in the morning'." 
 
 Three other excellent poems of hers are: "The 
 First Mistletoe," "The Tryst at Bethlehem" and 
 "Wasted Arrows." A recent one, published in the 
 Tripp Ledger, gained wide recognition. One of the 
 largest dailies in the west asked permission to re- 
 produce it. This poem follows : 
 
 PEDLAR DAN 
 
 It's me is the wan has the welkim sweet 
 
 From ind to ind o' the year, 
 
 I am niver wantin' a bite or sup 
 
 Or a kindly word o' cheer. 
 
 It is — "Yerra, but where have you bin the while" — 
 
 An' — "Be takin' life aisy man," 
 
 Shure niver a cottage door is shut 
 
 In the face iv Pedlar Dan. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 69 
 
 Through the lin'th an' bre'th o' Wicklow 
 
 Sthravin' day by day, 
 
 An' the pedlar's pack upon me back 
 
 Is paying me honest way. 
 
 It's not for the bit o' gold I aim 
 
 That I choose to be roving' free, 
 
 But the kindly welkim I niver lack 
 
 Is betther nor gold to me. 
 
 "If ye would go to Dublin city" — 
 Says sthrangers, now an' then, 
 "Ye'ed have more of gold an' comfort 
 Thin ye get here in the glen." 
 Mayhap of gold would be plinty 
 But I am not needn'f more 
 Whin I know there's a kindly welkim 
 Waitin' at ivery doyr. 
 
 An' I'm thinkin' 'twould be a cold comfort 
 The city's sthreets would yield, 
 An' me achin' the childhern 
 Come romping' acrost the field. 
 I am well contint to spind me days 
 Where the kindly people love me, 
 An' sleep at last in the Wicklow hills 
 Wid the daisy quilt above me. 
 
 Through the lin'th and bre'th o' Wicklow 
 
 Sthravagin' from year to year, 
 
 Aitin' the bread i' kindness. 
 
 An' sharin' a hearty cheer. 
 
 I wouldn't give place to the king, no less, 
 
 Whin the summer skies are o'er me. 
 
 Whin I've an ould clay cutly bechune me teeth ' 
 
 An the lin'th o' the day afore me. 
 
Robert V. Carr 
 
 Biographical — Born, Illinois, 1880. Came to Dakota with 
 parents in 1890. Settled at, Rapid City. Attended public 
 schools at Rapid City, also the State School of Mines located 
 at that place. Served with South Dakota Infantry in the 
 Philippines. Upon return home became engaged in editorial 
 work, being associated at various times with the St. Paul 
 Dispatch, the Chicago Evening Post and the Denver Times. 
 Later became editor of the Whitewood (S. D.) Plaindealer. 
 Sold out. Identified with the International Livestock Ex- 
 position Company, Chicago. Resigned. Married. Lives in 
 Pasedena, Cal. 
 
ROBERT V. CARR 
 
 The W. B. Conkey Company, of Chicago, in 
 1908, brought out a neat volume of South Dakota 
 poems, entitled ''Cow Boy Lyrics," written by Robert 
 V. Carr. It contains 110 poems, classified under 
 four heads — "Ranch and Range," "On the Trail of 
 Love," "Where the Chinook Blows," and "On the 
 Trail of Yesterday." The editorial reviews of this 
 book were exceptionally flattering far and wide. 
 Said Byron Williams in the Western Publisher : 
 
 "Fresh with the tang and the incense of the 
 prairie breeze, jingling with the rhythmic spur and 
 the clacking bit of the plains, redolent of the ro- 
 mance of the open country and as true to the pulsing 
 heart of the great-hearted west as the needle to the 
 poles, comes Robert V. Carr's new book of verse, 
 'Cowboy Lyrics.' 
 
 "Gentleness, friendship, hospitality, truth! 
 These are the beautiful chests of treasure in the 
 heart of Carr — Carr, who as a lad was a part of the 
 free life of the prairie, breathing in the atmosphere 
 and the color of the cowboy life. He rode among 
 the men and became one of them in spirit and 
 thought — except that in him there burned the light 
 of genius, the power to weave into song the poetry 
 of the range. And so he has given us 'Cow-boy 
 Lyrics', told from the gentleness and the truth of his 
 
72 LITERATUEE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 heart, that we may see what he saw as he lay upon 
 his back on the prairie and gazing far o'erhead into 
 the heaven's blue, roped the beauties and the secrets 
 of plain and camp, morning and evening, sunset and 
 dawn." 
 
 The gifted Helen Marie Bennett, commenting 
 on this volume of verse in the Deadwood Pioneer- 
 Times, said : 
 
 "A stranger seeing the picturesque title would 
 soon find himself wandering with this 'Careless 
 Border Cavelier' over the sage brush flats, building 
 campfires with him in the hills, riding the ranges 
 at night, and even pausing with awed breath on the 
 edge of the Bad Lands country, the land 'Where God 
 plays solitaire.' The stranger would be surprised at 
 the wealth of imagery, the touches of real pathos, 
 the flashes of quaint humor, the vivid strokes which 
 place a picture instantly before the eye, and the real 
 poetic feeling that abounds within the covers of 
 'Cowboy Lyrics.' But the many friends of 'Bob' 
 Carr, both within the Black Hills and out of them 
 are not surprised at the amount of excellent work 
 which he has brought out, for they have believed all 
 along that the day would not be long in coming when 
 his work would be widely known and as widely ap- 
 preciated." 
 
 The following poems, taken from "Cowboy 
 Lyrics," will suffice to give his natural, inviting 
 style : 
 
POETS AND POETRY 73 
 
 THE WIDOW'S LOT 
 
 Mis' Pike jes' called — the first time fer 
 A month o' Sundays I've seen her — 
 She took on scan'luss about me 
 A-livin' here alone an' she 
 Jes' upped an' said a ranch was not 
 A place fer widder^, an' she sot 
 An' harped on that one string 'til I 
 Jes' shut her mouth with tea an' pie. 
 
 Poor William's dead nigh on a year, 
 
 But I can't say I'm pinin' here; 
 
 An' law me! what's a soul to do, 
 
 What's goin' onto forty-two? 
 
 Fer who'll dispoot a real live man 
 
 Around a ranch is handy, an' 
 
 Jack Plummer says to me last night — 
 
 He jes' stopped in to get a bite 
 
 O' chicken pie— he says, says he: 
 
 "You ain't a day o'er twenty-three." 
 
 But Jack is such a josher that 
 
 He's allers talkin' thro' his hat. 
 
 The other day Bill Howe drove by, 
 An' said the cricks were jes' bank high, 
 An' he'd a four-hoss load an' he 
 Declared he'd leave some truck with me, 
 A sack o' flour an' some corn, 
 A sack o' sugar which was torn. 
 Which Bill jes' vowed would go to waste 
 Unless sweet things was to my taste. 
 
74 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 A week ago John Nye drove in — 
 His heart is big if he is thin — 
 He said he'd butchered an' he thought 
 A side o' beef an' bacon ought 
 To nohow meet with my refuse, 
 Since he had more than he could use. 
 
 An' there's Hank Dalley, ev'ry day 
 He sort o' drops in that-o-way, 
 To see if there's a chore to do, 
 An' then jes' stays the whole day thro'; 
 An' jes' flares up when I talk "pay," 
 Fer Hank's right touchy, an' he'll say: 
 "I haven't got a thing to do, 
 It's exercise to work fer you." 
 
 An' so between them all, you see. 
 There's lots that's worser off than me; 
 The ranch is clear, an' eggs an' truck 
 Bring prices high, an' then I've luck 
 With all my stock, that's bound to grow — 
 But yet there's one thing which I know. 
 An' might as well say to your face, 
 A man's most handy 'round a place; 
 But William's gone an' there's no more — 
 Land sakes! There's Dalley at the door! 
 
 THE TRYST 
 
 I've ridden since the day throwed back 
 
 The trailers of the night. 
 An' what fer, shall I tell you. 
 
 In a stampede o' delight? 
 To wait out by the cottonwoods. 
 
 An' dove-call softly to 
 A girl I know will answer: 
 
 "I'm a-comin', boy, to you." 
 
POETS AND POETRY 75 
 
 'Twas no time to spare my bronco; 
 
 His breathin' spells were brief; 
 He's white with foam an' shakin' 
 
 Like the Chinook shakes the leaf. 
 Fer I've splashed through muddy rivers, 
 
 An' loped across divides, 
 An' ridden where no puncher 
 
 In his reason ever rides. 
 
 Thro' walkers caked with gumbo, 
 
 The buffalo once knew; 
 Thro' water holes an' washouts, 
 
 An' a-boggin' in the slew. 
 O'er alkali an' sage brush flats 
 
 I cut the whistlin' breeze, 
 An' come straight as the eagle 
 
 When his lady bird's to please. 
 
 I'm a-watchin' an' I'm waitin' 
 
 With heart as light as air. 
 As happy as they make 'em. 
 
 Either here or anywhere. 
 Jes' to listen fer her footfall. 
 
 An' hear her sweet voice thro' 
 The prairie silence murmur, 
 
 "I'm a-comin', boy, to you." 
 
 THE BAD LANDS 
 
 Bluffs of ochre and brown and red, 
 
 In varied glory flare. 
 For here is the land of mystery. 
 
 Where God plays solitaire. 
 
 A gray plain and a soft mirage, 
 In the blue haze over there, 
 
 For here is the land of lonesomeness, 
 Where God plays solitaire. 
 
76 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 A muddy butte and shapes that come 
 
 And at the sunset stare, 
 For here is the land of forgotten pasts, 
 
 Where God plays solitaire. 
 
 A silence that dwarfs the soul of man, 
 Oh, the silence everywhere! 
 
 For here is the land of things unsolved. 
 Where God plays solitaire. 
 
 One more poem of Carr's, entitled "The Dead 
 Magdalene," published during 1915 in a standard 
 magazine, is herein also preserved, because of its 
 truthful portrayal of an unfortunate life. 
 
 THE DEAD MAGDALENE 
 
 Death has claimed thee for his own, 
 Woman, thou dost grace that stone — 
 The morgue's cold stone. 
 
 Silent are those lips that drew 
 Pleasure-seeking youth to you; 
 And those hands that lovers pressed 
 Lie like lilies on thy breast. 
 Thy face looks old; there Sin's own sign 
 Is traced in cunning, cruel line; 
 Altho' a score would span thy years. 
 Those eyes hath known an age of tears. 
 
 A suicide, the good pass by 
 With close-drawn robes, as tho' the cry 
 That lepers whine, "Unclean! Unclean!" 
 Was voiced by thee. The canting, lean- 
 Souled egotist doth draw full well 
 
POETS AND POETRY 77 
 
 The moral he dear loves to tell. 
 And they who live a life of shame 
 In every way, except in name, 
 Look on thy white, stark body there 
 With pious self-esteeming stare. 
 
 Scarlet one, the night is done. 
 The wearing race with Fate is run; 
 The lights are dead, the dancers gone. 
 Comes now the gray, funeral dawn. 
 Dream horrid visions of the end. 
 And black dispair to tear and rend 
 Thy weary heart; then dost thou call: 
 "There is no hope — Death stilleth all!" 
 
 Like some sad bird with broken wing 
 Thou welcomest the adder sting 
 Of Death— kind Death. 
 
 Fallen one, there was a day 
 
 When thou wert pure, no shadow lay 
 
 Across thy path; there came to thee 
 
 No blinding, tinseled mockery. 
 
 In Eden thou didst walk alone. 
 
 To thee the serpent was unknown — 
 
 When lo! the shining coils arise! 
 
 The baleful orbs hold fast thine eyes! 
 
 And under their satanic spell 
 
 An angel treads the path to hell. 
 
 Who hath the right to loud proclaim 
 Eternal judgment on thy shame? 
 Who hath the right to judge of thee 
 When thou hast paid the penalty? 
 For yet to heights thou may arise, 
 And walk again in paradise. 
 
78 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Another earlier volume of Carr's poems was his 
 "Black Hills' Ballads." 
 
 Since the publication of his last book of poems in 
 1908, Carr has laid aside that style of composition to 
 a large extent and has given considerable of his time 
 to prose. His short story, entitled "Triplets Tri- 
 umphant," which appeared in the September, 1914, 
 issue of Everybody's Magazine, is regarded by all 
 who read it as one of the strongest short stories 
 which appeared that year. 
 
Will Chamberlain 
 
 Biographical — Born, Bradford county, Pa., July 6, 1865. 
 Removed to Dakota in 1871. Raised on a farm in the Sioux 
 Valley. Educated in the village schools of Union county; 
 later studied at the University of South Dakota. In 1891, 
 married Miss Mattie Ericson. Father of two children — a 
 boy and a girl. Farmer; also a teacher. Held principalships 
 at Jefferson, Avon, and Lesterville. 
 
WILL CHAMBERLAIN 
 
 Will Chamberlain is a free thinker — an original 
 writer. His prose and his poetry each possess a 
 strong individuality. He has written short stories, 
 sketches and poetry for The National Magazine, The 
 Springfield (S. D) Republican, and the Literary 
 Magazine. He has also written dozens (it might 
 be more proper to say, hundreds) of special articles 
 for the Dakota Republican of Vermillion, for the 
 Elk Point Courier and for the Aberdeen Daily 
 American. For several years he has been furnishing 
 a set of "Wayside Notes" each week for the Sioux 
 City Journal. These notes are very original and are 
 intensely interesting. Many of his best poems have 
 appeared in them. Following is one that is some- 
 what unique : 
 
 THE GOSSIPER 
 
 Now let us pause to consider 
 
 The gossip a little while, 
 Think of her tattle bitter, 
 
 Measure her knowing smile; 
 Gauge her by rule and level. 
 
 Mete out her proper place — 
 Whether she be of the devil 
 
 Or almost an angel of grace; 
 Whether she be an evil 
 
 Of consummate design, 
 Or a type of half evangel, 
 
 A self-called priestess, in fine. 
 
82 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Well, first of all, as a talker 
 
 She's rather clever you say, 
 A dealer in tales, a shocker 
 
 Of preconceived notions, a gay 
 And heart to heart coming neighbor. 
 
 That meets you across the fence 
 With a tongue as keen as a saber 
 
 And a mind for the present tense. 
 Her sins — they doubtless are scarlet, 
 
 And yet I sometimes believe 
 That many a maid and varlet. 
 
 Whose standing she seems to grieve. 
 Are kept from deeper scandal, 
 
 From more impious plot 
 Because this female vandal 
 
 Has a tongue that is quick and hot. 
 And tho' she if often harmful, 
 
 A virago of unrest, 
 A tattler and vixen shameful, 
 
 Whose orbit is most unblest, 
 I still have a nebulous notion 
 
 That her sphere is misunderstood, 
 That the yarns she sets in motion 
 
 May turn to be gems of good. 
 That even some stars of glory 
 
 Upon her head may dwell, 
 When heaven reveals the story 
 
 Of mortals she scared from hell. 
 
 Chamberlain is, first of all, a philosopher. His 
 poetry is minus the wit of Holmes', the jingle of 
 Mrs. Tatro's, the fervor of Lawton's and the poetic 
 diction of Wenzlaff's. It is just plain philosophy all 
 the while. One has to labor to read it; however, 
 the more you read it the better you like it. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 83 
 
 He was reared in the Big Sioux Valley. Like 
 all true poets he loves nature. "How dear to (his) 
 heart are the scenes of (his) childhood." He was 
 fascinated with the old river. In the spring and 
 fall, he hunted ducks on it ; in the summer, he swam 
 in it, sat on its grass-laden banks and caught fish 
 out of it; while in the winter his steel skates were 
 made to ring on its icy bosom. It is, therefore, 
 natural, when he first began to write poetry, that 
 this old stream, along whose banks he had spent so 
 many happy hours, should have suggested itself to 
 him as his constant theme. His "Down by the 
 Sioux," his "Night on the Sioux" and his "in the 
 Valley of the Sioux" are rich heritages of his re- 
 flections over his childhood days. The first two of 
 these poems follow : 
 
 DOWN BY THE SIOUX 
 
 Down by the old Sioux in spring! 
 
 When the bottom land is spongy-like and damp 
 And ruined haystacks give a moment's rest 
 
 From the long, swinging tramp 
 And vantage ground to wait the clattering ducks, 
 
 That storm across the timber belt and swing. 
 On dropping wings above the water-splashed prairie, 
 
 Till 'frighted by the grim repeater's ring. 
 
 Along the Sioux! how oft these feet have strolled, 
 Unmindful of the striving thoughts of those 
 
 Who give their footsteps to the sounding pave. 
 Nor pause to see the morning's spreading rose 
 
84 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Slip down the bluffy swales to greet 
 
 The sentinel cottonwoods and willowy hedge 
 
 That hold in sacred guard the rude survey, 
 Where Titan marked the river's winding edge. 
 
 NIGHT ON THE SIOUX 
 
 Softly the darkness falls, and such mild dark! 
 
 The stars have scarce a need their veils to lift 
 That they may smile upon the bended mark 
 
 Of sinking Luna. The thicket's festooned rift. 
 Mellows, the major of the thrush's cry. 
 
 While the dim quaver of the home dove's sigh, 
 Waiting the coming of her lover true. 
 
 Broods like enchantment o're the fading Sioux. 
 
 Silver and purple now the river drifts; so calm 
 
 The skies that hover o'er! I fain would lie 
 Here by myself and know the stealing balm 
 
 Of that intrepid mood that would defy 
 The clustered memories of care, and put aside 
 
 The iron law which doth our joy divide 
 With rudest glee. Find thou, my heart, 
 
 The solace this dear moment doth impart. 
 
 The following poem, entitled, "To A Tiny- 
 Sleeper," is among Chamberlain's best. It is beauti- 
 fully conceived and tastily expressed. In it one 
 cannot fail to see the little sleeper lying before him 
 with closed eyes and with its tiny hands clutched 
 gently in the lace of its baby night robe. Then the 
 poet causes the reader to lift his own eyes and look 
 penitently into the future. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 85 
 
 TO A TINY SLEEPER 
 
 Dear little one, thy eyelids sweet 
 
 Are closed in sleep, in holy calm. 
 No worldly waves of trouble beat 
 
 Upon thy dreaming's Gilead balm 
 The fingers of the summer breeze 
 
 Most softly toy with thy lips, 
 But bear no taint of sorrow's lees 
 
 To crown thy hour with dark eclipse. 
 
 I know that I have wandered far 
 
 'Mid vain illusions of the world, 
 The dust of sin has left its mar 
 
 Upon my hands, but thine are curled 
 Twin lillies on thy bosom's nest, 
 
 Pink tendrils clutching dainty lace. 
 Frail blossoms folded into rest 
 
 Beside the beauty of thy face. 
 
 Oh, when the time of endless sleep 
 
 Shall hail me in the worldly throng 
 From out Eternity's vast deep. 
 
 Not manhood's efforts bold and strong 
 May be my guidon most sure, — 
 
 Fair Christ, forget my later ills. 
 And make me as this wee one pure, 
 
 When Death my heart»forever stills. 
 
 No doubt Chamberlain's strongest poem, and 
 the one on which his reputation as a poet, must ulti- 
 mately rest, is his "Reflections In A Prairie Ceme- 
 tery," This poem was written for the Dakota Re- 
 publican. Later it was reproduced by the Big Stone 
 Headlight. Mr, Aldrich, editor of the latter paper, 
 
86 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 himself a graduate of the State College at Brookings 
 and a fine literary critic, in reproducing the poem, 
 said editorially : "We publish at the head of the edit- 
 orial column a poem by Will Chamberlain, which, in 
 thought and diction, approaches Gray's 'Elegy In A 
 Country Churchyard.' " 
 
 REFLECTIONS IN A PRAIRIE CEMETERY 
 
 I saw a rustic train wind solemnly 
 
 Along a way where harvest whispers stole 
 
 Some spirit lorn had claimed its liberty, 
 Another heart had doffed its gift of dole. 
 
 The circled mourners stood in awkward grace 
 The sturdy men uncovered in the sun, 
 
 The sallow preacher found his studied place 
 And plaintively the final rite begun: 
 
 "Dust unto dust! we here for aye consign 
 Within the bosom of our mother earth." 
 
 The frail cup falls and spills the scarlet wine, 
 Lost for distillment in a crystal birth, 
 
 "Dust unto dust" ^nd lo! the shocking cold 
 Rings darkly down an orphaned cry replies, 
 
 "Dust unto dust" — a soul leaps up to God — 
 The ultimatum of its life's emprise. 
 
 I saw the simple folk with sighing flee, 
 
 To labor's calls they hurried here or there. 
 
 Their echoed going smote the upland lea, 
 And busy tales hummed on the pearly air. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 87 
 
 Careless of wealth or crinkling sheaves I stayed, 
 Idly to trace the streets of carven stone — 
 
 Telling where those eternally delayed 
 Slept on and on f orevermore alone. 
 
 Slept on and on, where never breaking morn 
 Peeps thro' the curtains, or the dawn beams fall: 
 
 Of ev'ry hope and mem'ry mutely shorn, 
 Save only Love's immortal-wafted call. 
 
 Hours into ages here shall slowly creep. 
 
 E'en dimpled flesh be changed to thinnest dust. 
 
 While o'er this nameless, awful nook of sleep, 
 Man's lips still frame a wordless prayer of trust. 
 
 A faith, a hope that when a dear one sinks 
 
 From mother arms that clasped and fondled so 
 
 To drift beyond those vast, uncharted brinks, 
 A Father's care will with the jewel go. 
 
 A faith that not a pilgrim hither dares, 
 Tho' life's span be a tiny day or years. 
 
 But there's a watchful Pilot knows how fares. 
 And thence a lifting Canaan sweetly cheers. 
 
 Out of the fields the reapers' voices came, 
 
 The lance-like shuttles of the harvest gleamed 
 
 The stubble bent beneath the clanking game, 
 The sable cricket in his straw-cot dreamed. 
 
 As rosy even bathed each quiet tomb. 
 
 Changing to crimson wreath or angel form 
 
 I left this Home of Peace to gentle gloom, 
 Perchance the wild caprice of hinted storm. 
 
88 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Yet did I know that pelt of sheeted rain, 
 Nor whirl of blast could ever taunt or wake 
 
 The tenants of those chambers where no pain, 
 Lie tortured tides in foamy spoil, may break. 
 
 From distant climes they journeyed to this spot 
 Or braved the seas 'neath soft grass here to lie, 
 
 A western sky above the little plot 
 
 And springtime blossoms lifting forth to die. 
 
 It seems best to preserve in our state literature 
 a few more of the many dozens of Chamberlain's 
 poems. These follow: 
 
 TO A BABY ASLEEP 
 
 O little one in sleep's embrace, 
 
 How peaceful is thy rounded face, 
 How softly droops each pearly lid 
 
 O'er eyes from any sorrow hid. 
 How like a rosebud are the lips 
 
 Where love, a greedy bee, oft sips! 
 Beneath a film of lace I spy 
 
 The fingers' chubby witchery. 
 
 Before thee, dear heart, lies a world 
 
 Where envy's arrows oft are hurled, 
 Where grief and pain cry for redress 
 
 From unseen loads that grimly press, 
 And where the proud at times appear 
 
 To win, while those who by faith steer 
 Battle with tide or fog or surf, 
 
 The scorned and buffeted of earth. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 89 
 
 I tremble, sweetheart, when I think 
 
 That thou, too, art a tiny link 
 Of this vast chain of human life, 
 
 A wee strand in the braid of strife. 
 And that, ere long, from honeyed dream 
 
 Thou must awake and on the stream 
 Of time that boils and flings its foam 
 
 Sink 'neath the surge or find a home. 
 
 AN OLD FIREPLACE 
 Here gathered in the vanished days 
 
 A household circle glad, 
 Whose faces, brightened by the blaze, 
 
 With added smiles were clad; 
 And when the embers dimly glowed, 
 
 As western sunlight pales. 
 Like wine of accents gently flowed 
 
 The stream of fireside tales. 
 
 Old hearth of buried memories 
 
 And shrine of silent forms, 
 On recollection's scented breeze. 
 
 Through years of sun and storms, 
 Comes back to me, as here I stand, 
 
 The gold of precious nights — 
 Content and joy. genial band 
 
 Of sacred home delights. 
 
 JUST BE THANKFUL 
 
 If you cannot see that blessings 
 
 Have been scattered at your door, 
 If for others bloomed the harvest 
 
 While your lot was scant and sore, 
 Try to trust that skies will open 
 
 To dispel your dark dismay — 
 Keep a brave soul, O, my fellow! 
 
 Just be thankful anyway. 
 
90 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 If your friendship met betrayal 
 
 And your eyes bent to the sod 
 And you turn to throne the cynic 
 
 In your heart instead of God, 
 Hesitate, a laughing sunbeam 
 
 Soon may flash across your day, 
 But if still the clouds do hover 
 
 Just be thankful anyway. 
 
 Just be thankful! Just be thankful! 
 
 Be unselfish, lend a hand. 
 It was faith that crowned the angels. 
 
 Faith gave every promised land. 
 Tho' your neighbor lolls in honey 
 
 While your life is far from gay. 
 Chant your prayers and meet the battle, 
 
 Just be thankful anyway. 
 
 NO POCKETS IN A SHROUD 
 
 Great is your endless struggle 
 
 And deep are your plans, O men, 
 Catching at scheme and bubble 
 
 Or plotting with brain and pen 
 To win from nature's garner, 
 
 By pilfering means or proud, 
 A golden smile, but remember 
 
 No pockets are in a shroud. 
 
 In many a crag-set mountain 
 
 Are silver and gold good store. 
 Which, like a steaming fountain, 
 
 Vast riches brightly pour 
 Into clutching hands and greedy. 
 
 Yet, at last, such gifts becloud, 
 For, be it rare or seedy, 
 
 No pockets bedeck a shroud. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 91 
 
 O, as you sow, my brother, 
 
 The same, God's time, you'll reap, 
 Tho' the spirit you rudely smother, 
 
 Or with lullabies bid it sleep. 
 The voice of the soul will haunt you 
 
 And its pleadings be reproduced. 
 When the sunset's glow reminds you 
 
 That chickens come home to roost. 
 
 Live not then for the glimmer 
 
 Of treasures which but debase, 
 For beyond death's misty river 
 
 When you meet Christ face to face, 
 You cannot buy one favor; 
 
 Yea, in all that motley crowd 
 There'll be naught to even savor 
 
 Of a pocket in a shroud. 
 
 THE CHARITY OF BLOSSOMS 
 
 I saw a lily blooming 
 
 Within a prison cell, 
 And though the pure hearts' emblem. 
 
 As poets love to tell. 
 Its sweetness was untainted, 
 
 Its splendor undefiled. 
 Nor did it blush nor tremble. 
 
 But kindly, meekly smiled. 
 
 I saw a blossom growing 
 
 Beside the simple mound 
 Of one men called a failure. 
 
 Whom wealth had never found. 
 But it was nodding gently 
 
 And less inclined to fade 
 Than if its tender beauty 
 
 Had graced some towering shade. 
 
92 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 In a dim place where hunger 
 
 Oft pinched a human brood, 
 I saw a calm-faced worker, 
 
 Sped by a Christy mood. 
 Put down a mission's bounty. 
 
 While, caught amidst the fare, 
 A knot of dewy roses 
 
 Scented the hovel's air. 
 
 THE BROKEN CIRCLE 
 
 Oh, that home was but a cottage 
 
 Where a happy streamlet played. 
 Laughing o'er the golden pebbles. 
 
 Singing in the sylvan shade; 
 Ah, how careless of the future 
 
 Was each tanned and childish brow. 
 But alas! those days are vanished 
 
 And the circle's broken now. 
 
 How deep scented were the meadows. 
 
 And how breezy were the lanes 
 That we followed with the cattle. 
 
 Days of sunshine or of rains! 
 Yet 'tis all in recollection. 
 
 Time required a sterner vow 
 Than was made beheading bluebells. 
 
 And the circle's broken now. 
 
 There are vacant chairs and corners, 
 
 There are little mounds and slabs, 
 There are dewy wedding blossoms, 
 
 There are rosy hues and drabs. 
 While life's strange and mystic records 
 
 Eyes bedim or hearts endow. 
 As we linger o'er the mem'ry 
 
 Of a circle broken now. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 93 
 
 Broken, broken! cries the spirit, 
 
 Never here to be repaired 
 By the cunning of a workman 
 
 Or by one who in it shared; 
 But we look beyond the sunset, 
 
 Hoping sometime and somehow 
 We may murmur of that circle 
 
 That it isn't broken now. 
 
 THE OLD HOME FOLKS 
 
 Not on the chance acquaintance, 
 Nor yet on the new found friend, 
 
 When the storms about us gather 
 For comfort may we depend. 
 
 If I should be permitted, 
 Aside from all light jokes. 
 
 To choose for you the truest, 
 I would pick the old home folks. 
 
 From them I would name a husband 
 For the dimpled, would-be bride; 
 
 A childhood mate or sweetheart. 
 In whom she might confide. 
 
 The old home folks are surest 
 
 To notice if we succeed. 
 And they are the first to sorrow 
 
 With us when our hearts do bleed. 
 
 So do not be quick in forsaking 
 The faithfully tried for the new. 
 
 Who may seem so apt and clever 
 When the skies are soft and blue. 
 
94 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 For tho' it is said the prophet 
 Has honor except at home, 
 
 Love blossoms there for the masses — 
 The prophet afar may roam. 
 
 And when in the fading twilight 
 We put off life's stern yokes, 
 
 Those who will stand to us closest 
 Will be the old home folks. 
 
 While away on shiny hilltops. 
 By Elysian breezes fanned, 
 
 God's own home folks will greet us 
 With a smile and outstretched hand. 
 
Mrs. Almira J. Dickinson 
 
 Biographical — Almira J. Dickinson (nee Patterson), born 
 Fishkill, Dutchess county, N. Y., 1832. Removed to Ontario, 
 LaGrange county, Ind., 1847. Attended LaGrange Institute. 
 Began teaching in 1848. Taught six years, carrying some 
 studies in meantime. Married Eugene Dickinson, 1854. Mother 
 of four sons. Prominent member Christian Science church. 
 Correspondent for many years for numerous magazines and 
 leading newspapers. Author of five books and booklets. 
 Removed to Dakota, 1888. Settled at Chamberlain. Husband 
 died in 1890. She filed on claim in Brule county. Still re- 
 sides on homestead. Direct descendant of Israel Putnam, of 
 Revolutionary fame. 
 
MRS. ALMIRA J. DICKINSON 
 
 Mrs. Dickinson's poetry is of that scholarly, 
 finished character which appeals to the mature mind. 
 It is deeply imbedded in natural, in moral, and in 
 psychic philosophy. Her vocabulary is replete with 
 poesy, and her diction is most perfect. She, too, like 
 Clover and others, is a writer of prose as well as 
 poetry; she was formerly a newspaper correspond- 
 ent. For several years she wrote for the Toledo 
 Blade, Loch's National Monthly, the Po'Keepsie 
 Telegraph, Omaha Bee and the Boston Transcript, 
 as well as furnishing poems for the Home Magazine 
 and other publications. 
 
 Her first booklet, "Voices of the Wind," met 
 with a ready sale. She followed it with "A Souvenir 
 of Dakota — The Artesian Wells," illustrated in 
 colors. The edition was so quickly exhausted that 
 she promptly brought forth her "Voices From the 
 Wheat Fields." It made a charming impression. 
 Real estate men bought the books by the hundreds to 
 send to their customers for Christmas presents. Her 
 reputation as a popular author was rapidly becom- 
 ing established. When the Christian Science church 
 was dedicated in Boston, Mrs. Dickinson wrote the 
 dedicatory poem entitled "Dedication of the Mother 
 Church in Boston." This strong poem was later 
 published in book form, with handsomely illustrated 
 
98 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 covers in colors, and it has been sold all over the 
 United States. 
 
 In the course of time it was suggested by her 
 admiri-ng readers that she collect and publish her 
 best poems all in one volume. This she did in 1907, 
 giving to it the title "Ocean and Other Poems." It 
 is illustrated in colors, and is by far the finest piece 
 of mechanical work that has appeared in a book 
 of poems within the state. It is from the presses 
 of the Ware Brothers' Company, Philadelphia. 
 
 In it the author starts out with a charming 
 descriptive poem on the ocean, proper, and then 
 follows it with these poetic theses as corroborative 
 of her general theme : "A Calm," "A Storm," "In 
 the Depths," "Influence of the Moon," "Influence of 
 Gravity," "Influence of the Sun." 
 
 Mrs. Dickinson's poems, in general, are very 
 lengthy, making reproduction of them herein quite 
 impractical. For instance, her "Evelyne" consists 
 of thirty-nine eight-line stanzas. Its language is 
 so chaste and its coloring so rich and beautiful that 
 the first three stanzas are reproduced, to give the 
 reader an idea of its charming style throughout. 
 
 EVELYNE 
 
 A rosy robe the sunset hung 
 
 Along the western skies, 
 And clouds of flame and purple flung 
 
 To earth their gorgeous dyes, 
 
POETS AND POETRY 99 
 
 Until the lakelet's quiet breast 
 Was buttoned in a crimson vest, 
 
 And hill and vale and village spire 
 
 Seemed glowing with celestial fire. 
 
 But, like the phases of a dream, 
 
 Those tintings passed away, 
 And deep'ning twilight only wore • ^. 
 
 A robe of sober gray. 
 And twilight dews, like angel tears, 
 Shed for the gathered crime of years, 
 
 And prompted by a holy love. 
 
 Fell from the pitying heavens above. 
 
 The moon hung in the jeweled sky, 
 
 A radiant orb of light. 
 Enshrouding all my garden flowers 
 
 In robes of silver white. 
 And lightly at the open door 
 Its snowflakes sifted on the floor, 
 As in the happy days of yore, 
 
 Till quick on memory's bounding track 
 
 Youth's golden hours came thronging back. 
 
 The buoyancy with which she approaches some 
 subjects is exhilarating in the extreme. From her 
 melancholly surroundings under "the Maple Tree," 
 wherein she says (evidently as an allusion to her 
 dead husband) : 
 
 Oh, stern, relentless hand of death! 
 
 Why could ye not have spared 
 One, only one, who could with me 
 
 Life's wilderness have shared? 
 
100 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 she mounts on "Voices of the Wind" to a thrilling 
 cadence of rapture. This poem is also quite lengthy. 
 The first section only of it is therefore given: 
 
 VOICES OF THE WIND 
 
 Listen to the voices of the wind, 
 
 T© the thousand changeful voices of the 
 
 spirit of the wind. 
 To the strange, mysterious voices, 
 To the wild and angry voices. 
 To the sweet, low, pleading voices of the 
 
 spirit of the wind. 
 When he tunes his harp to sing 
 For the ever-welcome Spring, 
 And he pipes a roundelay 
 To the merry, merry May, 
 Or he breathes a thrilling tune 
 In the leafy bowers of June, 
 How the waving forest answers, 
 
 And the glad trees clap their hands! 
 How their silken plumes and tassels 
 Bow as his acknowledged vassals. 
 As they dance a glad attendance 
 
 To his softly-breathed commands! 
 How he whispers, whispers, whispers 
 
 To the sleeping infant flowers! 
 How his matins and his vespers 
 
 Carol through their virgin bowers 
 How he trills, till he fills 
 All their heart with gentle thrills, 
 And a loving secret tells 
 To the swinging lily bells! 
 And with skillful touch uncloses 
 All the petals of the roses; 
 And they lift their starry eyes 
 
POETS AND POETRY 101 
 
 In a rapture of surprise, 
 And, all radiant with blushes, 
 Spring to meet their ardent lover 
 Spring to greet their gentle lover. 
 
 The sweet spirit of the wind. 
 Thus, through spring and summer hours, 
 He, the lover of the flowers, 
 
 Is forever singing, dancing 
 In their leafy, scented bowers. 
 Listen to the voices of the wind, 
 To the loud, imperious voices of the 
 
 spirit of the wind. 
 When he boldly rushes forth 
 From his dwelling in the north. 
 How he blows his rattling trumpet, 
 
 And he beats his noisy drum! 
 How he shouts and screams in fury 
 As, without a judge or jury. 
 He condemns the bloom and verdure in his 
 pathway to the tomb. 
 
 One of her cheeriest short productions is 
 'Pumpkin Pie" which we give in full : 
 
 PUMPKIN PIE 
 
 When the cool November breezes 
 Bring to us the northern freezes, 
 And the prairie verdure ceases, 
 
 And departing summer sighs. 
 Then with what ecstatic rapture 
 We the golden pumpkins capture, . 
 And we store them in the cellar 
 
 For our future pumpkin pies. 
 
102 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 'Twas the magic of a fairy, 
 With a form so light and airy, 
 That a golden pumpkin changed in- 
 
 To a coach so snug and neat, 
 And informed Miss Cinderilla 
 That her tears were vain and silly — 
 If she wished to join the revels — 
 
 In the coach to take a seat. 
 
 So our girls — the household fairies — 
 Each a golden pumpkin carries • 
 
 In her arms, so plump and snowy. 
 
 Quite ignoring weight and size. 
 And with slaughter almost tragic, 
 And with skill akin to magic, 
 They transform those golden spheres in- 
 
 To delicious pumpkin pies. 
 
 Oh, the crust so crisp and puffy. 
 With its contents soft and fluffy, 
 How its fragrant, spicy odors 
 
 Lade the "palpitating air!" 
 How its contents, brown and golden, 
 Bring to mind Thanksgiving olden. 
 When this pie, by all assembled, 
 
 Was crowned fairest of the fare. 
 
 Pies of apple, plum and cherry, 
 Spicy mince and luscious berry. 
 Lemon custard, so delicious 
 
 That for more you often sigh. 
 But if you would know perfection 
 And a pie without objection. 
 Choose a regular old-fashioned 
 
 Yankee country pumpkin pie. 
 
Hamlin Garland 
 
 Biographical— Born, West Salem, Wis., Sept. 16, 1860. 
 At seven years of age removed with parents to Winnesheik 
 County, Iowa. Graduated, Cedar ^M Seminary, Osage, 
 Iowa, 1881. Taught school 1882-83, in Illinois. Came to 
 South Dakota in 1883. Took claim, McPherson county. Went 
 Boston fall of 1884. Studied Literature in Boston public 
 library. Came West again. Wrote short stories and novels. 
 Organized "Cliff Dwellers' Club," of Chicago. Removed to 
 New York in 1915. 
 
HAMLIN GARLAND 
 
 South Dakota justly lays claim to an author 
 who has won a national reputation in the Literary 
 world, Hamlin Garland. He is the most popular 
 novelist in the West, aside from Harold Belle 
 Wright ; and yet, solely for the purpose of study, we 
 have classified him among the poets. 
 
 Although Garland was educated in the East, 
 he is essentially Western — western by birth, western 
 in sympathy and western in style. He was born in 
 Wisconsin ; when a young man, he homesteaded in 
 Dakota. The scene of his first novel, "Main-Traveled 
 Roads," is laid in South Dakota. His mother gave 
 him the foundation for the story. He sold it for 
 seventy-five dollars, and promptly gave her one-half 
 of the amount. 
 
 Garland's strength rests largely in his uncon- 
 ventionality. He boldly sets a literary style of his 
 own. He makes his characters real instead of ideal 
 and analyzes them as they are. The West was look- 
 ing for this kind of a writer. He supplied the de- 
 mand. 
 
 It is due Garland to list herein his many wide- 
 read novels, to date : "Main-Traveled Roads," "Jason 
 Edwards," "A Little Norsk," "Prairie Folks," "A 
 Spoil of Office," "A Member of the Third House," 
 "Crumbling Idols," "Rose of Dutcher's Cooley," 
 
106 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 "Wayside Courtships," "Ulysses Grant" (Biograph- 
 ical), "The Spirit of Sweet- Water," "The Eagle's 
 Heart," "Her Mountain Lover," "The Captain of the 
 Gray Horse Troop," "Hesper," "Light of the Star," 
 "The Tyranny of the Dark," "The Long Trail," 
 "Money Magic," "Boy Life on the Prairie," "The 
 Shadow World," "Trail of the Gold-Seekers," "Victor 
 Olnee's Discipline," "Witche's Gold" (a revised 
 edition of "The Spirit of Sweet-Water"), "Cava- 
 naugh," "Moccasin Ranch" (a story of Dakota). 
 
 With all of these books to his credit, plus several 
 dozen charming short stories, we must, nevertheless, 
 for our purpose, treat him as a poet and consider 
 a few of his poems. 
 
 THE CRY OF THE AGE 
 
 (The Outlook, May 6, 1899.) 
 
 What shall I do to be just? 
 
 What shall I do for the gain 
 Of the world — for its sadness? 
 Teach me, O Seers that I trust! 
 
 Chart me the difficult main 
 Leading out of my sorrow and madness, 
 
 Preach me the purging of pain. 
 
 Shall I wrench from my finger the ring 
 
 To cast to the tramp at my door? 
 Shall I tear off each luminous thing 
 
 To drop in the palm of the poor? 
 What shall I do to be just? 
 
 Teach me, O ye in the light, 
 Whom the poor and the rich alike trust: 
 
 My heart is aflame to be right. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 107 
 
 DEATH IN THE DESERT 
 
 (Munsey's, June, 1901.) 
 
 He died and we buried him there — 
 In the sound of an unnamed stream; 
 
 The poison plants around him flare, 
 And the silence is deep as death. 
 
 Where we left him in wordless dream, 
 With a "God Speed" spoken underbreath. 
 
 I laid a flower on the dead man's breast, 
 While the eagles whistled in shrill dismay — 
 
 Nothing could then disturb his rest; 
 
 I gave him the rose, and we covered him up 
 
 With the cold, black earth, and rode away. 
 My heart was bitter — I could not weep. 
 
 He Was so young to die so soon — 
 
 He was so gay to lie alone 
 Burned by sun and chilled by moon. 
 
 There where the waters are cold and gray. 
 There by the slimy ledges of stone — 
 
 But there he must sleep till the sun is gray. 
 
 PRAIRIE CHICKENS 
 
 (The Independent, October 5, 1893.) 
 
 From brown-plowed hillocks 
 
 In early red morning. 
 They awoke the tardy sower with this cheerful cry; 
 
 A mellow boom and whoop 
 
 That held a warning — 
 A sound that brought the seed-time very nigh. 
 
 The circling, splendid anthem 
 
 Of their greeting 
 Ran like the morning beating of a hundred mellow drums — 
 
 Boom, boom, boom! 
 
 Each hillock kept repeating. 
 Like cannon answering cannon when the golden sunset comes. 
 
108 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 They drum no more, 
 
 These splendid springtime pickets; 
 The sweep of share and sickle has thrust them from the hills, 
 
 They have scattered from the meadow 
 
 Like partridge in the thickets — 
 They have perished from the sportsman, who kills, and kills, 
 and kills! 
 
 Often now. 
 
 When seated at my writing, 
 I lay my pencil down and fall to dreaming still 
 
 Of the stern, hard days. 
 
 Of the old-time Iowa seeding, 
 When the prairie chickens woke me with their war-dance on 
 the hill. 
 
 BOY LIFE ON THE PRAIRIE 
 
 I saw the field (as trackless then 
 
 As >vood to Daniel Boone) 
 
 Wherein we hunted wolves as men, 
 
 And camped and twanged the green bassoon; 
 
 Not blither Robin Hood's merry horn 
 
 Than pumpkin pie amid the corn. 
 
 In central deeps the melons lay. 
 Slow swelling in the August sun. 
 I traced again the narrow way, 
 And joined again the stealthy run — 
 The jack-o'-lantern's wraith was born 
 Within shadows of the corn. 
 
 wide, sweet wilderness of leaves! 
 O playmates far away! Over thee 
 The slow wind like a mourner grieves. 
 And stirs the plumed ears fitfully. 
 Would we could sound the signal horn 
 And meet once more in walls of corn! 
 
POETS AND POETRY 109 
 
 MY CABIN 
 
 My cabin cowers in the onward sweep 
 
 Of the terrible northern blast; 
 Above its roof the wild clouds leap 
 
 And shriek as they hurry past. 
 The snow-waves hiss along the plain; 
 
 Like hungry wolves they stretch and strain; 
 They race and ramp with rushing beat; 
 
 Like stealthy tread of myriad feet 
 
 They pass the door. Upon the roof 
 
 The icy showers swirl and rattle. 
 At times the moon, though far aloof, 
 
 Through winds and snows in furious battle 
 Shines white and wan within the room — 
 
 Then swift clouds dart across the light, 
 And all the plain is lost to sight; 
 
 The cabin rocks, and on my palm 
 The sifted snow falls cold and calm. 
 
 God! what a power is in the wind! 
 
 I lay my ear to the cabin-side 
 To feel the weight of his giant hands; 
 
 A speck, a fly in the blasting tide 
 Of streaming, pitiless icy sands; — 
 
 A single heart with its feeble beat — 
 A mouse in the lion's throat — 
 A swimmer at sea — a sunbeam's mote 
 
 In the strength of a tempest of hail and sleet! 
 
110 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 COLOR IN THE WHEAT 
 
 Like liquid gold the wheat-field lies, 
 
 A marvel of yellow and green, 
 That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, 
 
 With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen 
 That plays in the golden hair of a girl, 
 A cloud flies there — 
 A ripple of amber — a flare 
 Of light follows after. A swiri 
 In the hollows like the twinkling feet 
 
 Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run 
 
 To the westward sun. 
 Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. 
 
 I hear the reapers' far-off hum. 
 
 So faint and far it seems the drone 
 Of bee or beetle, seems to come 
 
 From far-off, fragrant, fruity zone, 
 A land of plenty, where 
 Toward the sun, as hasting there, 
 The colors run 
 Before the wind's feet 
 In the wheat. 
 
 The wild hawk swoops 
 
 To his prey in the deeps; 
 The sunflower droops . 
 
 To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps; 
 Then, moving in dazzling links and loops, 
 
 A marvel of shadow and shine, 
 A glory of olive and amber and wine. 
 
 Runs the color in the wheat. 
 
Joseph Mills Hanson 
 
 Biographical — Born, Yankton, S. D., July 20, 1876. 
 Educated Chauncy Hall School, Boston, 1889-90; preparatory 
 department Yankton College, 1890-94; graduate St. John's 
 Military School, Manlius, N. Y., 1897. Married Frances Lee 
 Johnson, of Holden, Mo., June 2, 1909. (She died April 12, 
 1912). Employed by Otis Elevator Co., St. Louis, Mo., 
 1900-09. Farming near Yankton since then. Contributor to 
 magazines since 1900. Author of three standards novels, 
 two histories and one book of poems. 
 
JOSEPH MILLS HANSON 
 
 One of the younger writers of our state, whose 
 literary work — both prose and poetry — will stand 
 the supremest test of critics, is Joseph Mills Hanson, 
 of Yankton. His writings are all finished produc- 
 tions. He never neglects any of them at any angle. 
 
 Hanson is not only a writer of fiction, but he is 
 a good historian as well. One of his widely read 
 books is "With Carrington on the Bozeman Road." 
 In this story of the pioneer journey of a Minnesota 
 merchant and his soldier son to Bozeman City, just 
 after the Civil War, Hanson not only paints a 
 graphic picture of the romance of the invasion of 
 Montana by the whites, with all that it implied of 
 hardship, tragedy, and ultimate triumph, but he 
 brings to the story a notable knowledge of the his- 
 tory of the Western advance. The operations of 
 General Carrington against the Indians are here de- 
 scribed with historical fidelity, and the story as a 
 whole is a noble interpretation of one of the most 
 heroic chapters in American life. 
 
 Another historical work of Hanson's that has 
 gained wide recognition throughout the northwest, 
 not only in home libraries but as a book for public 
 school use as well, is his "With Sully Into the Sioux 
 Land." It is an account of the campaign of General 
 Sully against the Sioux Indians. The story begins 
 with a scene laid near New Ulm, Minnesota, in 1862, 
 
114 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 in which Governor Ramsey, General Sibley, Judge 
 Flandreau, and others, are conspicuously mentioned. 
 It then shifts to North Dakota, South Dakota, and 
 Montana, and fully depicts the hardships and suffer- 
 ing of the pioneers and early settlers resulting from 
 the Indian outbreaks. 
 
 One of this author's best books — one showing 
 his widest range of research — is 'Tilot Knob, The 
 Thermopylae of the West." In the preparation of 
 this work he had associated with him Dr. Cyrus A. 
 Peterson. 
 
 In this book is related from the Union point of 
 view the history of the battle of Pilot Knob, which 
 was fought on September 27, 1864, and which was 
 one of the greatest contests of the tremendous 
 struggle of sixty years ago. 
 
 Hanson and Peterson have utilized the accumu- 
 lated data, notes, memoranda, and correspondence 
 with respect to the great battle, together with the 
 narratives of more than 100 survivors of the con- 
 flict at Pilot Knob and have extracted everything 
 bearing on the detail of that battle. 
 
 The authors say: "In these days of peace and 
 ease and plenty it is well for us to contemplate now 
 and then — not through the eyes of the trained his- 
 torian, who winnows and balances all the data of the 
 subject before him — but through the sweat-dimmed 
 and smoke-blinded eyes of actual participants — the 
 exertions and heroisms and sufferings of the men 
 
POETS AND POETRY 115 
 
 who made possible our present age of material 
 prosperity." 
 
 It is an important addition to the history of the 
 Civil War written with unusual charm. 
 
 "The Conquest of Missouri", from the pen of 
 Hanson, excited the admiration of such old Indian 
 fighters as Colonel Cody and General Nelson A. 
 Miles, and many others who were associated with 
 them. Such large dailies as the Chicago Tribune 
 and the New York Sun heralded its praises. 
 
 Captain Grant Marsh, who is the chief figure 
 in "The Conquest of the Missouri," commanded the 
 "Far West" which took so prominent a part in the 
 campaign against the Sioux Indians in 1876 which 
 culminated in the destruction of Gen. Geo. A. Custer 
 and several battalions of his command — the 7th U. 
 S. Cavalry. Besides this one notable instance 
 Captain Marsh participated in many government 
 enterprises during the years of struggle between the 
 whites and the hostile Indian tribes. Hanson, in 
 writing "The Conquest of the Missouri," has built 
 up his work around the personality and adventures 
 of Captain Marsh as being representative of the 
 period but he does not confine himself by any means 
 to biographical data, and his work is really a very 
 complete history of the advance of civilization over 
 the vast territory of the Missouri. 
 
 Another refreshing story of Hanson's is "The 
 Trail to El Dorado." This is an ideal boy's story, 
 based upon the expedition of emigrants under Cap- 
 
116 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 tain James L. Fisk, in 1862, from Minnesota across 
 northern Dakota and Montana to Walla Walla, 
 Washington. It was published serially in 1913 in 
 "Boys' Life," the official organ of the Boy Scouts. 
 That fall McClurg brought it out in book form. 
 
 The newly revived art of pageantry will doubt- 
 less contribute its quota to literature in the form of 
 published texts. The first one published by a South 
 Dakota writer is "The Pageant of Yankton" by 
 Joseph Mills Hanson, which is just now issuing 
 from the press. The subject of the pageant is the 
 history of Yankton, including its romantic Indian 
 beginnings, the coming of the first white men, the 
 picturesque days of steamboating on the Missouri, 
 the pioneer settlement of the town and important 
 features of its development. Main incidents in this 
 history are presented in a series of dramatic epi- 
 sodes, interspersed with music, songs, and dancing. 
 A pageant has been described as a drama in which 
 the community is the hero and its history the plot. 
 Its purpose is to interpret to the people of a com- 
 munity their own life and civic ideals. This Mr. 
 Hanson has done with insight and power in his new 
 book. 
 
 But, we must get away from Hanson as a novel- 
 ist and historian and study him briefly as a poet. 
 The same beautiful literary charm found in his 
 prose is at once noticeable in his poetry. He excels 
 in narration. His periods attain great power, and 
 
POETS AND POETRY 117 
 
 one cannot read any of them without feeling the 
 thrill of their inspiration. 
 
 One of the very best volumes of poems to appear 
 thus far in the history of the state is his "Frontier 
 Ballads," a volume containing about one-fourth of 
 the poems he has written to date, and which have 
 been published from time to time in miscellaneous 
 magazines. The poems contained in it are however 
 those that are essentially western in flavor. 
 
 For both description and narration his "Girl 
 of the Yankton Stockade," taken from "Frontier 
 Ballads," will give us a good example. 
 
 THE GIRL OF THE YANKTON STOCKADE 
 
 Yes, it's pretty, this town. And it's always been so; 
 
 We pioneers picked it for beauty, you know. 
 
 See the far-rolling bluffs; mark the trees, how they hide 
 
 All its streets, and, beyond, the Missouri, bank-wide. 
 
 Swinging down through the bottoms. Up here on the height 
 
 Is the college. Eh, sightly location? You're right! 
 
 It has grown, you may guess, since I've been here; but still 
 
 It is forty-five years since I looked from this hill 
 
 One morning, and saw in the stockade down there 
 
 Our women and children all gathered at prayer, 
 
 While we, their defenders, with muskets in rest 
 
 Lay waiting the Sioux coming out of the West. 
 
 They had swept Minnesota with bullet and brand 
 
 Till her borders lay waste as a desert of sand. 
 
 When we in Dakota awakened to find 
 
 That the red flood had risen and left us behind. 
 
 Then we rallied to fight them, — Sioux, Sissetons, all 
 
 Who had ravaged unchecked to the gates of Saint Paul. 
 
118 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Is it strange, do you think, that the women took fright 
 That morning, and prayed; that men, even, turned white 
 When over the ridge where the college now looms 
 We caught the first glitter of lances and plumes 
 And heard the dull trample of hoofs drawing nigh, 
 Like the rumble of thunder low down in the sky? 
 
 Such sounds wrench the nerves when there's little to see; 
 It seemed madness to stay, it was ruin to flee. 
 But, handsome and fearless as Anthony Wayne, 
 Our captain, Frank Ziebach, kept hold on the rein. 
 Like a bugle his voice made us stiffen and thrill — 
 "Stand steady, boys, steady! And fire to kill!" 
 
 So the most of us stayed. But when dangers begin 
 You will always find some who are yellow within. 
 We had a few such, who concluded to steer 
 For the wagon-train, parked in the centre and rear. 
 They didn't stay long! But you've heard, I dare say, 
 Of the girl who discouraged their running away. 
 
 What, no? Never heard of Miss Edgar? Why, sir, 
 
 Dakota went wild with the praise of her! 
 
 As sweet as a hollyhock, slender and tall, 
 
 And brave as the sturdiest man of us all. 
 
 By George, sir, a heroine, that's what she made, 
 
 When her spirit blazed out in the Yankton stockade! 
 
 The women were sobbing, for every one knew 
 
 She must blow out her brains if the redskins broke through. 
 
 When into their midst, fairly gasping with fright, 
 
 Came the panic-struck hounds who had fled from the fight. 
 
 They trampled the weak in their blind, brutal stride. 
 
 Made straight for the wagons and vanished inside. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 119 
 
 Then up rose Miss Edgar in anger and haste 
 And grasped the revolver that hung at her waist; 
 She walked to the wagon which nearest her lay, 
 She wrenched at the back-flap and tore it away, 
 Then aiming her gun at the fellow beneath 
 She held it point-blank to his chattering teeth. 
 
 "Go back to your duty," she cried, "with the men! 
 
 Go back, or you'll never see sunrise again! 
 
 Do you think, because only the women are here. 
 
 You can skulk behind skirts with your dastardly fear? 
 
 Get out on the ground. Take your gun. About, face! 
 
 And don't look around till you're back in your place!" 
 
 Well, he minded; what's more, all the others did, too. 
 That girl cleared the camp of the whole scurvy crew. 
 For a pistol-point, hovering under his nose. 
 Was an argument none of them cared to oppose. 
 Yet so modest she was that she colored with shame 
 When the boys on the line began cheering her name! 
 
 Well, that's all; just an echo of old border strife 
 
 When the sights on your gun were the guide-posts of life. 
 
 Harsh times breed strong souls, by eternal decree, 
 
 Who can breast them and win — but it's always struck me 
 
 That the Lord did an extra good job when He made 
 
 Miss Edgar, the girl of the Yankton stockade. 
 
 Likewise, two of his selections, "The Missouri" 
 and "The Tauline' ", taken from his "River Songs," 
 which constitute the last section of his "Frontier 
 Ballads," are worthy of a place in the literature of 
 any state or nation. "The Missouri" is too lengthy 
 
120 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 for reproduction in its entirety, but a few stanzas 
 culled therefrom will give to us an appreciation of its 
 beautiful imagery as well as its artistic style of exe- 
 cution. The first two stanzas read : 
 
 When the hollow void of Chaos 
 By the sun's first flame was lit, 
 And morning kissed the new earth's leaden sky, 
 When the hand of God reached downward 
 . To the ocean's utmost pit 
 And reared the ragged continents on high, 
 
 From the naked, dripping ranges 
 
 Of the Rocky's granite sweep. 
 In a pathway through the quaking mud-plains torn. 
 
 Surged a waste of briny waters 
 
 Roaring backward to the deep. 
 And the great Missouri, king of floods, was born. 
 
 After tracing it through the glacial period ; on 
 up to the time the Indians first sat upon its banks 
 and later when the white man was checked by its 
 floods, he concludes the poem as follows : 
 
 But splendid though the epic 
 
 Of the river's wondrous past 
 As Homer e'er could sing or Milton pen, 
 
 It will know its grandest numbers 
 
 In the ages yet uncast 
 When its worth shall yield full measure unto men. 
 
 In this storehouse of the nations, 
 
 Where but thousands prosper now, 
 The homes of teeming millions soon shall be; 
 
 On this noble waste of waters, 
 
 Untouched by steamer's prow. 
 Shall roll a people's commerce toward the sea. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 121 
 
 Unto us and to our children 
 
 Will be dealt the untold gains 
 If, shaping Nature's promise into deeds, 
 
 We accept the willing service 
 
 Of this Titan of the plains 
 And compel its mighty muscles to our needs. 
 
 Till its flood runs deep and constant 
 
 To the Mississippi's tide. 
 And the wedded torrents down the South are hurled. 
 
 Pouring forth their fleets of plenty 
 
 O'er oceans far and wide 
 To bear our country's riches to the world. 
 
 "The 'Pauline' " is so closely woven together 
 throughout that it would spoil the narrative to 
 strike from it a single stanza, so we give it in full : 
 
 THE "PAULINE" 
 
 A Missouri tramp was the boat "Pauline" 
 
 An' she ran in '78; 
 She was warped in the hull an' broad o' beam, 
 An' her engines sizzled with wastin' steam, 
 An' a three-mile jog against the stream 
 
 Was her average runnin' gait. 
 Sing ho! fer the rickety "Pauline" maid, 
 The rottenest raft in the Bismarck trade. 
 
 An' her captain an' her mate. 
 
 The new "North Queen" come up in June, 
 
 Fresh launched from the Saint Joe ways, 
 As speedy a craft as the river'd float — 
 She could buck the bends like a big-horn goat — 
 An' she hauled astern o' that "Pauline" boat 
 
122 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 On one o' them nice spring days. 
 Sing ho! fer the "Pauline," puffin' hard, 
 With her captain up on the starboard guard, 
 
 A-watchin' the "North Queen" raise. 
 
 The "Queen," she drew to the "Pauline's" wheel 
 
 An' her captain come a-bow; 
 "I'll give yeh three miles the lead," says he, 
 "An' beat yeh at that into Old Santee." 
 "Come on," says the "Pauline's" chief, "an' see! 
 
 I'm a-waitin' fer yeh now." 
 Sing ho! fer the captains, grim an' white 
 With the smothered hate of an old-time fight 
 An' the chance fer a new-time row. 
 
 So the sassy "Queen" strung out behind 
 
 An' let the distance spread. 
 Till the "Pauline" headed Ackley's Bend 
 An' herself come in at the lower end; 
 Then her slow-bell speed begun to mend 
 
 Fer the space that the old boat led. 
 Sing ho! fer the clerk's an' the engineers 
 A-swabbin' the grease on the runnin' gears 
 
 An' settin' the stroke ahead. 
 
 PufF-puff ! they went by the flat sand-bars, 
 
 Chug-chug! where the currents spun. 
 An' the "Pauline's" stokers were not to blame 
 Fer her tall, black stacks were spoutin' flame, 
 But the "Queen" crawled up on her, just the same, 
 
 Two miles to the "Pauline's" one. 
 Sing ho! fer the steam-chest's poundin' cough, 
 A-shakin' the nuts o' the guy-rods off 
 
 To the beat o' the piston's run. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 123 
 
 The "Queen" pulled up on the old boat's beam 
 
 At the mouth o' Chouteau Creek, 
 An' the "Pauline's" captain stamped an' swore, 
 Fer the wood bulged out o' the furnace door, 
 An' the steam-gauge hissed with the load it bore. 
 
 But she couldn't do the* trick. 
 Sing ho! fer the pilot at the wheel 
 A-shavin' the shoals on a twelve-inch keel. 
 Enough to scare yeh sick. 
 
 The "Queen" was doin' her level best 
 
 An' she wasn't leadin' far — 
 Fer the "Pauline" stuck like a barber's leech — 
 But she let her siren whistle screech 
 When she led the way into Dodson's Reach, 
 
 Three miles from Santee Bar. 
 Sing ho! fer the "Pauline's" roust about 
 A-rollin' the Bismarck cargo out, 
 
 Big barrels o' black pine tar. 
 
 The "Pauline's" chief was a sight to see 
 
 As he stood on the swingin' stage. 
 
 "I'll beat that pop-eyed levee-rat 
 
 If he banks his fires with bacon fat; 
 
 Pile in that tar an' let her scat 
 
 An' never mind the gauge!" 
 
 Sing ho! fer the boilers singein' red 
 
 An' the black smoke vomitin' overhead 
 
 From the furnace' flamin' rage. 
 
 An' she gained, that rattle-trap mud-scow did. 
 While her wake got white with spray, 
 An' forty rods from the landin'-plank 
 Her bow was a-beam o' the "North Queen's" flank 
 An' her pilot rushin' her fer the bank 
 
124 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 To block the "North Queen's" way. 
 Sing ho! fer the boilers' burstin' roar 
 As they hurl them loose from the splittin' floor, 
 
 An' tear the decks away. 
 
 But the captain bold of the ex-"Pauline," 
 
 He didn't stop a bit, 
 Fer he flew with the wreckage through the air 
 An' fell on the landin', fair an' square. 
 An' the "Queen" run in an' found him there, 
 
 R'ared up from where he'd lit. 
 An' he yelled: "You rouster, I've won the race! 
 Go git a boat that can keep my pace, 
 
 Yer 'North Queen' doesn't fit!" 
 
 Other charming poems of Hanson's, published 
 as yet only in various magazines, but not preserved 
 in book form, are : "Recessional," a tribute to Bishop 
 Biller; "Memory," a longing for the Jim river; 
 "Ballads of Visions," a psychic treatise on the soul ; 
 "Ballad of the Fleet," a description of the world 
 cruise made by the United States' battleship fleet in 
 1908; "Christmas Eve," "Festival Hall," "Flag 
 Day," "Love Beckoned On," "Vesper," "Prairie 
 Chicken Time," "My Pal and I," and "The Cavalry 
 Veteran." 
 
Charles Elmer Holmes 
 
 Biographical — Born, North Stonington, Conn., Feb. 2, 
 1868. Educated at Yale (A. B. 1884). Admitted Nebraska 
 bar, 1887. V-P State Bank of Harrison, Neb., 1890-93. 
 Teacher, South Dakota schools, 1894-99. Identified with N. Y. 
 Mutual Life Insurance Co. since that time. Married Josephine 
 C. Etter, June 15, 1903. Lecturer. Author of two volumes of 
 poetry and one of prose. Present address, Columbus, Ohio. 
 
CHARLES ELMER HOLMES 
 
 The most prolific writer (with the exception of 
 Judge Van Dalsem) that the state has produced thus 
 far — by birth within her borders or by adoption, 
 either temporary or permanently — is the accom- 
 plished Charles E. Holmes. He has excelled in both 
 fields of literary endeavor — prose and poetry — and 
 in addition thereto, he is one of the most versatile 
 public speakers that have graced the platform of 
 the state. 
 
 Holmes is a typical literary genius. Most 
 writers are not successful public speakers. The 
 thoughtful, considerate rigid-moving mind found in 
 the writer, is usually at variance with the dash, the 
 keenness, the sarcasm, the wit and the ready speech 
 of the orator. Not so with Holmes. He embodies 
 the fundamental requisites of both, happily inter- 
 mingled, and strengthened by an inviting personality 
 and a pleasing voice. These give him a complete 
 mastery of the lecture field as well. 
 
 The production on which his reputation must 
 rest as a prose writer is his "Birds of the West." 
 In this book he plainly forsook the prose style of the 
 average writer and launched boldly into a style of 
 his own. These articles on birds were first published 
 in serial form in the Sioux Falls Daily Argus-Leader. 
 They struck such a responsive chord in the western 
 
128 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 heart that hundreds of people wrote their author to 
 preserve them in book form. This he did. In his 
 Introduction to the book he says: "Many a time I 
 have asked my friends, 'What is life?' " Then the 
 writer himself concludes in the language of Whittier, 
 that life is to know : 
 
 " 'Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
 Of the wild flower's time and place, 
 Flight of fowl, and habitude 
 Of the tenants of the wood; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell, 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 How the robin feeds her young, 
 How the oriole's nest is hung.' " 
 
 He says : 
 
 "We shall learn something of the skunk cabbage when we 
 see the dapper little yellow throat building her home within 
 it, choosing to endure its horrid odor for the protection that 
 it gives to her helpless little babies. 
 
 "We shall learn that snakes crawl out of their skins 
 when we find the crested flycatcher working a cast-off skin 
 into her nest to scare her enemies away. 
 
 "We shall get a genuine pleasure in knowing that the 
 little bird we call a petrel was named after Saint Peter, 
 because it walks upon the water. 
 
 "When we are afield, we shall learn of the trees in which 
 the birds spread their tiny couches and swing their airy 
 cradles. 
 
 "When we begin to appreciate the worth of things rather 
 than their values, we begin to live. Then a frog means more 
 than a pair of edible legs; and I have seen the very human 
 little fellows put their hands over their faces to ward off the 
 
POETS AND POETRY 129 
 
 blows that were to send them to the market. Is not a quail 
 on its nest better than a "quail on toast?' Does it not bear 
 the same relation to birds that the trout does to fishes — just 
 a little dearer than most of the others? Neither was made 
 to lie in the market; and if they must be taken, let it be 
 where the feathered choir is chanting a requiem and the 
 heather bells are tolling." 
 
 For use in making up his book the American 
 Audubon Society loaned to the publishers the color- 
 plates of all the birds contained therein. This makes 
 it an unusually attractive volume, as well as an in- 
 structive one. 
 
 But it is as a poet that we desire to discuss 
 Holmes. He is a master of all kinds of styles. He 
 seems to pass through a multiplicity of moods, and 
 while in each of them, to be easily at his best. He 
 lowers you into a pit of dismal grief and then carries 
 you on wings of imaginative fantasy to the siren 
 heights of rapturous ecstasy. Vacillating between 
 these two extremes he paints in musical rhythm 
 every phase of life. As a descriptive poet his works 
 have a fine coloring ; but it is due to him to say that 
 his strongest traits lie in his power of implied sug- 
 gestion. This power is abundantly set forth in the 
 following dainty love scene: 
 
 LOVE'S STORY 
 
 Down in the shade of a leafy nook, 
 
 In the bend of a winding, woodland brook, 
 
 The sunshine lighted our little book, 
 
 As we both read the same sweet story. 
 
130 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 And as we came to the closing line 
 Of a dainty love-song, half -divine, 
 I glanced, and her wistful eyes met mine 
 And we both read the same sweet story. 
 
 Holmes lives close to nature. He does not "see 
 through a glass darkly," but he sees things as they 
 are. Wandering casually along the sunny slopes of 
 the Sioux hills his keen eye never fails to catch the 
 bending nod of the daisy (day's eye) as it obeys 
 the spring zephyr and expresses its, "How do you 
 do?" Neither does he miss the perfect coloring of 
 the leaves; the birds' nests on the forked limbs nor 
 the varied insects creeping about in the trees. 
 Holmes hears. He listens to the voice of Dame Na- 
 ture; and in his soul he feels a quickening response 
 to the unfolding bud, the healing wound on the tree, 
 and the crackling of the grasses round about as they 
 rise from their winter's bed to resume their green 
 hue as of old. He reveals this trait of himself 
 beautifully in the following lines: 
 
 NATURE 
 
 Nature, devoted priestess, ever finds 
 
 Some new-born wonder in the meanest clod; 
 
 And feasts our eyes on beauty and our minds 
 On truths that bear the autograph of God. 
 
 Who keeps in touch with nature and adores 
 The faultless woi'king of her plans prepense, 
 
 Is more than nature's child, for he explores 
 The widest range of soul intelligence. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 131 
 
 Holmes' delicate sentiment, his poetic diction 
 and his artistic touch are nowhere more plainly- 
 revealed in his writings than in his charming little 
 two stanza lullaby: 
 
 LULLABY 
 
 Sleep, sleep, little ones, sleep; 
 Under the waves of your fairy-like curls; 
 Little eyes weighted with baby-bright blisses. 
 Little cheeks freighted with lily-light kisses; 
 
 Sleep, little girls. 
 
 Dream, dream, little ones, dream; 
 Sail far away from the region of tears; 
 Little eyes weary of constant surprise. 
 Little cheeks teary from weary-worn eyes; 
 
 Dream, little dears. 
 
 Again, much of his literary strength lies in his 
 sympathetic nature. He possesses all the finer at- 
 tributes of a poet's heart. His sympathy finds 
 beautiful expression in the following selection: 
 
 ON BROKEN WING 
 
 In a dark highway, flitting in the snow, 
 A little bird lay chilled and suffering; 
 Chirping unheard, unseen in pain it fell 
 On broken wing. 
 
 There have been souls, children of heavenly song. 
 
 That have stayed in their wild, dreamy flight. 
 And fall'n unseen, unknown, as silently 
 In the dark night. 
 
132 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Yet someone pities them and someone loves 
 
 Them, for the simple tribute that they bring 
 To Him that marketh e'en the sparrow's fall 
 On broken wing. 
 
 Note the difference between the preceding poem 
 and the one that follows. Observe the change of 
 mood, the vacillation. Although not a father him- 
 self, he has the deepest possible appreciation of 
 childhood. This appreciation is tastily set forth in 
 the following poem: 
 
 TO A LITTLE FRIEND 
 
 It's astonishing, yet statisticians say, 
 There are born a million babies every day; 
 There are brownies, blacks and yellows, 
 Mig'hty cunning little fellows, 
 Teenty-taunty little heathen far away. 
 
 I am singing of the babes of fairer hue. 
 
 The dimpled little darlings such as you; 
 
 When you left your home above, 
 
 A tiny messenger of love — 
 
 A little star came peeping through the blue. 
 
 Oh, these baby lumps of freshness from on high, 
 
 Little chest-expanding crooners from the sky — 
 
 Bright and happy angel-faces 
 
 Sent to occupy the places 
 
 Of little people such as Pa and I. 
 
 Little minstrels of the stilly, chilly night. 
 
 Making papa promenade the stage in white. 
 
 Singing rasping luUabys 
 
 That would ope your dreamy eyes. 
 
 No matter if old Somnus glued 'em tight. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 133 
 
 But you're worth the weary hours of toil and pain; 
 
 And your baby-song is never sung in vain; 
 
 For it makes the home-life dearer 
 
 And it draws your papa nearer, 
 
 And it makes him like a little child again. 
 
 From the happy jingle of the last poem we are 
 dropped into a chasm of grief and sadness in the 
 following lines: 
 
 THOU DOST NOT KNOW 
 
 Hast thou a friend in sickness lying, 
 Though but a simple ailment lay her low — 
 Do not forget! Fate names the dying. 
 Thou shalt not know 
 
 How soon a friend may pass from thee 
 Without a knowledge of thy love for her. 
 Love always thinks. A little flower may be 
 Thy silent messenger. 
 
 Pluck them I say. Stern are the laws of fate; 
 Hold it not lightly that thy friendship show 
 Only a name. It may be too late. 
 Thou dost not know. 
 
 As a descriptive poet, Holmes is very much at 
 his ease. His description of the Bad Lands attests 
 his proficiency in this line. It has been used repeat- 
 edly by trained elocutionists in their recitals. 
 
 THE BAD LANDS 
 
 A stillness sleeps on the broken plain 
 And the sun beats down with a fiery rain 
 On the crust that covers the sand that is rife 
 With the bleaching bones of the old world life. 
 
134 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 'Tis a sea of sand and over the waves 
 Are the wind-blown tops of the Cyclops' caves; 
 And the mountain sheep and the antelopes 
 Graze cautiously over the sun-burnt slopes. 
 
 And here in the sport of the wild wind's play, 
 A thousand years are as yesterday; 
 And a million more in these barren lands 
 Have run themselves in the shifting sands. 
 
 Oh, the struggle and strife and the passion and pain 
 Since the bones lay bleached on the sandy plain, 
 And a stillness fell on the shifting sea. 
 And a silence that tells of eternity! 
 
 Holmes' best poems are found in his little 
 volume entitled "Happy Days." Among them are 
 "The Cowboy's Sweetheart," and "The Cake Walk," 
 two selections that are general favorites with public 
 readers: also "The Hymn of the Prairie," "Uncle 
 Sam," "A Song of Dakota" and many other pieces 
 worth one's time to study. 
 
 Among the hit-and-miss poems of this gifted 
 writer is one that savors of melancholy or regret, 
 and it is the only one of his poems that does. To read 
 it gives one another view-point of Holmes. 
 
 SUBMISSION 
 
 Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart; 
 
 Pass, there's a world full of men, 
 And women as fair as thou art 
 
 Must do such things now and then. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 135 
 
 True, only the heart of a friend 
 
 Thou hast trod upon, unaware 
 Of aught but thy halcyon tread; 
 
 But why should a heart have been there? 
 
 Forbid that in after years. 
 
 When the bloom and the dimples are gone, 
 Thine eyes look to God through the tears 
 
 Of thy sorrow for what thou hast done. 
 
 Forbid that in silence apart, 
 
 Thy soul the sad prayer shall know, 
 
 "Would God I had only the heart 
 That I trod upon ages ago." 
 
 In 1905, Holmes suddenly thrust upon the mar- 
 ket an entire volume of poems, all centering about 
 the divorce evil, which at that time was at high tide 
 in Sioux Falls. The title of this little book, ''From 
 Court to Court," is very suggestive of its contents. 
 
 One, only, of these poems is sufficient to give the 
 reader an insight into the real character of the 
 volume : 
 
 WHAT COULD THE POOR GIRL DC? 
 
 They married, as so many do, 
 Before they were acquainted. 
 When Bill discovered Geraldine 
 Was not as she was painted: 
 And she discovered Bill was not 
 The boy to blush unseen, 
 I And so they had their quarrels; 
 Poor little Geraldine! 
 
 What could the poor girl do? 
 
136 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 In books and art they disagreed: 
 She read the best they made: 
 Such stuff as James and Browning; 
 Bill always read George Ade: 
 He was very fond of Dooley; 
 She leaned a bit to Ibsen; 
 He loved the comic supplement; 
 She loved the girls of Gibson. 
 
 What could the poor girl do? 
 
 On music and the theatre 
 They quarreled every day: 
 He liked the Cherry sisters; 
 She doted on Duse: 
 She played Chopin and Schuman 
 And denounced it as a crime 
 When Bill sang "Hiawatha" 
 And "The Good Old Summer Time." 
 What could the poor girl do? 
 
 Her dog she named De Peyster, 
 Bill had a fighting pup: 
 One day Fitz got excited, 
 And he ate De Peyster up: 
 She named the baby Reginald 
 He wanted it named Chawles; 
 That settled it: He went his way: 
 She visited Sioux Falls. 
 
 What could the poor girl do? 
 
Charles Bracy Lawton 
 
 Biographical — Born in Ohio, June 27, 1887. During baby- 
 hood removed with parents to South Bend, Indiana. Educated 
 in the public schools of that place. During his latter 'teens, 
 the family removed to South Dakota and settled on a farm 
 six miles east of Scotland. Later, they removed to Scotland. 
 Married Marie Wenzlaff in 1894. Settled on his parents' old 
 farm on the James River, east of Scotland. Father of tw^o 
 children — a boy and a girl. Killed by an accident, January 20, 
 1899. 
 
CHARLES BRACY LAWTON 
 We are now to consider another poet with a 
 poet's heart — one whose songs emanated not alone 
 from the mind but also from that hidden some- 
 thing in the inward being, which we are wont to 
 style the human soul. The full roundness of his lit- 
 erary conception, the delicacy of his sentiments, the 
 choice selection of his words, and, in general, his 
 literary execution — all combine to give his writings 
 an artistic finish and a high rank. His poems are 
 nearly all written in a minor key — death, fate, con- 
 templation. 
 
 It is indeed regrettable that one of such great 
 literary promise should have been stricken down at 
 so young an age when the realization of his literary 
 aspirations had but scarcely begun. And yet, during 
 this brief career, he gave to us a complete volume 
 of poems, entitled "Lest You Forget," published by 
 his mother after his death, which bespeaks uncom- 
 promisingly the great literary future that awaited 
 him. All who have read his literary productions 
 agree that he takes high rank among South Dakota 
 poets. 
 
 The preface to ''Lest You Forget" was written 
 by Miss Flora Louise Stanfield, of South Bend, Ind., 
 one of his boyhood friends. It is exceedingly touch- 
 ing and beautiful. Among other cherished things 
 she says : "There are some lives which cannot be 
 
140 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 judged or measured by the petty rules with which we 
 mete out praise or blame to the ordinary individual. 
 His was such a life. * * * He was so true a friend 
 that one's pen falters when it dares to measure the 
 height and depth and extent of his faithfulness. * * * 
 He was a poet, with a poet's heart, and we who knew 
 him did not guess it until he had woven words into 
 verse that stern critics stopped to praise. And then, 
 with many songs unsung, he went away." 
 
 One would almost think that Lawton predicted 
 his own fate, for in the opening lines of "God's 
 Plan," he says: 
 
 We fill a place in God's own plan, divine this life we live, 
 
 The mystery pervading it a charna to life doth give, 
 
 While we seek through the unstarred night the solving of our 
 
 state. 
 Omnipotent, an unseen hand doth build for each his fate. 
 
 To his happy marriage two children were born. 
 The girl died in infancy. His first inspiration to 
 write poetry came to him on the first anniversary 
 of her death. With a heart reeking with sorrow — 
 he dipped his inspired pen into the heart of a tomb 
 and left to the world this touching echo of his own 
 soul: 
 
 A LITTLE MOUND 
 
 I stood one day beside a little mound 
 
 I knew so well that lies upon the hill. 
 
 And wondered long, as one grief-stricken will — 
 
 Had agony before reached depths profound 
 
 As these? Had yet one known such pain or found 
 
 A life as spiritless, a heart as chill 
 
POETS AND POETRY 141 
 
 As mine had been since nature subtly still 
 Enwrapped the mystery of death around 
 That little form of hers, my first-born child? 
 This punishment seemed all that I could bear, 
 But now, when I another hopeless find, 
 Weeping for one grown nameless and defiled, 
 I think of my own dear one lying there. 
 And feel that death to me was almost kind. 
 
 As his life-blood ebbed away, after his unfor- 
 tunate accident, he left behind on his desk an un- 
 published poem, "A Prayer" — it was his last. In 
 it he seems to feel intuitively that something extra- 
 ordinary is about to happen, but instead of fasten- 
 ing the suspicion upon himself his longings turn 
 toward his baby boy. 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 Make me to bow, to bend, to break. 
 
 To lose my pride and if needs be 
 Tear thou my breast for thy name's sake, 
 
 But leave, God, these things to me: 
 
 Leave thou the little face of trust. 
 The chubby arms that faithful creep 
 
 About my neck — O, if thou must 
 
 Take all; but these, God, let me keep. 
 
 Were those lips dumb I could not hear. 
 Were those eyes set, I could not see; 
 
 Take what thou wilt, though pinceless, dear. 
 But leave, O God these things to me. 
 
142 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 His depth of love and solicitude for the welfare 
 of his baby boy is admirably set forth in one of his 
 earliest poems entitled, "Dear Little Face." 
 
 DEAR LITTLE FACE 
 
 Dear little face, so full of trust 
 
 That now is all believing; 
 Dear little face that some day must 
 
 Find life filled with deceiving; 
 Dear little face, that draws to mine. 
 
 Nor dreams of dreaded danger. 
 Would I could keep you to the end 
 
 To disappointment stranger! 
 
 Dear little face, that asks to know 
 
 The mystery of living; 
 Dear little face, that years will show 
 
 That life was made for giving; 
 Dear little face, where lines will grow 
 
 And deepen with life's sadness. 
 Would I could keep you from the low. 
 
 Replacing grief with gladness! 
 
 Dear little face, how can you meet 
 
 A world, strong men defying? 
 Dear little one, why must you hear 
 
 The sorrowing and crying? 
 Dear little face — I dare not dream 
 
 But, praying here above you, 
 I draw you closer in my arms — 
 
 God knows how well I love you! 
 
 The thought of death seems ever to have been 
 on his mind when writing. Every poem reveals it. 
 The following are only a few of the many sad ones 
 that he wrote : 
 
POETS AND POETRY 143 
 
 SWEET DEATH 
 
 Ah, now I know that you who seemed so cold, 
 
 That you of whom I felt the deepest awe 
 
 And dread, year after year; in whom I saw 
 
 A foe to bear me to a tomb where mould. 
 
 Decay, and dampened clods would me infold, 
 
 Are, after all, my friend. There is no flaw 
 
 Today I would amend in nature's law 
 
 Which put me in your strange and subtle hold. 
 
 With faith grown out of hope, I place my hand 
 
 Thus willingly in yours, with no regret 
 
 That you have come. To gain the unknown land 
 
 Which you conceal, I gladly pay the debt; 
 
 For this weak, flagging clay no more is manned 
 
 To brave life's way, and timely we have met. 
 
 WHEN ONE FAR MORNING COMES 
 
 When one far morning comes and I must lie 
 Unheeding word or prayer; when to convey 
 Unto the tomb my tired, unshriven clay 
 Some strangers wait and, looking, haply sigh; 
 Then when you doubting stand and wonder why 
 These things are so and grieving turn away 
 Lest tears and suffering at last betray 
 The love which you no longer will deny; 
 
 Then when to judge e'en false men will forbear; 
 Then when to you I have turned cold, severe, 
 And on my features grimly death's mask wear. 
 Remember as you speak to me how dear 
 Belated words will be that lying there 
 So still, so deaf, I, listening, shall hear. 
 
144 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 SOMEWHERE 
 
 We stand, some silent friends, around a bier; 
 We knew him in those years when hoyden heart 
 Found relish keen, and something counterpart 
 In supercilious life, before the fear 
 Of captious middle age, before the tear 
 Of penitence adown the cheek did start. 
 Dear death, if thou art only sleep, thou art 
 The amaranthine friend of failure here! 
 Though it is proved he was not born to lead 
 His fellow men in any wondrous way. 
 To those who throw the lance amiss and bleed, 
 He gave such words of cheer as he could say; 
 For this alone, from all its fetters freed. 
 Somewhere that soul may find its peace today. 
 
 THE END 
 
 I hear the dripping from the eaves. 
 
 The eddying of fallen leaves, 
 
 I hear the creaking of a door, 
 
 The snapping of the drying floor; 
 
 In all, I hear you coming, dear, 
 
 I think each moment that I hear 
 
 Your step, your words of greeting sound. 
 
 But you are in the death-shroud wound. 
 
 I hear them say that you are dead, 
 
 I to an open grave am led, — 
 
 I hear a coffin lowering now. 
 
 And, too, some words, and then somehow, 
 
 The falling earth upon the lid 
 
 Beneath which your dear face is hid. 
 
 The hour has come, poor heart, to break. 
 
 To ache, to ache, to ache, to ache. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 145 
 
 WHO IS DEAD 
 
 She is buried on the hill in the sand, 
 Art and nature have been there, and have planned 
 Well to keep around her bed 
 Lilies white and roses red; 
 She was pure and too hath bled, 
 Who is dead. 
 
 So in life it was for her all along. 
 Sweetest modulations filled out her song; 
 Why need, then, poor words be said? 
 Why should tears for her be shed? 
 Let heartsease for her be spread, 
 Who is dead. 
 
 There we left her all alone in the sand, 
 Art and nature understood, and have planned 
 Well to keep around her bed 
 Lilies white and roses red. 
 She was pure and too hath bled 
 Who is dead. 
 
 It would be unfair to the young poet not to 
 publish in full "God's Plan," a verse of which was 
 quoted at the beginning of this review. 
 
 GOD'S PLAN 
 
 We fill a place in God's own plan, divine this life we live, 
 
 The mystery pervading it a charm to life doth give. 
 
 While we seek through the unstarred night the solving of our 
 
 state. 
 Omnipotent, an unseen hand doth build for each his fate. 
 
146 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 We do not fret when autumn shades are growing on the 
 
 leaves, 
 Nor that a scheming spider for his prey a network weaves, 
 We know the summer foliage has served its useful days, 
 We know the plan of insect life is just in all its ways. 
 
 More wonderful is HOW we live than that we have an end, 
 And whence we came, life's mystery doth all these things 
 
 transcend; 
 But yet we stand and ask to know the working of the plan 
 Which God alone is justly, surely working out for man. 
 
 As children do we stand and weep beside a mother's knee. 
 And let a soft caress dispel the fear we cannot see. 
 We give each day to human hands our confidence and trust. 
 But hesitate to give to His, which only can be just. 
 
 We shape our deeds by mortal signs and trust a human 
 
 tongue. 
 While He hath in a key divine through endless ages rung 
 The music of the wandering wind, the listless wave of sea. 
 And sung for man's discordant ear harmonious symphony. 
 
 The power which placed the fixed stars above the oceans blue. 
 Which keeps the fieldmouse through the snow and wets the 
 
 flowers with dew 
 Which grows the wee-faced daisy where it guides the planets 
 
 true. 
 Will shape for you and me, my lad, our course, and truly, 
 
 too. 
 
 Another poem of his that is worthy of preserva- 
 tion is the following : 
 
POETS AND POETRY 147 
 
 LIFE IS A LITTLE THING 
 
 Life is a little thing; what, no one knows, 
 The mystery unbidden comes and goes. 
 Birtheries are met and stifled in the air 
 By wailings for the dead arising there. 
 We do not know we live before we find 
 The end is near. Life is a little thing, 
 why should we mind? 
 
 Life is a little thing; a bending reed. 
 No seeming mission but to break and bleed; 
 Assiduous care may make the weed a flower, 
 Yet it must have at last its fateful hour. 
 When bruised it hangs upon a broken stem. 
 But weep not for the flowers. Life is a little thing 
 to them. 
 
 Life is a little thing of days and years 
 Filled in with morning suns and raining tears. 
 Some furrows deep and some unbroken sod, 
 The plowing deep or shallow lies with God. 
 What matters it to us how days shall be 
 Of sun or rain? Life is a little thing to you and 
 me. 
 
 Life is a little thing; then bid it go — 
 
 Why do men cling to that which hurts them so? 
 
 If life is fight, and death the battle won. 
 
 Lay down your arms, let mystery be undone. 
 
 If heaven is gained with but a single leap, 
 
 Why all this fear? Life is a little thing to nurse 
 
 and keep. 
 
148 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Life is a little thing; then why this dread 
 Of some few weary miles that stretch ahead? 
 Speed on today — take life at its best worth, 
 Tomorrow's sun may find you lost to earth. 
 Tomorrow of today is but the test. 
 Do what you can. Life is a little thing to live at 
 best. 
 
 Life is a little thing that lies between 
 A world we know and worlds that are unseen. 
 A modulation in a minor key, 
 From what was once to that which yet must be; 
 The ages keep the harmony complete, 
 And in the plan, life is a little thing that we must 
 meet. 
 
 Other equally charming selections of Lawton's 
 are : "Together" — a dainty little touch of disappoint- 
 ment in love: "You Went Away" — a sister piece to 
 the former ; "Failure" — a ringing command to duty ; 
 "Limits," "Apart," "Ambition," "After Glow," 
 "November," "Sorrow's Weed," "Point Me the 
 Way," "The Fireplace," "Winter," "Triolet," "A 
 Little Ring," "That Day," and "May Apple Blos- 
 soms." 
 
Mrs. Flora Shufelt-Rivola 
 
 Biographical — Born, Toledo, Ohio, Dec. 1, 1881. Came to 
 Dakota, 1884. Educated, rural schools, Yankton high school 
 and Yankton College Academy. Married Charles E. Rivola 
 July 22, 1903. Mother of three children — two girls and one 
 boy. 
 
MRS. FLORA SHUFELT-RIVOLA 
 
 A new poetess who appeared above the literary- 
 horizon at the opening of the year, 1915, and who 
 found immediate recognition, is Mrs. Flora Shufelt- 
 Rivola, of Yankton. Her poems, although semi- 
 confessional of her own personal experiences, are, 
 nevertheless, general in their application ; so much 
 so that she has found a ready sale for them among 
 the leading publishers of the United States. Only 
 a few of the many she has written during the past 
 year, are herein given. 
 
 ELUSIVE 
 
 (Springfield, Mass., Republican.) 
 
 I may not bind the Muse and hold her fast 
 At will, as gracefully she flutters past: 
 I may not lure her to my hold and catch 
 Her tresses, when the moon is on the thatch; 
 
 But on a vagrant wind there comes to me 
 A fancy, sweet and glad and fine and free; 
 And in a trice I catch the luring thought 
 And pinion it, and lo! a poem's wrought. 
 
 TARRYING 
 
 (From the Minneapolis Journal.) 
 
 I looked toward the celestial shore; 
 Cried, "Let me go." 
 Accoutrements of earthly life 
 Do bind me so. 
 
152 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 My soul would soar in wond'rous flight, 
 And I should be 
 So happy, having His own light 
 Ashine on me. 
 
 And then, I heard a soft, sweet voice 
 
 Which whispers still, 
 
 "Could ye not tarry with Me, here 
 
 If 'tis My will?" 
 
 Then, taking up my cross, I walked 
 
 Upon the road; 
 
 Praying the while, for worthiness 
 
 To share His load. 
 
 LITTLE MAN OF YESTERDAY 
 
 (Springfield, Mass., Republican.) 
 
 Little, little lad of mine. 
 With your show of courage fine; 
 Oh! 'tis brave I'd have you be. 
 But your mother's eyes can see 
 Deep inside, all hid away. 
 Things your lips may never say. 
 
 Little man of yesterday, 
 
 Singing as you march away; 
 
 The good God who knows all things 
 
 Knows the hearts of men and kings; 
 
 God and mother see the ache, 
 
 Though so brave a part you take. 
 
 Little man of yesterday. 
 
 Common folks have had to pay 
 
 In the coin of pain and tears. 
 
 For the wars, all through the years. 
 
 Still our lips will smile today, 
 
 Smile, the while you march away. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 153 
 
 Oh! I wonder, does the king 
 
 Know how great, how grave a thing 
 
 'Tis to take my little lad; 
 
 All the child your mother had. 
 
 Must you go the long, long way? 
 
 Little man of yesterday. 
 
 THE TYRO 
 
 f Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Republican.) 
 
 I'm but a tyro and I cannot say 
 
 The things I feel in an artistic way, 
 
 But when the first rose blooms beside my door 
 
 And when spring's sunshine flecks with gold my floor, 
 
 Then, do I feel the selfsame urge as they 
 
 Who have "arrived" in an artistic way. 
 
 And when my baby boy, sweet, cuddles up 
 I know what David meant about the cup 
 That runneth over; when in John's dear eye 
 I see love's soft light gleaming, why then, I 
 Know, too, "Home keeping hearts are happiest," 
 When with love's light I thus am soft caressed. 
 
 When in my ears the age-old world pain moans 
 
 I feel a call to utter it in tones 
 
 That may not be so carelessly laid by, 
 
 But spur men's hearts to action; when I try 
 
 The wizardry of words quite fails me; I may yet 
 
 Depict the woes my heart cannot forget. 
 
 To be a tyro ever — fail to say 
 
 The things I feel in an artistic way, 
 
 May hold more possibilities of pain 
 
 Than hope of any sweet that I may gain; 
 
 Yet deep within I share the wonder part 
 
 Of that which every poet holds within his heart. 
 
154 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 TREASURES 
 
 (Sioux City Journal.) 
 
 I once had a friend whom I thought to the end 
 
 Must needs cleave to my soul; 
 She went away from me one day 
 
 To reach a higher goal; 
 Oh! it isn't the flowers and it isn't the showers 
 
 Of tears that fall so fast; 
 But the message fraught with our love we bi'ought 
 
 To our dear ones in the past. 
 
 I had one nearer, to me far dearer 
 
 Than other loved things are, 
 But one sad night he took his flight 
 
 To some ethereal star. 
 Oh! it isn't the pain and it isn't the rain 
 
 Of tears on a coffin lid; 
 But the spirit we showed, the love we bestowed, 
 
 The kindly thing we did. 
 
 Kind deeds are treasure, but One can measure 
 
 To store within the breast; 
 A healing balm to bring hearts calm, 
 
 When dear ones are at rest. 
 For the stinging scorch of remorse's torch 
 
 When through long hours we weep 
 Is the bitt'rest woe that hearts e'er know 
 
 When silently they sleep. 
 
 Then let us give, while yet they live, 
 
 Our love in fullest measure; 
 'Twill ease our pain when hot tears rain 
 
 And be our lasting treasure. 
 For it isn't the pain and it isn't the rain 
 
 Of tears on a coffin lid. 
 But the spirit we showed, the love we bestowed, 
 
 The kindly thing we did. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 155 
 
 IN THE AFTERGLOW 
 
 (The Christian Herald.) 
 
 Mother o' mine, in the afterglow 
 
 Of mothering years, I love you so; 
 
 For loving me e'er life I knew. 
 
 When next your heart a new life grew; 
 
 Loving me on into fair childhood, 
 
 When I so little understood 
 
 The long, hard way we all must go, 
 
 Mother o' mine, I love you so. 
 
 Loving me, too, when life so sweet 
 
 Tempted my wayward, girlish feet 
 
 Away from paths of truth and right 
 
 To paths that lead to sin's dark night; 
 
 Winning me back with loving tone 
 
 To ways that you had made your own 
 
 By struggle and stress and pain and prayer, 
 
 By love's own cords you held me there. 
 
 Mother o' mine, 'tis mine to take 
 
 The burdensome load, the stress, the ache. 
 
 That come in motherhood's fair years, 
 
 The joy, the pain, the love, the tears; 
 
 'Tis mine to give what you gave me. 
 
 Mother o' mine, I would faithful be 
 
 To the highest note in the song you taught 
 
 My girlish lips, the music fraught 
 
 With all the mother hopes and fears. 
 
 That fill to the brim the mothering years. 
 
 Mother o' mine, in the afterglow 
 Of motherhood's years, I thank you so 
 For gifts to me from out your heart. 
 At thoughts that rise my hot tears start; 
 God give me ways to make you know 
 
156 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 How great is my love before you go 
 Away to rest from your mothering; 
 I would remove life's every sting, 
 And give you rest in the afterglow, 
 For, mother o' mine, I love you so. 
 
 LIFE'S LARGESS 
 
 (Sioux City Journal.) 
 
 Whatever life may have withheld, 
 
 It, yet, has offered this: 
 Unto my thirsty lips it gave 
 
 A woman's cup of bliss; 
 To stand upon the mountain crags 
 
 Where heaven's winds blow free, 
 Up climbing to these wonder heights, 
 
 Dear, hand in hand with thee. 
 
 There have been nights when solemn stars 
 
 Marched up the milky way 
 Which have been rivaled only by 
 
 The splendor of the day; 
 And little sheltered nooks where we 
 
 Have rested at the noon 
 In chill of cold December and 
 
 In glories of sweet June. 
 
 And thrice into our lives has crept 
 
 A little breath of God, 
 Each breath but adding fragrance sweet 
 
 Unto the way we trod; 
 And in the hush before the dawn 
 
 That ushers in age's morn 
 I stand me, grateful for life's rose, 
 
 Forgetful of its thorn. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 157 
 
 Whatever life may have w^ithheld, 
 
 It, yet, has offered this: 
 Unto my thirsty lips it gave 
 
 A woman's cup of bliss; 
 And from these heights I reach my arms 
 
 To heaven in thankfulness 
 That I have, here, been clothed upon 
 
 With its own perfect dress. 
 
 And recognize its pricelessness 
 
 The while I wore the gown; 
 The golden, glowing stuff of it 
 
 Has never seemed dull brown; 
 So far and free I stand me forth 
 
 Here on the mountain heights, 
 A-singing songs of gladness for 
 
 Life's gift and its delights. 
 
 Why need we question of those things 
 
 Which life may have withheld, 
 Since, from the primer of the world 
 
 Our grateful lips have spelled 
 One word, which made life's meaning clear. 
 
 Its mystery and charm 
 Wrapped in that word which wards our souls 
 
 From any dire alarm. 
 
 IF WHEN I PASS 
 
 (Sioux City Journal.) 
 
 If when I pass, these things of me be said: 
 
 She soothed an ache, she stanched a wound that bled; 
 
 Her heart was ever open to the day. 
 
 She went in humble service on her way. 
 
 Giving to this worn one a cheery smile. 
 
 That threatened more than one lone heart could bear; 
 
 With those that hungered, she her bread did share. 
 
158 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 In withered bloom beheld the seeds of life; 
 Her faith reached out unto the end of strife. 
 She held high courage in Despair's own face, 
 And to her Father whispered daily grace 
 For life and love, for trials that make strong: 
 Unto the morning sunshine added song. 
 She planted flowers and, then, shared the bloom; 
 Within her home she ever could find room 
 For such as needed succor for the night. 
 Within her window kept a beacon light. 
 That spoke of hope to those who walk the dusk. 
 She made a feast for him, who, eating husk. 
 Came to himself and turned again back home; 
 And sent a prayer out after those that roam: 
 If when I pass, these things of me be said 
 I shall not need more flowers for my bed. 
 
 E'en while I write the human heart denies 
 
 The citadel whereto I lift my eyes; 
 
 Yet do I know a fount of strength awaits 
 
 The heart with courage strong to storm the gates. 
 
 PROGRESS 
 
 (From "The Masses" Magazine, New York.) 
 
 I was a mountain girl, 
 
 I know, now, they call us poor mountain whites: 
 
 There is a school in the valley, a college, where my little 
 
 sister goes; 
 I was twelve years old when she was born 
 And in four more years I was married. 
 Married — but I had no courtship — no romance: 
 I must have had beauty once. 
 They say I looked like Sue does now. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 159 
 
 I could read a little and Sue has brought me books, 
 
 Books that have interpreted to me the unsatisfied, longing 
 
 ache of the years. 
 I married a bloke, like my father and my brother; 
 When he asked me to mate up with him it was only that — 
 As an animal might seek his kind — 
 The birds and flowers and youth and love and spring 
 Meant nothing to him; 
 And I, unknowing, answered the call of our animal selves 
 
 and married him; 
 Now, when I am coming to know through books and Sue, 
 How it all might have been, I am faded and old and coarse; 
 My teeth are yellow and my hands hard with callous; 
 My cheeks have brown patches where once the roses of spring 
 
 bloomed. 
 
 Sue has a follower, a young Professor of the school, 
 
 Who has taught her with his fine manner and easy grace to 
 
 be a lady; 
 He reads poetry to her and brings her roses with dew on them. 
 And pictures — one a madonna and child — 
 I look and look at it and then I look at my own daughter, 
 And think of the mother I might have been 
 And the father I might have given her. 
 
 Tonight I shall tell her of my late awakening 
 
 And my dreams for her; 
 
 The callous on these hands shall grow thicker with toil, 
 
 That she may go to the college in the valley, 
 
 And learn to be a lady. 
 
Doane Robinson 
 
 Biographical — Born, near Sparta, Wis., Oct. 19, 1856. 
 Attended country school. Migrated to Minnesota. Taught 
 school for five winters. Read law. Graduated, Wisconsin 
 Law school, 1883. Established himself in practice of law at 
 Watertown, S. D. Gave up law for editorial work. Published 
 "Monthly South Dakotan" for a number of years. Married 
 Jennie Austin, of Leon, Wis., in 1884. Father of two sons. 
 Author of a number of prose works and of one volume of 
 poems. State Historian for South Dakota since January 23, 
 1901. Also author and editor of (to date — 1916) seven large 
 volumes of State Historical reports. 
 
DOANE ROBINSON 
 Hon. Doane Robinson must be dealt with in the 
 field of poetry and prose, as he has been prolific in 
 both. As a poet his work is confined mostly to 
 dialect verse. His early poetry was first published 
 in the Century Magazine, the Arena Magazine, the 
 Great Divide and other periodicals. Later, these 
 poems were collected and published by the Gazette 
 Printing Company, of Yankton, in a volume of verse 
 entitled "Midst The Coteaus of Dakota." It contains 
 forty-five of Robinson's poems that were written 
 and published prior to 1900. The book is artistically 
 illustrated by Edwin M. Waterbury. From it have 
 been culled the four following poems as indicative 
 of Robinson's style — two dialect poems and two 
 non-dialect ones. While the first two are somewhat 
 reminiscent and filled with mirth, yet in his "Peace 
 Hymn of The United States," he mounts to consider- 
 able power. 
 
 IN SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Takin' an' layin' by all jokes, 
 
 We're lots smarter than other folks 
 In South Dakota. 
 
 Had the advantage, plumb from the start, 
 
 Bein', that most, of us come here smart; 
 
 And rubbin' agin the itinerant air 
 
 Hez sharpened us up, 'til at last, I swear. 
 
 Half of us farmers knows a heap 
 
 More of wool-tariffs than raisin' sheep 
 In South Dakota. 
 
162 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Just about all of us come out here 
 
 To run for the senate. It do appear 
 
 That them that would take the governorship, 
 
 Rather than let opportunities slip, 
 
 Ain't more thought of than any scrub 
 
 Legislator. But there's one rub — 
 
 When there's a seat in the senate to spare. 
 
 Most of us always don't git our share 
 
 In South Dakota. 
 But we've got big hearts and open hands 
 And we never sulks, and we never stands 
 A tryin' to hinder, by some low muss, 
 A man that is smarter than any of us, 
 But all of us hurries to recognize 
 The boss-smart fellow that wins the prize; 
 Then we goes on seedin' our black-muck lands 
 While the buntins sing and the gulls fly low 
 A watchin' the gophers plunder the corn, 
 And the nestin' robins come and go 
 With critters hair, by the barb-fence torn; — 
 Brown smoke rolls up from the blazin' slough 
 Where last year's grass chokes back the new. 
 And the wild cock's rumble fills the air 
 From the hills where smoky shadows mope. 
 And out by the ba^m the stock-hogs swear. 
 And the spring calf tugs at its picket rope; 
 While the summer grows 'til the harvest's due 
 And the wheat turns gold, and the corn is fair, 
 But our biggest yield is the crop of hope, 
 
 In South Dakota. 
 
 HERDING 
 
 No end of rich green medder land 
 Spicked out with every kind of poseys. 
 Es fer as I kin understand 
 They's nothin' else on earth so grand 
 
POETS AND POETRY 163 
 
 Es just a field of prairy roseys, 
 Mixed up with blue, gold-beaded plumes 
 Of shoestring flowers and peavey blooms. 
 Take it a warm, sunshiny day 
 When prairies stretch so fer away 
 Ther lost at last in smoky gray, 
 And hulkin' yoke-worn oxen browse 
 Around the coteaus with the cows, — 
 The tipsey, stag'rin' day-old calf 
 Mumbles a bleat and slabbers a laugh, — 
 And yearlin' steers so round and slick 
 Wade in the cool and sparklin' crick, 
 While cute spring bossies romp and play 
 With Ponto, in the tall slough hay, 
 Yeh picket out the gentle Roany, 
 Yer konwin', faithful, herdin' pony, 
 And tumblin' down upon yer back 
 Wher' gay, sweet-smelling beauties bide 
 In posey beds, three counties wide. 
 You take a swig of prairie air, 
 With which old speerits can't compare. 
 And think, and plan, and twist, and rack 
 Yer brains, to work some scheme aroun' 
 To get a week to spend in town. 
 
 PEACE HYMN OF THE UNITED STATES 
 
 Thou who hast fattened us with wealth and steeled our 
 arms with power. 
 Choose us thy sentinels, to watch from Freedom's signal 
 tower. 
 Give us that gentle spirit which ennobles and uplifts. 
 
 Teach us to use for righteousness thy fair imperial gifts. 
 
164 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Thou who hast kept a continent for our dominion free, 
 And builded walls of patriot hearts forfending either sea, 
 
 Declare to us that wisdom which shall measure and divide. 
 Between respect and dignity, and arrogance and pride. 
 
 Direct us. Lord, lest through our lapse thy righteous purpose 
 fail, 
 Let not the strength thou giveth us, for evil power avail, 
 But let our navies arbitrate, and send our arms and might, 
 To plead the cause and 'fend the laws of people weak, but 
 right. 
 
 Make us, oh God, thy heralds swift to bear thy peace and light 
 To shores where men in terror writhe beneath oppression's 
 blight. 
 
 But Father, never let our shield be stained by grasping lust; 
 Make thou our grand eulogium, "A nation that is just." 
 
 ON THE RETURN OF THE 1st REGIMENT 
 FROM MANILA 
 
 Oh, Thou who set the continents to guard old Ocean's isles 
 And bade us keep our brothers through world-encircling 
 
 miles, 
 We come to Thee, Oh Father, with thankful, joyful song — 
 The hearty praise of hopeful folk in measure full and strong. 
 
 From fevered, tropic, sea-girt lands, back to Dakota's plain. 
 By Thy permission, Father, our brothers sail again; 
 They bear unsullied banners, heroes of glorious days; 
 Not vauntingly but humbly we give to Thee the praise. 
 
 We fathom not thy purposes; Oh, why should some remain 
 To sleep in jungle-smothered graves? God make Thy 
 meaning plain; 
 
POETS AND POETRY 165 
 
 We know Thou art a tender friend and merciful Thy ways, — 
 Thy will be done, Oh Father, accept our love and praise. 
 And, Father, make us worthier of these courageous sons 
 Whose valor carried liberty to Thy benighted ones, 
 And when, our greeting over, war's panoply they yield. 
 Make them as great in peace. Oh God, as on the battlefield. 
 
 During the winter of 1915-16, Robinson issued 
 a pamphlet, entitled "Peaks," containing poetic 
 eulogies to ten of the leading citizens of South Da- 
 kota — those who tower above their fellowmen, like 
 Harney towers above its fellow peaks in the Black 
 Hills. In it are found several of this author's best 
 efforts. The general introduction to it reads: 
 
 THE PEAKS 
 
 We passed through the clustering hills that buttress the 
 
 mountain wall. 
 And one was the mate of his fellow, and we said, "How alike 
 
 are all." 
 But when we had crossed the vale and turned from the 
 
 opposite height. 
 Above its mates one hoary peak loomed high in majestic 
 
 might. 
 
 We passed through the busy multitude of earnest, ambitious 
 
 men. 
 And one was the mate of his fellow and all were alike to our 
 
 ken; 
 But we crossed the valley of Time. From the heights beyond 
 
 the creek 
 We measured the men again, and one was a mountain peak. 
 
166 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 The first one of the ten "peaks" selected by 
 Robinson is Bishop Hare, founder of All Saints 
 pchool at Sioux Falls, and who was for thirty-five 
 years a Protestant-Episcopal missionary in the 
 Dakota field. Of him the author says : 
 
 THE KINDLING SPLITTER 
 
 ("The Church is continually using: a razor to split kindling," exclaimed 
 a bishop who disapproved calling William Hobart Hare from the general 
 secretaryship of Foreign Missions to make him bishop to the Sioux 
 Indians.) 
 
 Darkness and cold held a nation in bond, — 
 
 Cruel and killing the bite of the gyves, 
 Hopeless and ruthless degenerate men 
 
 Wasted their barren, unprofiting lives. 
 Came then the splitter of kindling, aglow^, — 
 
 Facile his dexter hand; keen was his blade, — 
 Forests of Paynim to tinder he hewed; 
 
 Food for the match where Faith's fagots were laid. 
 Flashes the spark where the flint batters steel, — 
 
 Prayer bellows the flame; quick, fervid the heat, — 
 A people regenerate, hopeful and free, 
 
 Lay bountiful gifts at Elohim's feet. 
 
 A BISHOP'S BLESSING 
 
 The lodge of The Grass, squat on the drought-burned plain, 
 Smote by the pitiless sun. The good gray bishop came, 
 And as he gave his hand in greeting, the blessed rain 
 Fell unannounced, refreshing, sweet. "Ever the same," 
 The old chief gravely said; "this good man always brings 
 A -blessing to this lodge. Today he opens Heaven's spring." 
 
POETS AND POETRY 167 
 
 The following poem of Robinson's, taken from 
 the Minneapolis Journal, just as we were going to 
 press (1916), shows him at his best: 
 
 THE MISSOURI'S CALL 
 
 I love the South Dakota streams, 
 
 The singing Rapid, Belle Cheyenne — 
 
 I see where silvery Moreau gleams — 
 
 The placid Jim; and ever when 
 
 I watch the dash of Big Sioux falls, 
 
 I'm filled with joy and cheer the race, 
 
 But when the great Missouri calls 
 
 I turn obedient to my place. 
 
 There's something in his voice that grips 
 
 My very soul; the master flood 
 
 That flings defiance from its lips. 
 
 And stirs and fires my fighting blood. 
 
 I bravely vow that I will yet. 
 
 By some device entangle it, 
 
 And on its throat a harness get 
 
 To pull it down and strangle it. 
 
 Break it, subdue it to my will, 
 
 Guide it by bit and bridle, 
 
 Serving mankind, nor let it still 
 
 A vagrant be and idle. 
 
 I feel its mighty pulses throb 
 
 With power that's still to measure; 
 
 And swear that it shall be my job 
 
 Its energy to treasure. 
 
 Its nervous force shall cheer the lives 
 
 Of millions, hence, forever, 
 
 To swell the power of man who strives, 
 
 And fructify endeavor. 
 
168 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 As a prose writer, Robinson is exceedingly pro- 
 lific. (See Historians in Chapter IT.) He has 
 written two large volumes of the "History of South 
 Dakota," containing 25,000 words. He has also 
 written a "Brief History of South Dakota." His 
 work as secretary and superintendent of the State 
 Historical Society has required him to write and edit 
 seven large volumes of historical reports, including 
 his "History of the Sioux Indians." It is to be 
 regretted that the state has not made sufficient ap- 
 propriation so that these Historical Reports could 
 have been published in sufficient quantities to place 
 a set in each public library, and in the leading school 
 libraries, of the state. They are the perfected his- 
 tory of South Dakota, given in the minutest detail, 
 for over two centuries. 
 
May Philipps-Tatro 
 Biographical — Born, Wisconsin, 1853. Left an orphan at 
 two years of age. Married Frank R. Chubb, 1869. Mother 
 of one child — a girl. Later, married George Tatro. Member 
 Author's Club of Minneapolis. Contributor to magazines; 
 also to Minneapolis Times. Wide-read poetess. Died at 
 Bowdle, S. D., April 16, 1901. 
 
MAY PHILLIPS-TATRO 
 
 In a grass-covered grave in the village of 
 Bowdle, this state, marked only by a small undated 
 tombstone, bearing the inscription, "To Our Gifted 
 May Phillips-Tatro," lies a w^oman whose great heart 
 once beat with an exuberance of joy over the rich- 
 ness of Dakota prairie life — the songs of the birds, 
 the melodies of spring, the crackling of the wheat, 
 and the "smell of new-mown hay." As will readily 
 be seen, by comparison, Mrs, Tatro easily takes first 
 rank, to date, among our lady singers. 
 
 Mrs. Tatro was on intimate terms with, and 
 was recognized by, the leading authors of the nation. 
 On the back of the old photograph, reproduced here- 
 with, was written the following tribute to her, by the 
 American poet, Walt Whitman : 
 
 In the evening, when everything is quiet, I love to sit 
 w^ith May Phillips-Tatro, and listen to what that beautiful 
 spirit has to tell me of the night, sleep, death, the stars, 
 flowers and all that she knew and so greatly revered; such 
 great love — such rapture of jubilant love of nature — and the 
 good green grass and trees and clouds and sunlight; such 
 aching anguish of love for all that breathes and is sick and 
 sorrowful; such longing to help and mend and comfort that 
 which never can be helped and mended and comforted; such 
 eager looking to delicate death as the one complete and 
 final consolation. 
 
 With her, as with Lawton, the state suffered a 
 distinct literary loss through her early demise. She 
 was one of the most inspirational writers, of either 
 
172 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 sex, that the state has thus far developed. Many of 
 her best poems are not premeditated, labored efforts, 
 but are rather the result of a sudden impulse — a 
 genuine melodic inspiration springing from the hu- 
 man heart. Such was the manner in which she 
 wrote "In Hayin' Time." Mr. Ed. S. Whittaker, a 
 reader trained at Dakota Wesleyan University, ac- 
 companied by a ladies' quartet from that institution, 
 was giving a recital at Bowdle, the home of Mrs. 
 Tatro. In his repertoire he recited James Whitcomb 
 Riley's "Knee Deep In June." Mrs. Tatro was in the 
 audience. She caught the inspiration of the occasion, 
 and, upon going home, seized her pen and dashed 
 off a companion piece to it — "In Hayin' Time" — 
 before she went to bed. It was a splendid achieve- 
 ment, and its delightful rhythm will appeal to lovers 
 of verse for years to come. She dedicated the poem 
 to Mr. Whittaker. The people of Bowdle were so 
 pleased with his readings that they invited him back 
 for a second entertainment. Upon this occasion he 
 read Mrs. Tatro's inspirational poem which follows : 
 
 IN HAYIN' TIME 
 
 (Dedicated to Mr. Ed. S. Whittaker). 
 
 Tell you what I like the best of anything on earth, 
 
 An' it's about the last of June it has its natural birth; 
 
 It comes a kind o' lazy like an' spreads itself around 
 
 An' what ain't floatin' in the air just settles on the ground. 
 
 The smell it has, I'm tellin' you, ain't no imported scent. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 173 
 
 But just a breath from heaven you think God must have lent. 
 These perfume chaps have somethin' ther' a callin' "New- 
 mown hay." 
 But, landy sakes, my hayin' smell discounts it any day. 
 
 The codiments that make it up in no way f^an be beat, 
 An' if you've never heard it, I'll give you the receipt. 
 Take twelve long hours brimmin' full and spillin' every- 
 where 
 Of the yellerest kind of sunshine an' the softest wafts of 
 
 air; 
 Now mix these up with smells that come a wafted to and fro 
 From pastur' lots an' woods an' fields an' where pond lilies 
 
 grow. 
 An' posies from the garden, an' you'll need an extra mess 
 Of pine, wild rose, an' such as these proportioned more or 
 
 less. 
 Then add your clover red an' white an' this receipt of mine 
 Will furnish you what I shall call the smell in hayin' time. 
 
 I'd ruther loaf around the field an' hear the mower hum 
 Than see the biggest show on earth, that's what I would, by 
 
 gum. 
 I like to lop among the hay an' sort a doze an' dream. 
 Then wake again, then drowse some more till life begins to 
 
 seem 
 Like them queer poets tell about, an' then I lay an' think 
 An' watch the shadders patchin' round an' dodgin' quick-a- 
 
 wink; 
 An' wonderin' why I wasn't made so's I could born a rhyme, 
 I wouldn't write but one a year, jest one — in hayin' time. 
 
 I'd tell about the sky-lark with his gladsome soarin' lay, 
 
 The crickets song, an' dronin' bees, an' lumberin' loads o' hay; 
 
 I'd speak about the spring time when early mornin' light 
 
174 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Trimmed every piled-up haycock with dew-drops blinkin' 
 
 bright, 
 Like as though some baby stars forgot to go away 
 Or night was tired of holdin' 'em, an* dropped 'em into 
 
 day. 
 But I can't do it, farthermore, I ain't agoin' to try — 
 There ain't no poems in some folks, no more 'n a pig can 
 
 fly. 
 
 But there's one chap that's got the knack o' tellin' what he 
 
 sees. 
 An' he can understand the whisperin' of the trees 
 An' what the brook's a sayin', an' about the "Old Swimmin' 
 
 Hole," 
 The garter snakes across your path an' the little medder 
 
 mole, 
 The rustling corn, the old rail fence, the mornin' dove's soft 
 
 call. 
 The freshness of the spring time an' the colorin' of the fall. 
 The glimmerin' sheen of summer an' old Winter's blusterin' 
 
 snow; 
 In fact, there's nothin' nature claims but what he's sure to 
 
 know. 
 
 An' as you're readin' what he writes you foller him along, 
 An', durn me, if you don't forget it's just a poet's song. 
 For you can see them very things, an' almost yell for joy, 
 For all the years they slip away an' you're a country boy, 
 A craunchin' young green apples, or a racin' through the 
 
 brush. 
 Or over logs a stumblin' into blue-flag bogs ker slush. 
 Or follerin' 'long the cow-path with your bare feet shuflFlin' 
 
 slow 
 So's to hear the bull frogs' orchestra an' watch the dust aglow 
 
POETS AND POETRY 175 
 
 With lightnin' bugs. But there, I jing. I've hit upon a plan. 
 I'll ast Jim Whitcomb Riley, for you know he's jest the man 
 I'm talkin' of, an' see if he won't write some sort o' rhyme 
 With nothin' in it, not a thing, but hayin' time. 
 
 Mrs. Tatro belonged to the "Authors' Club" of 
 Minneapolis. She was one of its most gifted mem- 
 bers. Her poems were always in demand by the 
 Minneapolis Tribune which published a great many 
 of them. Among these miscellaneous poems is a 
 dainty one called "Ships At Sea;" two poems upon 
 the seasons — one entitled "Spring Upon The 
 Prairie," the other, "Indian Summer;" and three 
 poems on the months — "April," "June," and 
 "October." Two of these poems are here given : 
 
 SHIPS AT SEA 
 
 There are many castle builders 
 In this mighty "world on wheels;" 
 There are many dreamers dreaming 
 What rich harvest time will yield. 
 We are waiting, waiting, waiting. 
 For our ships far out at sea, 
 Vaguely dreaming, dreaming, dreaming 
 Of the promised yet to be. 
 
 Will our ships sail bravely onward — 
 Weathering storms and breakers high. 
 Will the seaman, true and loyal. 
 Send a thankful song on high? 
 Will the captain of the life boat — 
 Brave and dauntless face the storm. 
 Will our ships gain harbor safely — 
 At the dawning of the morn? 
 
176 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Eagerly we watch their coming — 
 Longingly with wishful eyes — 
 Scan the angry waste of waters, 
 And the dark and threatening skies. 
 Heavenly Father, quell the storm king; 
 Save us from his wrath, we pray! 
 Let our ships safe gain the harbor 
 > ■ On the shores of endless day. 
 
 JUNE 
 
 0, peerless June! 0, love's own time — 
 From out thy heart pours nature's rhyme. 
 Thy lilting songs through waves of light 
 Beat upward with the skylark's flight; 
 Thy fragrant breath, with wooing sigh. 
 Breathes forth where waxen lilies lie, 
 And as thy languorous spell imparts 
 Its warmth to their half-dreaming hearts — 
 They thrill with life! th' buds unfold 
 To show their calyxes of gold. 
 O, peerless June! O, love's own time! 
 From out thy heart pours nature's rhyme. 
 
 O, peerless June! 0, witching time! 
 Thy harmonies are all achime. 
 Thy tilts of color — brilliant — gay — 
 Thy flower wraiths that droop and sway; 
 Thy pale moon-tints laced back by stars 
 That swing from twilight's crimson bars. 
 Thy butterflies make dots between 
 The brooklet and the meadow-green; 
 Thy bumble-bees with threatening- drone 
 Protect thee on thy flower throne. 
 Rose-kissed — rose-crowned! fair month atune 
 With nature's grace — O peerless June. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 177 
 
 Two of Mrs. Tatro's rhymes entitled, "The 
 Woodland Path," and "Not Yet, Not Yet," are 
 reproduced, so as to give the reader a broader idea 
 of her literary conception : 
 
 THE WOODLAND PATH 
 
 Through the clover, red and sweet, 
 
 Straggling through a field of wheat, 
 
 Down across the pasture lot 
 
 Where the dandelions dot 
 
 With their golden gleaming tint; 
 
 Through the brooklet's lush spearmint, 
 
 And the bushes by the ditch 
 
 Where we cut our hazel switch. 
 
 Winding through the orchard trees 
 
 Where the droning bumblebees 
 
 Swagger by on lazy wings; 
 
 Under dropping elm, where swings 
 
 Cunningly the hang-bird's nest, 
 
 Wherein, cradled 'neath her breast. 
 
 Wee ones rock with every sigh 
 
 Of the breeze that passes by. 
 
 Now along the brookside's brink; 
 
 Where the cattle splash and drink; 
 
 Through rank bunches of blue flag 
 
 Where the children loiter, lag. 
 
 When from school they homeward turn. 
 
 Walking deep through mint and fern; 
 
 Then a sigzag way it takes. 
 
 On through mandrake, slough and brakes, 
 
 Over fallen logs it leads, 
 
 Bramble bush and bending reeds. 
 
 Into deeper, darker shade, 
 
 Mossy dell and flower-strewn glade; 
 
 Climbs a fence with broken rail. 
 
178 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Through the corn field where the quail 
 
 Pipes his cry of, "Wet, more wet!" 
 
 On it goes, until we let 
 
 Down the barnyard bars, and go 
 
 Up the lane — how well we know 
 
 What dear spot the ending hath 
 
 Of this old-time, woodland path. 
 
 NOT YET, NOT YET 
 
 O weary watcher, not yet, not yet! 
 You must still work on with dim eyes wet, 
 And scan the waves with their white-capped foam, 
 For a sign of a sail that is nearing home. 
 It will not reach you, dear heart, today. 
 For your treasure went sailing away, away 
 Far over the world's great surging main 
 And this must content you, this sad refrain — 
 Not yet, not yet! 
 
 Not yet! and the years creep slowly by 
 And we struggle for patience and hush the cry 
 That comes from the soul as we look in vain 
 For the swift release from the toil and pain 
 That forms a part of our daily life, 
 A part that is mingled with grief and strife; 
 But no! We must wait for some far-off time. 
 When our treasures will come, ah, yours and mine! 
 Not yet, not yet! 
 
 Not yet, not yet! tired heart, 
 
 You have drifted so far from your ships apart; 
 
 At eventide, when the sun sinks low. 
 
 And the twilight shadows toss to and fro. 
 
 You may watch till the morning's rosy light 
 
POETS AND POETRY 179 
 
 Sweeps over the world, but your eager sight 
 Will never a glimpse of a white sail see — 
 O, when will my treasures come back to me? 
 Not yet, not yet! 
 
 Four of her best poem's are all centered about 
 one theme — Thanksgiving. She called them "Com- 
 panion Poems," and dedicated them "To The Lovers 
 of Home And The Fireside." They really constitute 
 one poem in four parts, and they are herein given in 
 full: 
 
 THANKSGIVING DAY 
 Part 1. 
 
 Stir the fire. 
 
 And let its light 
 
 Put all grief and gloom to flight; 
 
 Not a sigh 
 
 And not a tear. 
 
 On this day of all the year; 
 
 Glad are we 
 
 Now to greet 
 
 Those we love, in friendship sweet; 
 
 Merry Voices, 
 
 Laughter gay, 
 
 On this glad Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 WELCOMING HOME THE CHILDREN 
 Part 2. 
 
 'Tis a long, long time since we welcomed them home, 
 Our children who've gone away, 
 But we're waiting and ready, so eager and glad, 
 To welcome them home today. 
 
180 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 How each one will smile and talk, and perhaps, 
 
 A tear-drop or two will fall; 
 
 But not in sorrow, dear wife, ah no — 
 
 For today we will see them all. 
 
 All, did I say? There'll be one vacant chair; 
 
 One sleeps where the daisies are white; 
 
 But mother, God knows how our hearts throbbed and ached, 
 
 When He beckoned our treasure that night; 
 
 So we'll banish sad thoughts, for the children, you know, 
 
 Must be merry and glad today; 
 
 We'll clasp their dear hands as in "Auld Lang Syne," 
 
 And smile in the old fond way. 
 
 There's Jennie, our patient and sweet-tempered girl, 
 
 "So like mother," we used to say; 
 
 And Millie, our rollicking, roguish one. 
 
 And golden-haired, dainty May; 
 
 There's Tom, our oldest and tallest boy, 
 
 And Will, with his mischief and fun. 
 
 And Harry, so dignified, grave and wise — 
 
 He is our preacher son. 
 
 Ah, wife, it seems but a dream, or a day 
 
 Since we rocked our babies here 
 
 And laughed at their joy, but when they wept 
 
 We kissed away each tear. 
 
 They are all coming home, dear wife, today, 
 
 Back to the old tree-nest; 
 
 To them 'tis the place of all the world, 
 
 The dearest, the sweetest and best. 
 
 We've decked the house with flowers they lo^e, 
 
 And scattered them everywhere. 
 
 Old-fashioned sweet peas, and pansies, too. 
 
 Wood-bine and maiden-hair. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 181 
 
 We've dressed ourselves in the colors they like, 
 
 And piled the table high 
 
 With good things mother knows how to make, 
 
 From doughnuts to pumpkin pie. 
 
 Why, the cat, he knows — our old yellow Tom, 
 
 And the dog — the children's old Tray, 
 
 Both watching so wistfully down by the gate, 
 
 They know who is coming today. 
 
 How they'll wander around, all over the farm. 
 
 And down in the woods by the spring, 
 
 I've fixed something just as they used to have — 
 
 An old-fashioned, log-chain swing; 
 
 Perhaps you are laughing — the children will too,' 
 
 But each one will swing, I know; 
 
 They'll always be children to wife and me. 
 
 No matter how old they grow. 
 
 But, mother, see Tray; how he's wagging his tail — 
 
 Some one is coming this way — 
 
 Is it them? Oh, Father, we thank Thee for this! 
 
 Our children have come today. 
 
 BACK TO THE OLD HOME 
 Part 3. 
 
 We're all at home beneath the roof 
 Where passed our childhood's days: 
 Ah, father, mother, though we've strayed 
 Through life's oft changing ways. 
 Yet you still live within our hearts 
 As fondly loved as when 
 You watched and lead our baby feet — 
 You made our whole world, then. 
 
 How cheery, bright the old home looks — 
 The flowers we love are here. 
 All scattered 'round in every room; 
 The hands to us so dear 
 
;82 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Have worked, that we might find our home 
 
 Just as it used to be 
 
 When we were birdlings in one nest 
 
 And knelt at mother's knee. 
 
 Ah, Tray, old boy! you're glad we've come — 
 
 And hear old Dobbin neigh; 
 
 He was a colt when we were young — 
 
 We rode him every day; 
 
 And there's the field where every Spring 
 
 We gathered daisies, sweet. 
 
 And "Johny-jump-up's" saucy face 
 
 Would slyly at us peep. 
 
 And there's the orchard — how the trees 
 Have grown since we were here; 
 But the cherry trees we used to climb 
 Are growing old and sear; 
 The dove-cot stands upon the post — 
 We boys built that, you know; 
 That rustic seat, beneath the trees, 
 We made long years ago. 
 
 There's the meadow bars we used to climb, 
 And the same old swinging gate. 
 Through which we drove the cows at night, 
 And then we'd play, and wait 
 Until the whippoor will's sad call 
 Rang through the new-born night. 
 And the Katydid piped forth her song, 
 And the twinkling stars shone bright. 
 
 There's something else we won't forget. 
 The dear old bubbling spring; 
 And what is that? Why, can it be 
 An old-time, log-chain swing? 
 
POETS AND POETRY 183 
 
 We're just the same to father now, 
 Though years have slipped away, 
 Since we were toddlers at his side — 
 We're children here, today. 
 
 Do you see those hazel bushes there? 
 
 They bring the dear days back 
 
 When we used to gather hazelnuts 
 
 And fill our cart and sack; 
 
 And then we'd spread them out to dry 
 
 Upon the granary floor; 
 
 Oh! sweet, indeed, it is to come 
 
 To the dear old home once more. 
 
 But hark! That sounds like mother's voice — 
 Just as she used to call 
 
 When we were scattered "round the farm- 
 That call was for us all; 
 And see the table, loaded down 
 With everything that's good; 
 Mother has fixed each dish we like — 
 Her children knew she would; 
 And now, with heads bowed low, we ask 
 A blessing from above; 
 And may we, next Thanksgiving day, 
 Meet here with those we love. 
 
 OUR CHILDREN HAVE GONE AWAY 
 
 Part 4. 
 
 They've come and gone, dear wife, and now 
 We are left alone once more; 
 How quiet and silent the old home seems; 
 Our children's visit is o'er 
 
184 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 And they've all gone back to their homes and work- 
 But that is the way of life; 
 Our birdlings plume their wings and fly, 
 But we have each other, wife; 
 
 And that, to us, though our hearts are old. 
 
 Is God's most precious gift; 
 
 Through all the sadness, pleasure, mirth. 
 
 Of the years that have gone, so swift, 
 
 We have clung together — our constant hearts 
 
 Still beating to love's sweet tune; 
 
 Though they call us old, and our youth has gone, 
 
 In our hearts is perpetual June. 
 
 And our children — how happy they were, dear wife. 
 
 Back in the old home-nest; 
 
 They seemed to be glad to escape from the world 
 
 And again in the old home rest; 
 
 They forgot all their cares, and were children again; 
 
 The years that have gone — slipped away, 
 
 'Till the space intervening their childhood and now. 
 
 Seemed only a dream, or a day. 
 
 How they talked of the castles they used to build 
 
 In the air; but they floated away, 
 
 And their ships that went sailing out over life's sea. 
 
 They think will yet anchor, some day. 
 
 And so with their hopes, and their castles, and work. 
 
 Our children have left us once more; 
 
 The twilight of life is fast deepening for us; 
 
 Our journey will shortly be o'er. 
 
 And our children will miss coming back to the home 
 
 Where the days of their childhood were passed; 
 
 For father, and mother, and home-coming days 
 
 Are pleasures not always to last. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 185 
 
 Tray misses them, too; mother, see how he looks 
 
 So eagerly down toward the gate; 
 
 Ah, wife! I wonder which one will be called. 
 
 And the other left sadly to wait. 
 
 Until we join hands, and our hearts beat again. 
 
 In the union and love we've known here; 
 
 If we both could together step over the tide, 
 
 Death would not be lonely, or drear. 
 
 How silent and still the old home is again. 
 
 But yesterday rang sweet and gay, 
 
 Our children's dear voices in laughter and song; > 
 
 But wife, they have left us today; 
 
 We'll try not to fret, for the children you know. 
 
 Have their homes, and their duties and cares; 
 
 We'll dream of the days when our children were babes, 
 
 As we doze in our fireside chairs 
 
 And patiently wait for the summons to come, 
 
 And pray that together we'll go; 
 
 Ah, wife, that is all that I ask now of God — 
 
 He'll answer my pleading, I know. 
 
Henry Augustus Van Dalsem 
 Biographical — Born, New York City, November 22, 1842. 
 Father was a prominent physician. Educated, New York City 
 schools. In early manhood went to Wisconsin. Became a 
 Congregational minister. Abandoned this profession. Came 
 to Dakota in 1883. Settled in Huron. Edited "The Ruralist," 
 the People's Party organ — for two years. In 1894, married 
 Mrs. Dr. Friede Feige, of Huron. Justice of the Peace for 
 many years. Prominent in Masonic circles. Died December 
 1, 1913. 
 
JUDGE H. A. VAN DALSEM 
 
 We are now to consider the most prolific writer 
 of both prose and poetry whom the state has as yet 
 developed — Judge Henry A. Van Dalsem, of Huron. 
 For range of vocabulary, ease of expression, en- 
 nobling sentiments, varied and complex form, and, 
 above all, a superabundance of literary productions 
 — both prose and poetry — he is plainly in a class 
 all by himself; in fact, he is simply a marvel, a 
 natural born, literary genius. 
 
 His diction is of an exceptionally high order; 
 his English, as graceful and as plastic as a sylvan 
 stream : even his prose is possessed of a charming 
 melody. 
 
 On his desk, at the time of his death, he left two 
 huge, hand-written, bound volumes of delightful 
 poems, covering a range of subjects that seem almost 
 incredible as having come from the pen of one man. 
 In addition to these, his desk was fairly congested 
 with hit-or-miss poems of various lengths — each 
 one being a literary jewel. The Judge also wrote a 
 complete volume of thirty-four gospel songs for El 
 Riad Temple. These are high grade, clever produc- 
 tions, never excelled in Masonry. 
 
 His ablest production is the one entitled "My 
 Soul," a poem in six cantos. It is dedicated to his 
 widow. Dr. Friede Van Dalsem, and is a scholarly 
 treatise on the human soul. In addition to its 
 
188 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 prologue and epilogue, the poem consists of 174 four- 
 line stanzas. In rhythm and meter, it is fashioned 
 after the ''Rubiyat." The following stanzas have 
 been selected from it to give the reader a general 
 idea of its style: 
 
 CANTO I— WHO AM I? 
 
 I. 
 
 Stand forth my soul and tell me who thou art: 
 
 The sons of wisdom, walking far apart, 
 
 Each only proving all the rest untrue 
 
 Know not the spring whence all thy glories start. 
 
 n. 
 
 Dark they pass on, discerners of no sign 
 That writes those glories all and only mine. 
 And separates thee from the multitude 
 Of souls o'er whom unending mercies shine. 
 
 Ill, 
 Somewhat they know, perhaps, the Sage and Seer, 
 Whom other sages doubt and some revere; 
 To weigh the earth and measure sun and star 
 Or chain the elements they use — and fear; 
 
 IV. 
 But naught of thee so near and yet so far. 
 The deepest of all mysteries that are; 
 Linked in our least as in our greatest dreams 
 Yet evanescent as the falling star. 
 
 CANTO 11— WHAT AM I? 
 
 I. 
 
 Fain would I know before I shall depart 
 Not only Who, my soul, but What thou art; 
 Whose secret essence all my search evades 
 Altho' so plainly traced upon my chart. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 189 
 
 II. 
 
 Who shall that strange relation read for me 
 Which holds between my flesh and blood and thee; 
 So close that none may tell if twain or one 
 We were and are and evermore shall be? 
 
 III. 
 Why should my wasting body shrink and pine 
 Because of some catastrophe of thine? 
 Or wisdom's ray in thy fair lamp be dimmed 
 Through some inane transgression wholly mine? 
 
 IV. 
 Why should thy night of sorrow or despair 
 Be chiseled in my face and bleach my hair? 
 Or my disease or pain or woe or wrath 
 Thy reason in insane delusion snare? 
 
 CANTO III— WHENCE AM I? 
 
 I. 
 Oh mystic traveler to spheres unseen 
 By paths unknown, where shadows intervene, 
 Whence comest thou, and where began the quest 
 In destiny's wide field thy sheaves to glean? 
 
 II. 
 No new creation thou, by will Divine 
 Fused in the birth of this thy mortal shrine, 
 And handicapped or e'er thy race began 
 To struggle heavenward by paths malign. 
 
 III. 
 Did that great pow'r that reared the mountain spars 
 And spangled heaven with unnumbered stars 
 Evolve all races from a single type. 
 And with God's image give them Adam's scars? 
 
 IV. 
 Could wisdom infinite, whose word unrolled 
 A perfect universe in beauty scrolled, 
 With falt'ring functions form a faulty world 
 And choose a banished rebel for the mould? 
 
190 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 V. 
 
 Did then thy substance in its fiery thrall 
 Slumber while earth was but a molten ball, 
 And with its kindred throng the cooling sod 
 When beck'ning nature breathed the Master's call? 
 
 CANTO IV— WHITHER GO I? 
 I. 
 
 If long before the Eden era's dawn 
 
 In vast antiquity thy lines were drawn, 
 
 Whose evolution still must bear thee on, 
 
 Where wilt thou dwell when all the world is gone? 
 
 II. 
 If breathing, man became a living soul 
 Who was not man before, how reads the scroll 
 When breathless he returns to earth again. 
 Yielding the part that made his being whole? 
 
 III. 
 Shall he, once free, his forward course arrest 
 And yet again his scattered dust invest; 
 So plundering the many forms of life 
 That may in his lost elements be dressed? 
 
 CANTO V— WHY.? 
 I. 
 
 Why am I here? Yea, why do I exist? 
 A segregated cell from out the mist. 
 Whose fragile tenure of contingent life 
 Snaps like a reed in the wind atwist. 
 
 II. 
 Am I, because God is? Who not obeys 
 But is Himself the law that never stays; 
 Whose life conferring essence evermore 
 In countless forms the breathing world arrays. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 191 
 
 III. 
 
 In ancient nature's springtime, long ago, 
 Behold the Sower hied him forth to sow; 
 And ne'er a seed from out his fingers fell 
 But somewhere, somehow, found a place to grow. 
 
 IV. 
 If all seeds bloomed then were this world of ours 
 Too small to harbor all its wealth of flow'rs; 
 But who shall tell us what those seeds become 
 Which oversown ai'e lost in Flora's bow'rs. 
 
 V. 
 Life ceases not, diverted tho' it be: 
 The seed which in the earth becomes a tree 
 Dying unsown, imparts its vital self 
 However from its blighted hull set free. 
 
 VI. 
 The germ that blossoms on the pineclad hills 
 Is kin to those the feeding sparrow kills; 
 Nor knowest thou in all thy wisdom's pride 
 Which one of these the highest office fills. 
 
 VII. 
 Nor canst thou tell if life's aborted blooms 
 Lose all their beauty in these transient tombs; 
 Or if by nature's occult pow'r transformed 
 Each seed its interrupted grace resumes. 
 
 CANTO VI— THE SOUL'S RESPONSE 
 I. 
 
 Musing, I slept, and in my dream beheld 
 
 A lordly man of reverential eld. 
 
 In whose clear shining eyes I seemed to see 
 
 The peace that cometh after storms are quelled. 
 
 II. 
 Now wherefore art thou exercised to know 
 Thyself, he said, and whither wilt thou go 
 To clear the problem which no man has solved 
 Nor angel ever told for weal or woe? 
 
192 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 III. 
 
 Since thought began, the world's philosophers 
 Have chased the phantom that thy being stirs; 
 Mystic and hermit, sage and devotee, 
 Have lived and toiled and died its worshipers. 
 
 IV. 
 For such as thou what vagrant orators 
 Have traversed wisdom's widely sundered shores, 
 And braved the wrath of nature and of man 
 To lead thee thro' the everlasting doors. 
 
 V. 
 And what reward had they, whose lifelong loss 
 Should prove thy gain? Lo! cherishing its dross 
 The rabid world impales its saintly ones, 
 And hangs its saviors on Golgatha's cross. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Strong in the trustful faith which sees no doom 
 From which the buds of promise may not bloom; 
 That looks on death and sees the life beyond. 
 Be thou a star of hope in every gloom. 
 
 XLIX. 
 So shall thy lines be written not in vain; 
 So shall thy feet the holy highlands gain; 
 From whose broad breast, along the shining way 
 Thy future journey shall be clear and plain. 
 
 L. 
 So mote it be, oh heart of many fates; 
 Till, glancing backward from the op'ning gates, 
 It shall be shown thee how, beside its graves, 
 A restless age the new Messiah waits. 
 
 (The Epilogue.) 
 Still shall the thirsty drink from truth's pure tide; 
 To whom each offered cup, tho' sanctified. 
 Too much its taste imparts and spoils the draft 
 In formless freedom to the free supplied. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 193 
 
 Nor shall the wise men judge him and condemn 
 
 Who finds another path to Bethlehem; 
 
 To his own master shall he stand or fall, 
 
 And share the riches of His grace with them. 
 
 Only a few of his shorter poems are here 
 reproduced to show his varied styles and trend of 
 thought. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE SONG 
 
 They tell of the song that the angels sang 
 Over Bethlehem, storied of old; 
 Whose wonderful measure of gladness rang 
 With a melody never yet told. 
 
 They speak of the musical stars of morn. 
 And the jubilant harps of the blest; 
 Of trumpets whose silvery notes are born 
 Of the joy in the Seraphim's breast. 
 
 How Heaven must ring when those mighty choirs 
 To the throne of the Holiest throng! 
 And hearts full of love and love's desires 
 Are afloat on that ocean of song! 
 
 And yet if I stood in that singing sphere 
 With its benison sweeping the skies, 
 My lip would be mute till my love drew near 
 With the light of my soul in her eyes. 
 
 THE CRITIC 
 
 When Pegasus pranced the Olympian road 
 To bear to the earth his poetical load, 
 Minerva, to balance his welcome below 
 And keep her own temple sufficiently slow. 
 Concluded to hamper the mettlesome steed 
 And then set him off at the top of his speed. 
 
194 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 So, patting his shoulder, she whispered and smiled, 
 Until the poor fellow, completely beguiled. 
 Believed that the wit of all ages was his 
 And arched his proud neck and went off with a fizz; 
 Not knowing that she who had fastened his mail 
 Had tied a balloon to his beautiful tail. 
 
 The gods and goddesses all in a rine 
 
 Stood watching his progress by hoof and by wing; 
 
 But tho' like a rocket he traversed the sky 
 
 They laughed till they cried and expected to die, 
 
 To see as he flourished and whinneyed and whined 
 
 That comical guy bobbing gaily behind. 
 
 Then down to the temple of wisdom and wit 
 Where men of all ages and tempers and grit 
 Assemble to worship Minerva, the great, 
 (And worship themselves when the lady is late), 
 He came to deliver the message she gave 
 And told it correctly as due to the brave. 
 
 But never a hearer could tell what he said; 
 
 For dark as a pocket each dubious head 
 
 Was bowed to consider the fluttering bag 
 
 That danced at each move of the animate nag. 
 
 And tho' they all studied the thing he had brought 
 
 Not one upon Pegasus wasted a thought. 
 
 And so it is now: when a singer would sing 
 
 In Wisdom's commission, some vacuous thing 
 
 Is tied to the crupper his Pegasus wears 
 
 To deaden the world to the message he bears, 
 
 And praise with the praise for which poets have pined 
 
 The mad little Critic that wabbles behind. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 195 
 
 THE SHADOW AND THE ROSE 
 
 The glow of the stars had faded 
 
 And the moon was passed and gone, 
 
 As I, in a somber valley, 
 
 Watched the coming of the dawn. 
 
 Far down in the woodland hollows 
 
 Like a pall the darkness fell, 
 And lay like a veil of sorrow 
 
 Over hill and glade and dell. 
 
 And up from the rolling meadow 
 
 As a rampart, lone and high, 
 A mountain rose before me 
 
 Like a shadow in the sky. 
 
 And there with a saddened spirit 
 
 As of one bereaved I stood, 
 And mourned for the vanished beauty. 
 
 And the charm of vale and wood. 
 
 But while on the gloom I pondered 
 
 Came the twilight, soft and gray, 
 
 And routed the sleeping shadows 
 Till they rose and rolled away. 
 
 When lo! in the swelling glory 
 
 Of the swift, oncoming day, 
 I saw that a robe of roses 
 
 On the mountain's bosom lay! 
 
 A riot of roses, tinted 
 
 With a rainbow's mingled dyes, 
 That smiled to the fond caressings 
 
 Of the close, o'erbending skies. 
 
196 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 And so, thought I, does it happen, 
 In this heedless life of ours, 
 
 We remember only shadows 
 
 And forget the hidden flowers ? 
 
 How often our narrow vision 
 
 To the looming sorrow clings, 
 
 Though joy from the hills is coming 
 On the morning's lifted wings. 
 
 And so, in your life forever, 
 
 May the darkness break away; 
 
 And light from the hills of beauty 
 Cast its peace revealing ray. 
 
 May hope through your future singing, 
 Hold forever to your eyes. 
 
 The roses beneath the shadow, 
 
 And the love their bloom implies. 
 
 DO THEY FORGET.? 
 
 When from the bier, beyond the dawn. 
 The friends we love on earth are gone, 
 Do they forget us evermore 
 As dreams that fade when night is o 
 
 At Heaven's gate 
 
 I'd watch and wait 
 Oh! Sweetheart so tender and true; 
 
 With love aflame 
 
 Until you came. 
 Still watching and waiting for you! 
 
POETS AND POETRY 197 
 
 Would you, if you were called away, 
 Go singing through the gates of day. 
 Unmindful of the holy vow 
 That binds us to each other now? 
 
 At Heaven's gate 
 
 I'd watch and wait 
 Oh! Sweetheart so tender and true; 
 
 With love aflame 
 
 Until you came, 
 Still watching and waiting for you! 
 
 It seems to me, if I could climb 
 Beyond the cloudy vale of time, 
 I'd think of you and gladly wait, 
 Although I stood at Heaven's gate! 
 
 At Heaven's gate 
 
 I'd watch and wait 
 Oh! Sweetheart so tender and true; 
 
 With love aflame 
 
 Until you came, 
 Still watching and waiting for you! 
 
 When death's icy chill began to steal over him 
 and he knew that the end was near, he calmly sat 
 up in bed and deliberately penned to his faithful wife 
 his "At Last." 
 
 AT LAST 
 
 Bride of my sunset hours, in whose fond eyes 
 Brightened the love that lit my somber skies; 
 No lyric song, tho' fluent as the sea. 
 Can ever tell what thou hast been to me. 
 
198 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Let warbling birds their sweetest carols sing; 
 Let Nature's harp sound every string; 
 Let choral voices all their lore unfold; 
 The story of thy worth still runs untold. 
 
 Yet somewhat of its Love's unmeasured song 
 My soul would utter, lest thy fancy wrong 
 The golden silence, in whose keeping dwells 
 The deeper feeling which no symbol tells. 
 
 Thou art more dear today than in the hour 
 When first I felt thy spirit's power, 
 And faith, forthstanding in her temple door, 
 Summoned the love I thought could live no more. 
 
 It was a wondrous hour when thy dear eyes, 
 Deep looking into mine, bade me arise; 
 And seeing all my clouds were silver lined, 
 I found the joy for which my spirit pined. 
 
 Then as the blind, slow groping in the gloom 
 Touched by the healer's hand their sight assume. 
 Forsake th' inquiring staff and walk firm shod, 
 My falt'ring feet the path of pleasure trod. 
 
 God lead thee, sweetheart, and through golden days 
 Bid his attending angels guard thy ways; 
 And for the comfort thou hast given me 
 May He bestow a thousandfold on thee. 
 
 But we must not, in justice to Judge Van 
 Dalsem, dismiss his works without reviewing his 
 prose writings. His editorials in the old "Ruralist" 
 are charmingly written, but inasmuch as they deal 
 
POETS AND POETRY 199 
 
 wholly with passing themes, they will not be em- 
 bodied herein. 
 
 He wrote the ritual for 'The Home Guardians," 
 a fraternal insurance organization, when it was 
 chartered; and the members of that order declare 
 there is nothing finer in the ritualistic work of a 
 single lodge in all Christendom. 
 
 The Judge also wrote many able and scholar- 
 ly addresses for special occasions such as meetings 
 of the Eastern Star. These speeches are all spirited 
 and learned, and they show that he was equally at 
 home in prose and poetry. 
 
 About three and one-half years before he died, 
 at the time his heart first began to bother him and 
 when it was thought that death might suddenly en- 
 sue, he wrote the following instructions with regard 
 to his burial ; sealed them up and gave copies of them 
 to three different people — including his wife — with 
 written requests on the envelopes that no one should 
 open them until after he had died : 
 
 MY BURIAL 
 
 The prevailing system of burial being false in import, 
 foolish in form, and extravagant in display, I herein and 
 hereby protest against its observance in my case and for 
 me, and record my desire as follows: 
 
 First — Let not my body be embalmed nor in any man- 
 ner prepared for exhibition. Nature having spoken, let me 
 return to the dust modestly, unmutilated, and unmixed with 
 so-called preservatives. 
 
200 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Second — Let my burial be private, my remains being 
 borne from my home to the grave, followed only by those 
 who know and love me enough not to forget me when I am 
 gone from view. 
 
 Third — Let no costly boquets and mounds of murdered 
 flowers be saci'ificed to do me hollow honor. In life I have 
 loved the flowers, and in death I would not ravage nor de- 
 stroy them. Give your flower money to the poor and needy. 
 
 Fourth — Let no so-called "sermon" be preached over me. 
 No perfunctory encomiums nor condolences fit either them 
 or me who are in actual interest. No pulpiteer knows them 
 or me, nor aught of the world and condition to which I go, 
 wherefore his conventional ministerial flatteries must be as 
 idle in death as they have always been distasteful to me in 
 life. 
 
 Fifth — Let no one wear "mourning" for me. Death is 
 not a calamity, but as natural as life, and equally a part of 
 the Divine plan. Pity the living, not the dead, who, for all 
 we know, are fuller of life than ever. As for me, since God 
 calls, I go, believing that all is well; therefore, do not weep 
 and mourn, but trust me to Him whom I trust with all that 
 is mine either here or hereafter. Let these things be as 
 I have said, and so farewell, and God be with you. 
 
 H. A. Van Dalsem. 
 
 At the date of the publication of this book, the 
 Judge's widow. Dr. Friede Van Dalsem, of Huron, is having 
 a large volume of his poems published, under the title, 
 "Poems of the Soul and Home." 
 
Rollin J. Wells 
 Biographical — Born, Moline, Illinois, June 24, 1848. 
 Educated, public schools of Moline; also spent two years, 
 literary department. University of Michigan. Taught school, 
 Illinois. Married Susan L. Little, 1870. Father of five 
 children. Read law in offices of Judge George E. Waite, 
 Geneseo, Illinois. Admitted, Illinois bar, 1878. Came to 
 Dakota. Settled at Sioux Falls. Entered promptly upon the 
 practice of law. In 1881, formed partnership with William A. 
 Wilkes. Admitted to practice in the U. S. supreme court, 
 1887. Dissolved partnership with Wilkes, 1890, and formed 
 a new association with George T. Blackman which continues 
 to this date (1916). 
 
ROLLIN J. WELLS 
 
 "Pleasure And Pain" is the title of a volume of 
 sixty-two poems, from the pen of Rollin J. Wells, of 
 Sioux Falls, placed upon the market for the holiday 
 trade in 1914. Taken all in all it is one of the most 
 substantial volumes of poems from the pen of a 
 single author that has appeared thus far in the state. 
 
 Wells' poems appeal to old and young alike, be- 
 cause of their plasticity, their perfect rhythm, their 
 music, the ideal selection of words in them, their 
 charming originality, and the still greater fact that 
 in each of them is a deep sympathy which touches 
 the heart strings of all humanity. 
 
 The first poem in "Pleasure and Pain" is given 
 the same title as the book itself. It follows in full : 
 
 PLEASURE AND PAIN 
 
 Yes, Pleasure and Pain are a tandem team, 
 
 Abroad in all kinds of weather, 
 And whether you know it or not, my lad, 
 
 They are always yoked together. 
 
 The first has a coat of silken sheen, 
 
 With mane like the moonbeams streaming, 
 
 And a tail like the fleecy clouds at night 
 When the winds and waves are dreaming. 
 
 And he moves like a barque o'er the sapphire seas, 
 
 As his feet the earth are spurning, 
 And his breath is blown through his nostrils wide, 
 
 And his eyes like stars are burning. 
 
204 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Ah, gaily he rides who bestrides this steed, 
 And flies o'er the earth with laughter. 
 
 But whether you know it or not, my lad. 
 There's a dark steed coming after. 
 
 For, hard behind with a tireless pace 
 Comes Pain like a wivern, faster. 
 
 And whether you know it or not, my lad. 
 You must mount on him thereafter. 
 
 His nostrils are bursting with smoke and flame 
 From the fires that within are burning. 
 
 And whether you rue it or not, my lad, 
 There is no hope of returning. 
 
 Each hair on his sides is a bristling spear 
 That is poisoned with lost desires, 
 
 That rankles and burns in your quivering flesh 
 That is seared by the fiendish fires. 
 
 And whether you know it or not, my lad. 
 You may never dismount from Pain 
 
 Till for every mile you rode the first 
 You have ridden the latter twain. 
 
 One of the best poems in the book is entitled 
 "Growing Old." The first one only of its five eight- 
 line stanzas is herein reproduced : 
 
 A little more tired at the close of day, 
 A little less anxious to have our way; 
 A little less ready to scold and blame, 
 A little more care for a brother's name; 
 And so we are nearing the journey's end. 
 Where Time and Eternity meet and blend. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 205 
 
 • Wells' poems are so perfectly wrought that 
 they adapt themselves admirably to music. This is 
 especially true of "Hagar's Lament" and of "My 
 Pilot." The latter poem has been set to good music 
 and is for sale at all music stores. It has also been 
 embodied in a standard hymnal. 
 
 MY PILOT 
 
 Why should I wait for evening star, — 
 Why should I wait to cross the bar, 
 And Death's dissolving hand to trace 
 The outlines of my Pilot's face? 
 
 Must my frail barque be driven and tossed 
 By winds and waves — be wrecked and lost 
 Upon life's strange and storm-swept sea 
 Because my Pilot's far from me? 
 
 No, not alone my way I trace, 
 
 Each wave gives back my Pilot's face; 
 
 To every sin and fear and ill. 
 
 To every storm he says, "Be still!" 
 
 I need no longer vex my soul 
 
 With longings for that distant goal: 
 
 My Pilot sitteth at the prow, 
 
 And Heaven's within, and here, and now. 
 
 A clever sketch of his is one entitled "Grand- 
 pa." It is a fitting companion piece to Burleigh's 
 "Grandma" ("Dakota Rhymes"). Speaking of the 
 children 
 
 "As lively and cute as fleas," 
 
 Grandpa is made to exclaim : 
 
206 LITERATUEE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 The racket they raise is beyond belief, 
 As they charge around my chair, 
 
 Pretending that I am an Indian chief 
 Or perhaps a polar bear. 
 
 The poet's "Little Old High Chair" reminds one 
 of its sister poem by Daisy Dean-Carr, entitled 
 "Treasures." In it Wells says in part : 
 
 Alone in the attic, it stands, so queer, 
 
 All covered with dust of many a year. 
 
 And it bears the marks of many a blow, 
 
 That was given it years and years ago; 
 
 But the little hands that grasped the spoon. 
 
 And beat upon it life's opening tune. 
 
 Have gone with the years that have come since then. 
 
 For some are women and some are men; 
 
 And the chair is forgotten by all, save me. 
 
 But I climb the stairs full oft to see 
 
 The children gathered to me again. 
 
 No longer women — no longer men. 
 
 While his poems are all high grade, yet those, 
 in addition to the ones previously mentioned, in 
 which the deeDer coloring and finer shades of sym- 
 pathy may be found, are : "The Two Captains," "The 
 Husband's Confession," "A Lonesome Place," and 
 "A Dream." 
 
 Unlike other books of poems, this one has a 
 preface and a conclusion ("Benedicite") that are 
 both written in poetry. In the preface the author 
 says: 
 
 If you should scan this title page. 
 And throw the book down in a rage, 
 I'd not be disappointed. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 207 
 
 If you should skim the volume through, 
 And swear it was not worth a sou, 
 I'd not be disappointed. 
 
 If you should find some little thing 
 That in your heart would wake and sing, 
 I'd not be disappointed. 
 
 And if your cares were sung away. 
 And you were stronger for the day, 
 I'd not be disappointed. 
 
 If you should say about this book, 
 
 "The world will pause and read and look," 
 
 I would be disappointed. 
 
 And then, in concluding the volume, he says: 
 
 To all who have heard the music, 
 That comes in the quiet hour, 
 And brings to the soul in waiting, 
 A message of light and power — 
 As a breath from the fragrant forest 
 Is borne o'er the tropic sea — 
 I offer this little garland 
 That has blossomed in spite of me. 
 
 Among Wells' hit-or-miss poems which have 
 appeared in various forms is a recent one entitled 
 "The Biography of a Common Man." It is an 
 original, tasty piece of v^it, given below in full : 
 
208 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 THE BIOGRAPHY OF A COMMON MAN 
 
 WAS BORN 
 
 How fecund every rising morn, 
 Wherein a million souls are born! 
 Lo, each can brand it with his name, 
 And all the rest may do the same. 
 
 WAS WEIGHED 
 
 Let every man esteem himself for all he ought 
 Else he will be found wanting and weigh — O. 
 
 WAS DRESSED 
 
 From Adam down, clothes are the foil, forsooth, 
 To magnify our rank, and hide the naked truth. 
 
 AND KISSED 
 
 The kisses of lovers are luscious and blest, 
 . But the kiss of the mother is sweetest and best. 
 
 MARRIED 
 
 Oh, wedding bells, and flowers and cakes! 
 How many vowers' vows are fakes! 
 But when true hearts have sealed their choice 
 Both Heaven and Earth must needs rejoice. 
 
 DIED 
 
 Here is the place where pretense ends. 
 And after death we all are friends. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 209 
 
 HAGAR 
 
 In the broad range of literary endeavor that has 
 characterized the writings of our state, there seems 
 to have been room for all ; and the manner in which 
 each of the leaders seems intuitively to have selected 
 and developed a field of his or her own, is rather 
 remarkable. It remained, however, for Rollin J. 
 Wells to make an excursion into the field of drama, 
 and therein to make for himself in his "Hagar" a 
 reputation as a poetic dramatist that will, in all 
 probability, give to him the domination of this field 
 of literary thought in the state for some time to 
 come. 
 
 Hagar is a dramatic poem in three acts, il- 
 lustrated throughout in two colors by the artist 
 Hudson. It is founded upon the biblical narrative 
 of Sarah's handmaid. Every sentence in it is meas- 
 ured with the mind of a master builder ; every word 
 is set in each sentence like a glistening diamond in 
 a studded gem : it is simply a perfect piece of pure 
 and undefiled English. To lovers of classic litera- 
 ture, to admirers of the faultless use of the Mother 
 Tongue, nothing could be more satisfying than 
 Hagar. It is one of the most polished productions, 
 from a literary standpoint, in South Dakota litera- 
 ture. 
 
 In it Wells very tastefully introduces for Hagar 
 ^a gallant young lover, named Athuriel. Her father, 
 
210 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Abner, is made responsible for her downfall. He 
 sells her virtue to Abraham for half of his flocks and 
 gold. Hagar exclaims : 
 
 "I'm not 
 Unmindful, nor ungrateful, but my blood 
 Cannot be coined in gold. In all things else 
 I will obey, but not in this. My soul 
 Abhors the loathsome thought." 
 
 ABNER. 
 
 '"Tis my command. Obey!" 
 
 She sobs herself to sleep. Then Athuriel, as 
 the dawn approaches, comes near her and solilo- 
 quizes : 
 
 "Asleep amid the flowers where angels flit 
 
 And waft sweet dreams, as odors, from their wings. 
 
 The benediction of the skies must rest 
 
 Upon this scene, and earth smile back to heaven. 
 
 O, let me be a portion of thy dream! 
 
 (He draws nearer.) 
 Awake, my love! The Shepherd of the night 
 Leads to the fold the waning stars, and day, 
 With rising splendor, floods the hills. 
 Come while the shadow rests upon the flower. 
 Pensive with dewy tears." 
 
 Hagar, conscience stricken and jaded, is made 
 to reply: 
 
 "My heart awoke 
 Before the young winds breathed into my ear 
 Your prayer; but, with a fainting hope, for life 
 Has lost its sweetness." 
 
POETS AND POETRY 211 
 
 ATHURIEL: 
 
 "Speak not so, my love. 
 What evil wind now wakes, robbing my rose 
 Of its sweet-scented dew?" 
 
 HAGAR: 
 
 "Plucked by rude hands, 
 Its fragrance ravished by a ruder breath." 
 
 After an extended, dramatic conversation with 
 her, Athuriel shouts: 
 
 "The law! 
 *Tis lust that lays its leprous hands on you." 
 
 Hagar looks up at him with intense longing and 
 confession in her eyes and says : 
 
 "My father's will. From it I cannot fly. 
 Come, fly with me to death!" 
 
 • Presently, Abner — Hagar's father — enters upon 
 the scene and commands, 
 
 "Seducer, fly!" 
 
 His daughter's impassioned young lover faces 
 Abner with a defiant air and upbraids him as 
 follows : 
 
 "Betrayer of a father's trust! seeking 
 
 To sell her soul" to loathsome lust for gold! 
 
 How dare you look her in the face and live?" 
 
 In Act II, Sarah — Abraham's legitimate wife — 
 and Hagar are having a heated debate over her 
 shame, when Abraham, himself, comes into her tent 
 and reasons with them : 
 
212 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 "Why wrangle so? At home all should be peace. 
 The world is hard; strife rules the mart, 
 But when we cross the threshold of our homes 
 We lay this by and long for rest." 
 
 Sarah engages him in conversation. To her he 
 replies : 
 
 "Desist, desist! 
 The wilderness were better than this strife." 
 
 Finally, he yields to Sarah's entreaties and says 
 with regard to Hagar 
 
 "I'll send the scape-goat hence." 
 
 Whereupon they withdraw and leave Hagar 
 bending over her illegitimate child. She sobs : 
 
 "A slave! Thrust from my arms, despised, despoiled! 
 
 Was my heart ravished of its love for this? 
 
 Look not trustingly into my eyes, 
 
 My Ishmael, or you will read my sins. 
 
 A slave! My God, can this be my reward? 
 
 Have I not followed faith, betrayed my heart? 
 
 Debased my life and lost my soul? Take him, 
 
 My little lamb, into Thy tender arms! 
 
 Let not my sins fall on his head. Lead him, 
 
 If need be, in the wilderness, where its 
 
 Inhospitable wastes allow no slaves." 
 
 Sarah returns, accompanied by the priest. 
 After a running debate among them, Abraham comes 
 up with his guards and pointing to Hagar and her 
 helpless child, exclaims, 
 
 "Away!" 
 
POETS AND POETRY 213 
 
 Hagar looks back imploringly, as she is driven 
 out, and says : 
 
 "Pity must linger in some heart for me;" 
 
 whereupon, one of the soldiers, pitying the fate of 
 
 the child, says : 
 
 "Death in the desert 
 Waits for him. Give him to me." 
 
 Hagar becomes frantic and in her mother 
 agony, declares : 
 
 "My child! my child! Give him 
 Away? No, let his icy fingers clasp 
 My neck in death!" 
 
 Abraham commands : 
 
 "Alarm the drums; 
 Drive forth the evil one!" 
 
 The soldiers, at the points of their bayonets, 
 then drive her away. 
 
 Scene III of this same Act, portrays Hagar 
 alone in the wilderness, during that awful night so 
 dramatically pictured in the Bible. She lays her 
 parching child on some dead leaves and then walks 
 away where she cannot see the anguish on his face 
 while he dies of thirst. 
 
 Here Wells very artistically brings up 
 Athuriel who has been searching for his lover, and 
 causes him to listen to Hagar's words : 
 
 "Hush, darling, for the day is dead and night 
 Creeps from its lonely lair. Sleep in my arms, 
 
214 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 For God may wake us to another day. 
 
 A drink? Would that my tears might quench your thirst! 
 
 But dream of fountains gushing from the hills, 
 
 Of bright dews flashing from the angels' wings, 
 
 Which hover near and guard our sleep. Asleep! 
 
 Oh! God, with bitter anguish would I cry, 
 
 But hungry beasts awake at fall of night. 
 
 With fierce complainings as they sniff the wind, 
 
 Encroaching as the tides some sea-girt isle. 
 
 Into Thy hands I now commit my child! 
 
 His innocence must plead with Thee. Let not 
 
 My sins cut off his days! He died of thirst! 
 
 Look, Lord, into his little face so sweet, 
 
 So innocent, yet traced with pain in sleep! 
 
 Take him into Thine everlasting arms! 
 
 My blood shall quench the lions' thirst — hush! — " 
 
 Then Hagar chants softly: 
 "Breathe, softly, my baby, and do not cry. 
 Though darkness and danger are drawing nigh; 
 Alone in the forest where none can hear, 
 But God and the angels, my baby dear. 
 
 The cool winds are wet with the silver dew, 
 That angels will gather the whole night through. 
 And bring in the lily when morn is near. 
 For God is still good to us, baby dear. 
 
 Start not at the sound of each stealthy tread, 
 The stars are still watching just overhead; 
 This earth may be cruel, but heaven is near. 
 And God will be good to us, baby dear. 
 
 Then wake not, my darling, from rest to pain, 
 But pillow your head on my bosom again. 
 'Twas only the bittern's boom over the mere. 
 And God will protect us, my baby dear. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 215 
 
 The wild beasts are lurking around our way, 
 Yet man is more cruel, my dear, than they. 
 Hush! hush! 'Tis the panther's cry. Oh, so near! 
 But God is more close to us, baby dear." 
 
 While this scene is being enacted, Athuriel, 
 whose approach had been undetected by Hagar, slips 
 away quietly and gets a cruse of water which he 
 brings back, steals up softy and sets it near Hagar. 
 Presently the moon comes up. The agonizing mother 
 sees the pitcher of water. She rushes to it; seizes 
 the vessel and gives the feverish baby a drink. The 
 little fellow refuses to release the pitcher and keeps 
 on drinking. Hagar says to him : 
 
 "Wait, darling, for awhile, then drink again; 
 Rest on this bed of leaves and dream of Heaven, 
 For God has sent his angel unto us, 
 Bringing this cruse of water and has shut 
 The mouths of hungry lions while we sleep. 
 
 (Ishmael falls to sleep again.) 
 This is an awful place where God descends, 
 And walks in darkness through these mighty woods. 
 Each flower may peer into His face and fill 
 Its cup. Why should I fear? Has He not led 
 Me safely through the night? For now the dawn 
 Lifts the dim curtains of these leafy aisles. 
 And cowering beasts slink to their gloomy caves." 
 
 After this tragic night in the wilderness, 
 Athuriel takes Hagar ; sets up a kingdom of his own ; 
 crowns her as queen. Abraham seeks to overthrow 
 him. A bloody battle ensues. Athuriel's forces win 
 a decisive victory. Isaac — Abraham and Sarah's 
 
216 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 legitimate son — is captured by Athuriel's army and 
 held as a hostage of war. Finally, Abraham, old 
 and broken in health, with his eyes bedimmed, makes 
 his way to Athuriel's headquarters, an(^ after gain- 
 ing admission, pleads as follows : 
 
 "I rest upon your word; give me my son." 
 
 After a penitential rehearsal before Athuriel, 
 Abraham again implores: 
 
 "A brave man never wrongs the innocent. 
 With empty hands and yearning heart I come. 
 If ransom you require, all that I have 
 Is thine. Give me, I pray, my living son!" 
 
 Athuriel commands him to deal with the queen. 
 Abraham turns to her, but his eyes are too dimmed 
 with age to detect her identification. He pleads: 
 
 "Oh, Queen! 
 I pray the sorrows of a poor old man 
 May touch the tendrils of a mother's heart. 
 That twine so lovingly around your son, 
 And wring from their chaste lips, sweet sympathy 
 That makes the whole race kin. Let me draw near. 
 For my dim eyes would read in your face, 
 Mercy and hope. (He steps forward and peers in her 
 
 face, then turns and exclaims): 'Tis Hagar! I am lost!" 
 
 As Isaac steps forward from behind the flap 
 of the tent, Hagar says to Abraham, 
 
 "Behold your son!" 
 
POETS AND POETRY 217 
 
 Abraham embraces him, and then turning to 
 Hagar, in penitence and remorse, he asks: 
 
 "Hagar, can you forgive 
 A broken and a contrite man?" 
 
 Pity seizes Hagar, and as her heart wells up 
 with sympathy, she replies : 
 
 "Yes; go! 
 Not as a wanderer unto the waste, 
 Naked and scourged by evil tongues of hate, 
 But to your home in peace." 
 
 Although the author, as will be seen by com- 
 parison, departed somewhat from the biblical nar- 
 rative, yet nowhere did he weaken it ; rather, at each 
 angle, he strengthened it. It is a masterpiece, has 
 been staged, and takes rank with some of the best 
 selections in our national literature. 
 
Gustav G. Wenzlaff 
 
 Biographical — Born, Germany, 1865. Acquired early 
 education of his father who was a successful German teacher. 
 Came to America when a boy. Settled in South Dakota. Was 
 graduated from the Yankton high school in 1884; from Yank- 
 ton College in 1888. Studied in Chicago 1888-89. Instructor 
 in Yankton College 1889-92. Student, Berlin University and 
 University of Leipzig, Germany, 1892. Professor of Philos- 
 ophy and German, Yankton College, 1893-97. Student, 
 University of Chicago, 1897-98. Recuperating in California 
 1899-1900. Superintendent of Yankton county schools, 1905- 
 1908. President Springfield Normal 1908 to date (1916). 
 Granted his LL. D. degree by Yankton College, 1911. 
 
GUSTAV G. WENZLAFF 
 
 Here again is another writer who cannot be 
 classified either as a prose writer or as a poet, for 
 he excels as both. Dr. Wenzlaff's prose composi- 
 tions are scholarly models ; and yet, peculiarly 
 enough, he seems equally strong on his poetic side. 
 He speaks and writes two languages and reads 
 several more. 
 
 Wenzlaff's prose productions cover two books 
 and a number of varied sketches. His best prose 
 work is his "Mental Man," a psychology that is now 
 used in many of the best colleges and normal schools 
 of the country. It is characterized by two things : 
 first, its short, crisp sentences which make it easy 
 reading; second, its wealth of original physical il- 
 lustration. His second book is a small volume of 
 "Sketches and Legends of the West." These stories 
 cover a wide range of thought and style and they 
 are tersely phrased. 
 
 His prose style is charmingly revealed in the 
 following sketch given in full: 
 
 OLD BON HOMME 
 
 It was a fall day. No frost had yet blighted the vege- 
 tation, but already the yellow corn showed through the wilt- 
 ing husks. A longing to get away from the humdrum of 
 routine work and to dream a day-dream took us out toward 
 old Bon Homme on the Missouri. 
 
 Eight miles to the east of ths dirgy store walls of the 
 
220 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Springfield Normal we look down upon a fair plain dotted 
 with farm buildings in the midst of clustering trees. To 
 the east a white church spire catches our eye, and farther to 
 the south a group of buildings rather too large to be a 
 collection of farm buildings. A little cemetery, well kept 
 after a fashion, enclosed by a weather-beaten fence, over- 
 looks the Bon Homme valley and the wide stretches of the 
 wild Missouri. Granite blocks and marble shafts rise above 
 the stubble of the prairie grass. Yes, we read some of the 
 inscribed names and remember those who years ago re- 
 sponded to them. 
 
 A well traveled road leads to where years ago stood the 
 fair little town of Bon Homme. At one place a few build- 
 ings are on either side of the road, once a street of the town, 
 and a little farther on the little white schoolhouse, once 
 the village school, the successor of the first schoolhouse in 
 Dakota Territory. I have seen some of the pupils that were 
 gathered in that first schoolhouse in Dakota — not as ruddy- 
 faced youngsters, but as serious men and women past middle 
 life. 
 
 I tried to point out to my companion the site of the old 
 county courthouse, that had been here, and other familiar 
 landmarks. 
 
 By the road — or should I say, on one side of the street — 
 a man was unloading some hay in the wind. I pulled in the 
 reins. 
 
 I had met the man before, and he reminded me of it. I 
 asked him where the courthouse had stood, and the jail, 
 which years ago had impressed my youthful mind. 
 
 "You'd better ask the old man over there," was his ad- 
 vice. "He can tell you better." 
 
 Just then the old man came out of the house and stood 
 by the little gate, that once opened upon a busy street. 
 
 We drove up. After mutual salutations I told the man 
 that I used to be acquainted with the location of things 
 here and with some people, too. At present, however, I 
 
POETS AND POETRY 221 
 
 could not locate anything. Where did the courthouse stand? 
 
 "Over there." He pointed out the spot. 
 
 "And the jail?" 
 
 "It was this side of it." 
 
 "The hotel burned down, didn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, some years ago." 
 
 I inquired after several other old landmarks that had 
 been, and I received the same brief replies. Now I began 
 to look more closely at the old house before which we were 
 halting. 
 
 I observed the attempts that apparently had been made 
 at flower-gardening on a small scale in the front yard. 
 I now also noticed more definitely that the old man was really 
 not young any more. 
 
 "My name is W ," continued I, "and this is my 
 
 friend, Mr. G ." 
 
 "My name is Clark," he replied. 
 
 "I suppose that you have lived here a long time?" I 
 queried, taking in some more details. 
 
 "I'm the oldest settler here," he answered. 
 
 "Are any others here that came to Bon Homme about 
 the time you did?" 
 
 "I am the last one." 
 
 I wished that I knew what stream of reminiscences 
 coursed through his mind, and what emotions stirred his 
 breast.. He seemed entirely unmoved. I knew, however, 
 that to be the oldest settler in old Bon Homme meant much, 
 for was not young Bon Homme once hopeful, ambitious, and 
 aspiring for great things — it is history that she came near 
 becoming the capital of Dakota Territory! I wished that the 
 oldest settler of old Bon Homme might "unbutton" a little 
 and talk — talk freely. But he said nothing. 
 
 "Doubtless your children are living in this neighbor- 
 hood?" I continued.' 
 
 "I have no children." 
 
222 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 "Oh, then just you and your wife are living here in the 
 
 old home?" 
 
 "I am all alone. My wife died eight years ago." 
 
 I then thought again of the little cemetery on the hill. 
 
 Something like a consciousness of Gray's "Elegy" and 
 
 Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" and several other things 
 
 came into my mind. 
 
 A little later we were passing through a long driveway 
 arched over by tall, stately cottonwoods, planted there by 
 the old gardener of the Huttrische Bruder Gemeinde — the 
 Society of the Brothers of Huter. Since he who planted 
 and watered these trees is sleeping the long sleep in the 
 Society's sacred acre, they do not show the same painstaking 
 care, for the new gardener knows not what pains and labors 
 and hopes have gone into the sturdy trunks and leafy 
 branches. 
 
 To the left the orchard rises up to a higher table-land, 
 on which stand the plain, long, substantial chalkstone build- 
 ings. The one most visible through the orchard from the 
 road below, was built many years ago by Dr. A. W. Burleigh. 
 The Doctor was one of the most brilliant gentlemen that 
 ever came to Dakota Territory. Trained in the best schools 
 of the east, a skillful physician, then an able lawyer, politi- 
 cian, and forceful orator. At one time, in the sixties, he 
 represented the Territory in Washington, where he enjoyed 
 the personal friendship of Secretary Seward and President 
 Lincoln, the latter of whom he much resembled in appearance. 
 Dr. Burleigh brought his good wife and sons to this beautiful 
 spot, planted an orchard and vineyard, set out the shade tree, 
 built a commodious mansion, and filled it with the comforts 
 and refinements of America's highest culture. This place 
 with its broad acres he sold to the present occupants. What 
 a contrast! 
 
 To one who does not understand, the Brotherhood has 
 little charm. The simple souls here live a communistic life 
 in the manner, as they suppose, of the early Christians. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 223 
 
 They believe in the simple life with all their heart. All 
 finer touches are strictly against their tenets, being re- 
 garded as worldliness. They preach and practice non- 
 resistance. Christ came with a message of peace, and his 
 true followers will not resort to force of any kind. War and 
 litigation are of the Work of Darkness. To take thought of 
 dress and house is sinful vanity. Our true estate is the 
 spiritual world; that is, the inheritance of those who walk in 
 humility, peace, and simplicity. This is the dominating mo- 
 tive of these simple souls, whom outsiders usually judge as 
 unprogressive and uncouth. 
 
 These idealists (for such they are) are often referred to 
 by the uninformed as "Rooshions." Why these plain folks 
 holding so tenaciously to their faith, language, and tradi- 
 tions should be dubbed Russians is hard to understand. 
 There is not a drop of Slavic blood in their veins. The 
 founder of the sect was a German. They speak nothing but 
 German — a German dialect spoken several hundred years 
 ago — and they cling to that almost as tenaciously as to their 
 ideas of the religion of Christ. 
 
 As we drive up into the yard of this prosperous colony, 
 we are reminded by a flock of geese that they once upon a 
 time saved Rome. But as we come with peaceful inten- 
 tions, we are cordially greeted by the manager of the 
 Brotherhood. 
 
 Yes, this settlement, like others of its kind and persua- 
 sion, possesses fields and mills and barns and machinery 
 and all that goes to make a model farm, and something else 
 — some ancient manuscripts. The young teacher soon 
 brought in several of them for inspection. They are books 
 containing the doctrines of the founder of the Brotherhood, 
 all written by some of the brothers in days of old, in German 
 "print," with the most pleasing exactness. The initial letters 
 would do credit to a Medieval expert scribe. The paper used 
 
224 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 in these volumes is soft rag paper, such as one finds now- 
 adays only in fancy-priced editions de luxe. The title pages 
 show the dates 1509 and 1520. As we sat there waiting for 
 a fall shower to pass by, our host expounded some features 
 of the ancient, priceless volumes. 
 
 Before the day closed we were retracing our way, leav- 
 ing behind old Bon Homme, but carrying back with us 
 a feeling that we had peered into the past and heard voices 
 of long ago. 
 
 Wenzlaff's poetic style is admirably illustrated 
 in one of his lighter poems, "In The Spring-Time," 
 but more especially in his best poem (elegiacal in its 
 nature) entitled "To The End of Time." 
 
 IN THE SPRING-TIME 
 
 One name — when spring winds whisper softly — 
 I hear amidst the green boughs' leaves; 
 
 The creek's low song, the wild dove's crooning — 
 That name to me all nature breathes. 
 
 One face I see in every blossom. 
 
 That meekly hides within the grass; 
 The evening clouds in hues of sunset 
 
 Reflect that face before they pass. 
 
 One dream so vague, so dreamy, vivid, 
 
 Like music of a sylvan stream. 
 Like fragrance from the prairie roses — 
 
 My loved one is my constant dream. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 225 
 
 TO THE END OF TIME 
 
 (In memory of Sarah F. Ward.) 
 
 We should not weep nor alway grieve, for all 
 
 We bore her out beneath the somber pall 
 
 To yonder sleepy hill. Though clouds surround 
 
 And lone the height and chill the granite bound 
 
 That marks where cerements invest and hold 
 
 The ashes of a glowing life now cold, 
 
 E'en there the field-fowl pipes its heedless lay. 
 
 And buds hide, waiting for a better day. 
 
 What seek we there among the sinking mounds 
 
 And pillared knolls, where oft the dirge resounds? 
 
 Not there the soul, unmindful of the past. 
 
 Midst shoreless darkness and decay is cast — 
 
 That soul that from unfathomed depths the oil 
 
 Of love poured out upon a parched soil. 
 
 The hulls were burst — a wondrous garden grew 
 
 And bloomed, and gleamed with heaven's sparkling 
 
 dew. 
 Though anchored down, the branches loomed aloft 
 To calmer heights, where zephyrs pure and soft 
 Sang symphonies inspired not of dust, 
 But breathed a mystic note of love and trust. 
 
 We should not weep nor alway grieve because 
 Unaltered stands the bitterest of God's laws. 
 The day dawns red, yet quick its course is run, 
 And darkness then engulfs — the work is done. 
 But in that day we saw the gleam of eye 
 That shines, though sun be darkened in the sky. 
 Within that gleam a world of beauty lay. 
 Which hope and sacrifice had built to stay. 
 
226 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Ah, beauteous world, whose fields are ever fair 
 
 And undefiled by Mammon's greedy care! 
 
 Its thousand hills with temples boldly crowned 
 
 Proclaim that Truth shall reign the world around; 
 
 Its thousand paths lead e'er to righteousness; 
 
 Its lucid founts are streams of holiness. 
 
 Why should we weep or sigh or even long, 
 That without close shall be the inspired song? 
 The song is sung; the storm-clouds now surround 
 The lonely height where stands the granite bound. 
 Yet even now the spirit of that rhyme 
 Sings on and on until the end of time. 
 
 Other good poems of Wenzlaff's are : "Autumn 
 Revery," "Winter Flowers," "The Blind Piper," 
 "The Meadow-Lark" and "The Four Bards." 
 
 In addition to his own composition, Wenzlaff 
 is also a fine translator, especially from the German. 
 His translation of "The Chaplet," from "Uhland," 
 is a perfect piece of work. It follows: 
 
 THE CHAPLET 
 
 Yonder stands the mountain chaplet 
 
 Looking quietly down the vale; 
 There below by mead and brooklet 
 
 Sings the shepherd boy so hale. 
 
 Mournful tolls the bell from yonder, 
 
 Awful sounds the funeral lay. 
 Hushed is now the merry singer 
 
 By the chanting far away. 
 
 They are borne to gi'aves up yonder 
 
 Who enjoyed themselves below. 
 Shepherd boy, ah! list young shepherd, 
 
 'Twill be sung for thee just so! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 Hundreds upon hundreds of miscellaneous 
 poems have appeared in the newspapers and maga- 
 zines of the state, from time to time during the 
 past thirty-five years, that have never been collected 
 in permanent form. Some of these are extraordi- 
 narily strong. Others are mere outcrops of fantasy 
 suited to some occasion of the moment. In the pre- 
 paration of this book nearly 2,000 of them have been 
 discarded. There are a few, however, which are 
 entitled to preservation. One of these is from the 
 pen of General George A. Silsby. It follows : 
 
 THE FLAG 
 
 Oh! starry flag, with field of blue, 
 
 With stripes of red and stripes of white; 
 
 Thou standest for the things most true — 
 For Honor, Justice, Right. 
 
 We gladly hail this emblem pure, 
 
 This banner of our country's pride; 
 
 For you our sons will e'er endure; 
 For you our noblest died. 
 
 From heaven's high dome you richly shine, 
 
 And radiance cast on all around; 
 Thy form speaks of a love divine 
 
 That knows no captive bound. 
 
 Oh! starry flag, forever wave. 
 
 For Freedom pure, and righteous laws; 
 
 Within thy folds conceal no slave. 
 Nor treasure any flaws. 
 
228 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Another poem, entitled, "Know Ye The Land?" 
 ringing in state pride, written for a banquet, by 
 Hon. E. L. Abel, formerly lieutenant-governor of 
 South Dakota, is worthy of study: 
 
 KNOW YE THE LAND? 
 
 Know ye the land where the blue joint doth flourish, 
 
 And cattle on prairies grow heavy with fat; 
 
 Where the white-coated sheep in winter do nourish 
 
 The grasses which cover the earth like a mat; 
 
 Where the growing of wheat brings the gold from the east, 
 
 WJiere people ne'er hunger but are ever at feast; 
 
 Where the owner of sheep has a fortune in sight, 
 
 And hard times are past while the future is bright; 
 
 Where potatoes, rye, barley and long-headed oats 
 
 Make the farmer's life easy in the raising of shoats; 
 
 Where the cow's golden butter and the fruit of the hen 
 
 Are the products which bring such large fortunes to men; 
 
 Where the country is blessed with the richest of soil. 
 
 And bountiful harvests reward man for his toil; 
 
 Where bright gold and silver in profusion abound 
 
 And beautiful jasper for building is found; 
 
 Where churches in plenty raise toward heaven their spires 
 
 And schools in great numbers furnish learning's desires; 
 
 Where the song of the plow boy is heard early at morn 
 
 As he goes forth to till the broad acres of corn; 
 
 Where the maid's rosy cheeks are the youth's wild delight 
 
 While their beautiful eyes shine like stars of the night; 
 
 Where matrons meet age with faces so fair 
 
 That they seem ever youthful, though silvered their hair; 
 
 Where Hygeia's blessings are showered upon all 
 
 And summer keeps smiling until late in the fall; 
 
 Where winters are short and soon melt into spring; 
 
 Where the harvest is crowned by Mondamin, the king; 
 
POETS AND POETRY 229 
 
 Where the flower of its youth to rescue suffering afar, 
 
 Promptly respond to the call of the nation to war? 
 
 Know ye the land? 'Tis the land which we love, 
 
 Which hath been bountifully blessed by the Father above; 
 
 'Tis our fair South IJakota which nature has blest, 
 
 According humanity a place of sweet rest; 
 
 And today she invites the proud sons of the East 
 
 To sit at her tables and partake of her feast. 
 
 Mr. C. J. Aisenbrey is, at the time of going to 
 press with the first edition of this book (1916), just 
 beginning to come into recognition as a poetical 
 writer. Two of his poems are herein given — the one 
 local, the other universal. 
 
 A SONG OF THE SUNSHINE STATE 
 
 I love my mother state the best. 
 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 The best state of the great northwest. 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 Sing all ye sons, sing of your state, 
 The state that has no match nor mate, 
 Oh, sing a song of Sunshine state. 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 
 From thee I've wandered far and near. 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 
 Still to my heart you are so dear. 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 
 Though far and wide I've traveled o'er. 
 
 In U. S. A. from shore to shore. 
 
 But still above all I'll thee adore. 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 
230 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Thy goldfields in thy western hills, 
 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 Are rich with gold and copper mills, 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 Thy fields are full of golden grain, 
 Thy prairie plains have brought thee fame, 
 All o'er the world I hear thy name, 
 Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
 
 Let's sing fore'er of our gi-eat state. 
 Sunshine state, our Sunshine State. 
 Her glorious past all o'er narrate. 
 
 Sunshine state, our Sunshine state. 
 Though far away from her we be. 
 E'en though we be across the sea. 
 Still let us sing of our S. D. 
 
 Sunshine state, our Sunshine state. 
 
 RISEN, RISEN IS THE LORD! 
 
 Risen, risen is the Lord, 
 
 Risen from the grave! 
 Seek not life among the dead, 
 
 Christ is not Death's slave! 
 
 Christ is risen! Christ is King! 
 
 Christ has left the tomb! 
 Christ, who came on earth to save. 
 
 Sinners from the doom. 
 
 Sinners, rise with your Redeemer, 
 
 Follow Christ the King! 
 Shout as victors with the Savior, 
 
 "Death where is thy sting?" 
 
POETS AND POETRY 231 
 
 Triumph sinners! Praise the Lord! 
 
 For the ransom's paid! 
 Christ has conquered sin and death, 
 
 Peace with God is made. 
 
 Hallelujah! Christ is King! 
 
 Let us Him adore! 
 Christ is risen! Christ is King, 
 
 King for evermore! 
 
 Andrew F. Burleigh, Jr., has written a number 
 of short poems. None of them, however, pertain 
 strictly to South Dakota. They are general in their 
 character and all of them are good. The following 
 brief one will suffice to give his general style: 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 (To my Mother.) 
 
 That tender voice, alas! is gone. 
 
 Those beauteous orbs which brightly shone, 
 
 That form seraphic, round which blazed 
 
 A living halo, time has razed 
 
 To silent dust. That angel-step, 
 
 Which like a winged spirit swept 
 
 With tinking footfalls o'er life's floor — 
 
 Alas! it wakes no echo more. 
 
 Those loving arms, once childhood's nest. 
 
 Now withering lie. That snowy breast, 
 
 Love's first elysium — death, alas! 
 
 Has kissed it back to that it was. 
 
 Those sweet lips, where love's kisses grew — 
 
 Alas! they now lie withering, too. 
 
232 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 A somewhat intellectual writer who has given 
 to us a small volume of musings, entitled "Across 
 the Wheat," is Will Dillman. In a general way they 
 all conform to the character of the following, partic- 
 ularly as to style of composition : 
 
 THE MOODS 
 
 I conned a poet's book from page to page, 
 
 And marked the many moods in which he sung. 
 
 And some were early songs, and bold, and rung 
 Of love and wine, and passions, and the rage 
 Of his wild, violent heart. And some the sage, 
 
 Man-grown, had writ; and here, it seemed, the 
 tongue 
 
 Of mighty genius, free and curbless, flung 
 Its priceless thoughts to men. But in old age, 
 In the calm autumn, free from pang or pain, 
 
 0, then his songs were sweetest to the ear; 
 
 He sang of sunsets in the golden west, 
 Of yellow harvest moons, and gathered grain. 
 
 Of heaven, and the hour we tarry here — 
 
 I loved the tranquil songs of age the best. 
 
 Of the scattered poems from the pen of Fannie 
 E. Knapp, the one on "Sowing and Reaping" has 
 been selected. 
 
 SOWING AND REAPING 
 
 When we sow, we sow in faith, 
 
 For the seed must buried lie 
 Many days before we see 
 
 Signs of harvest by and by. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 233 
 
 When we plant, we plant in faith, 
 
 For the growth of trees is slow. 
 Many summers must we wait 
 
 For the perfect fruit to grow. 
 
 When we pray, pray we in faith 
 
 As we sow and plant and trust. 
 Never doubting while we wait, 
 
 That our God is faithful, just? 
 
 Or do we in doubt and fear 
 
 Murmur at the long delay? 
 Mourn because we have to wait? 
 Cry that God has turned away? 
 
 Say we will not sow, because 
 
 Harvests yield not on the morn? 
 Say we will not pray because 
 
 Patient hope brings oft but scorn? 
 
 Better both to sow and pray; 
 
 And in strongest faith believing, 
 We shall some not distant day 
 
 Know the blessing of receiving. 
 
 B. W. Burleigh wrote for us a number of poems 
 that are clever in the extreme. But the one, above 
 all others, that is destined to live, on account of its 
 universality, is a delicate sketch entitled "Grand- 
 ma." This is perhaps as nearly a completed whole 
 as any poem in South Dakota literature. It is a 
 moving bit of realism on a subject that is dear in 
 the memory of everyone. 
 
234 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 GRANDMA 
 
 My old Grandma used to say 
 Always to us children, "Hey?" 
 Dear old soul, she could not hear 
 Till we shouted in her ear. 
 Sometimes when the dog would bark, 
 Grandma dear would say, "Hush, hark!" 
 Sometimes when the cat would play. 
 Grandma dear would answer, "Hey?" 
 
 I can see her sitting there. 
 Knitting in her rocking chair. 
 How we children thought it fun, 
 Yelling by her side, to run. 
 Hiding from her poor dim sight. 
 Ere she got half through her fright! 
 How we teased her every day. 
 Laughing at her quaint old "Hey?" 
 
 But when stripped all off for bed. 
 And our evening prayer was said, 
 We would never think of fear 
 While Grandma was sitting near; 
 But if she would take the light 
 For a moment out of sight. 
 We were glad to hear her say 
 From some distant corner, "Hey?" 
 
 Many winters now have fled 
 
 Since she watched beside my bed; 
 
 Many summers passed away 
 
 Since I've heard her answer, "Hey?" 
 
 Calmly rests her silv'ry head 
 
 In the city of the dead, 
 
 But I'd give the world today 
 
 Just to hear her answer, "Hey?" 
 
POETS AND POETRY 235 
 
 Two of the weightiest philosophical productions 
 in "Dakota Rhymes" are two sister poems, by W. J. 
 McMurty, entitled "Morning" and "Evening." They 
 are long and cannot be incorporated herein, but 
 should be studied as a part of our literature, from 
 the book in which they appear. 
 
 The real value of a friend has been beautifully 
 pictured for us by Flora M. Swift in 
 
 LIFE'S BEST GIFT 
 
 On the shore of the great unknown, 
 All tremblingly, I stood alone, 
 Waiting till Death should kindly come 
 To me, and claim me as his own. 
 
 But Death, unkind as Life, passed by, 
 Unheeding my despairing cry; 
 I could not lay my burden down; 
 Alas, for me! I could not die. 
 
 Then in my anguish, did I call, 
 "0 life! Since Death has taken all, 
 And left me in my bitter woe. 
 On me, I pray, let one gift fall." 
 
 And Life smiled back, "Not yet the end; 
 O patience, heart, and I will send 
 My first, most precious gift to thee." 
 The treasure came; it was a friend. 
 
 Frank M. Wentworth has translated for us from 
 Heine, "You Pretty Fisher Maiden;" from Eichen- 
 dorff, "The Echo," and from Goethe, the "Mignon." 
 He has also given to us from his original composi- 
 tions, the following poem : 
 
236 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 OUR PRAIRIE FLOWERS 
 
 When he this world had fashioned well 
 To be his children's home, 
 
 The Father came with us to dwell, 
 And in the floweret shone. 
 
 His spirit sought the farthest shore, 
 And left some token there 
 
 That might to us in buds it bore 
 Unfold a Father's care. 
 
 He gave arbutus to the grove, 
 
 The clover to the mead; 
 Where'er our wandering feet may rove 
 
 There blooms our nature's need. 
 
 To cheer the desert's lonely way 
 
 The bright acacia grows. 
 The lowly mosses' crimson ray 
 
 Lights up the Alpine snows. 
 
 But when he viewed our prairie land 
 No single flower could choose, 
 
 And so he strewed with loving hand 
 His choicest seeds profuse. 
 
 Among our miscellaneous poets, recognition 
 must be given to A. E. Beaumont, His youthful 
 reveries are fascinating. Three of his later poems 
 are high grade. They are "Giving," "The Passing 
 of the Falls," and "Memorial." The first one is given 
 in full : 
 
POETS AND POETRY 237 
 
 GIVING 
 
 There is in grace an ample store 
 
 Of benediction, sent to bless 
 The heart, whene'er it bows before 
 
 The altar of unselfishness. 
 
 And we receive no dearer gift 
 
 Of happiness, than we plan 
 To leave our beaten path, and lift 
 
 His burden from a fellow man. 
 
 The stream of bounty long hath flowed 
 From many a living spring supplied. 
 
 And every cheerful gift bestowed, 
 Is to the giver multiplied. 
 
 What tender joy the mother knows, 
 That wells from Nature's kindly spring. 
 
 When to her infant's lips there flows 
 Her fruitful bosom's offering. 
 
 The blessings we receive from Heaven 
 
 Refill the cup that we dispense: 
 And by the largess we have given, 
 
 Is measured out our recompense. 
 
 James Fremont Hall, the student poet of Yank- 
 ton College, who enjoyed the unique distinction of 
 being called to a membership on the faculty of his 
 Alma Mater on the day of his graduation, must be 
 accorded recognition as a poet by reason of the 
 following poem (in addition to many others), which 
 
238 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 ^e wrote during his early college days. It bears 
 prima facia evidence that had he not died when 
 scarcely out of his 'teens, he would have made a 
 literary record for himself. 
 
 IN HIBERNIS 
 
 A shroud of white above the faded green; 
 
 A rigid corse, appareled for the tomb; 
 
 And all about a hateful marble sheen. 
 
 That by its glare intensifies the gloom. 
 
 Who is the dead that 'neath these trappings lies, 
 
 A haunting bait for morbid curious eyes? 
 
 Whose hands o'erclasp the heart-deserted breast? 
 
 Whose name upon the coffin plate is graved? 
 
 Were soothing masses chanted to his rest? 
 
 Oh, did he pray, whom Stygian waters laved? 
 
 The earth, it is, that lies in pallor here; 
 
 The earth that seemed so far from death in May. 
 
 What voice can tell how vast the gulf and drear, 
 
 May ope' twixt rosy dawn and twilight grey! 
 
 Now lo, a storm across his breast careens, 
 
 Boreas bursts his icy magazines, 
 
 And tears and wrenches at the shrieking trees. 
 
 Rolls up the snows to lash their parent cloud. 
 
 E'en digs the hills, as hungering to seize 
 
 The insects cowering 'neath the hillside's shroud. 
 
 While thus I saw, and wondered at it all — 
 And wondered if the earth would bloom again. 
 And wondered if Death's sodden chain and ball 
 Were never stricken from the souls of men; 
 While thus I wondered — sudden music woke; 
 (Perhaps some spirit to my spirit spoke) 
 
POETS AND POETRY 239 
 
 "Awake from thy visions thou saturnine being, 
 
 Nor mourn for the sunlight as lost. 
 Neither Summer nor Sun from the conflict are fleeing, 
 And soon thou wilt see their bright scimeters freeing 
 
 The earth from the fetters of frost. 
 
 "Go burrow the snow banks and ask the primroses. 
 
 If theirs is the sleep of the dead? 
 Go ask the arbutus if e'er she supposes 
 Eternal the pillow on which she reposes — 
 
 Eternal the snows of her bed? 
 
 "Close, close by the ice of the frigid Sierra 
 
 The orange blooms sprinkle the sod; 
 While, alike, from the sands of the charnel Sahara 
 Burst withering floods of the waters of Mara, 
 
 And floods of the nectar of God. 
 
 "Oh read, ere the locks at thy temples have whitened. 
 The parable written in frost: 
 That nothing which once 'neath the sunlight has 
 
 brightened, 
 No soul which the touch of God's finger has 
 lightened. 
 Is ever eternally lost." 
 
 Prof. C. G. St. John, of Clear Lake, has written 
 a few choice poems. One of his very best ones is his 
 "Veterans' Day," written for the G. A. R. in 1902. 
 Another one, less powerful, but studiously historical, 
 is herein given : 
 
240 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 THE FIRST REGIMENT 
 
 O'er Dakota's fertile plain 
 
 Came the war of the "Maine", 
 And it stirred the blood within each patriot heart. 
 
 When they heard the call to arms, 
 
 Many left their shops and farms, 
 And resolved that they would do a soldier's part. 
 
 They were gathered at Sioux Falls, 
 
 Where they heard the bugle calls, 
 And they saw the lines a-drilling all in blue. 
 
 Then they deemed it naught but joys 
 
 To be honest soldier boys. 
 While they camped beside the waters of the Sioux. 
 
 O'er the granite ledge they walked, 
 
 Of the coming days they talked, 
 And the daring deeds that some of them would do; 
 
 But, 'twas little thought they bore 
 
 What the future had in store, 
 As they dreamed in peace beside the placid Sioux. 
 
 But, at last the orders came, 
 
 They must cross the raging main; 
 Of that fighting with the foe they little knew. 
 
 They must leave their sweethearts gay, 
 
 Leave their parents old and gray. 
 Leave their camp beside the willow fringed Sioux. 
 
 When the parting day had come, 
 
 Fathers, Mothers gathered 'round 
 There to bid their soldier boys a last adieu. 
 
 Some of them would ne'er return, 
 
 And it made those old hearts yearn. 
 As the train bore off their bonny lads in blue. 
 
POETS AND POETRY 241 
 
 On and on those loved ones sped, 
 
 Where the path of duty led, 
 O'er the plains and through the mountain pass they whirled. 
 
 O'er old ocean's briny waves. 
 
 Though it led to nameless graves, 
 They would proudly bear "Old Glory" 'round the world. 
 
 In Luzon's wild darks and damps. 
 
 By her lakes and fever swamps, 
 Some are lying where they hear no bugle call. 
 
 In the fight from day to day 
 
 Gallant men have passed away. 
 With no fond ones near to care for those who fall. 
 
 Many anxious days have passed 
 
 Since we saw those dear ones last. 
 And we know that some have fallen in the strife. 
 
 How those fond old parents mourn 
 
 For the boys who'll ne'er return. 
 And 'twill ever cast a shadow on their life. 
 
 Yes, those laddies all were brave. 
 
 And some fill a hero's grave 
 Where they fell beside the trenches of the foe. 
 
 South Dakota's won a name 
 
 By her gallant soldiers' fame; 
 But, the glory ne'er can pay the mothers' woe. 
 
 C. H. Creed has written one poem strong enough 
 to entitle him to a place in the literature of the state. 
 It is rather unusual in its philosophic setting; yet, 
 in some respects, it takes rank with many of our best 
 productions : 
 
242 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 "PASS ON" 
 
 "Pass on, pass on!" We feel our steps impelled 
 
 By hand invisible, our faces bent 
 
 Toward the realm of death, whose shady hand 
 
 Comes forth to grasp us, our brief vigor spent. 
 
 And ever as we wend the weary trail 
 
 That awful and unseeming power around 
 
 Cries with a tone unheard, unfelt, but known, 
 
 "Pass on, pass on thy life's resistless round." 
 
 This busy world a mighty highway is, 
 
 A rugged way which ends in shadow dense, 
 
 Down which the human cavalcade, alike 
 
 Both great and small pass on their journey thence. 
 
 And as I look, the restless, hurrying mass 
 
 Of human shapes goes on before my eyes; 
 
 Some see the valley long before they come. 
 
 While others meet the shades in sheer surprise. 
 
 Each has his tale of travel to relate. 
 
 Words of the rabble bear the selfsame song. 
 
 But here are some who by their acts, anon, 
 
 Stand out in bold relief against the throng. 
 
 "Pass on, pass on!" The ever goading words 
 
 Sound like a knell in maiden beauty's ears, 
 
 Forcing her toward the overhanging pall, 
 
 Quenching with darkness all the sobs and tears, 
 
 Tearing her from the gay and laughing friends, 
 
 Mocking the shadow in their own conceit. 
 
 Yet, ever in accordance with the power 
 
 Pushing the dust with glad unknowing feet. 
 
 "Pass on, pass on!" The aged one would turn 
 
 And face once more the gladsome way of yore. 
 
 When with his happy comrades, all his thought 
 
 Was to the flowery by-way not the fore. 
 
 Yet ever though in memory he turn. 
 
 His steps, impelled by that unheard command, 
 
 Move ever onward to the ghastly shades 
 
POETS AND POETRY 243 
 
 To join with others in an unseen land. 
 "Pass on!" The priest with humble step and slow, 
 With never backward look or faltering heart, 
 With hands outstretched to bless his lowly flock 
 Approaches slow the dull and dusky mart 
 Where death is given for life and life for death, 
 And as the ages ever onward roll, 
 The body and the pleasure of a life 
 Are bartered for the lifetime of a soul. 
 So in the shadow strides the priest, in hand 
 The crucifix to which his faith is pinned. 
 And as the darkness closes over him 
 His churchly robe drifts backward on the wind. 
 "Pass on, pass on!" A youth with buoyant step 
 A fair bride leads adown the ci'owded way, 
 Whose white hands reach imploringly above 
 As "On, pass on!" He must the word obey. 
 "Pass on, pass on!" The turbaned Hindoo strides. 
 And peers beyond the gloom for Buddha's end 
 And feels himself a mark of Allah's grace. 
 The Christian white man of the favored lands, 
 The simple red man of the western plain. 
 The swart Egyptian, and the Pagan Moor 
 Would minister to each other's misled brain. 
 And yet the Christian and the Pagan feet, 
 The self -same pathway in the self -same hour 
 Unto the self-same shadows do traverse. 
 Impelled forever by the self-same power. 
 Then let us be resigned and when the horn- 
 Arrives when we must meet the shadows dense, 
 Like to the red men in their native haunts 
 Go strike in silent awe the weakened tents. 
 And as the gathering shadows of the night 
 In silence take the place of ruddy day. 
 Cast not a look of sorrow or regret 
 But in the gloaming silent steal away. 
 
244 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Although there are in the following volumes 
 of verse which have lain in the state historical de- 
 partment for many years a number of good selec- 
 tions, yet none of them could be incorporated into 
 this book at this time : 
 
 Mary Cummins, "Rhymes of a Lifetime." 
 James Davies, "Threads of Gold Woven in 
 Verse." 
 
 John E. Kelley, "The Age of Gold." 
 In 1906, a Reverend Mr. Smith, of Huron, 
 brought out a volume of verse, but it was not widely 
 read, because the poems lacked vitality. 
 
 Access to quite a number of other volumes of 
 pioneer poetry may be had at the Department of 
 History, in the State Capitol, at Pierre. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 PROSE WRITERS 
 
 Prose writers naturally divide themselves into 
 four main classes : Novelists, Historians, Journalists, 
 and Scientific writers. These divisions will, as far 
 as practicable, be respected in this section of this 
 book. 
 
 NOVELISTS 
 
 In the classification of the subject matter in this 
 volume, it has been practically impossible to differ- 
 entiate between the Poets and the Novelists, because 
 of the fact that several of the writers have become 
 prominent and have been recognized in both fields. 
 This is especially true of Joseph Mills Hanson who 
 has written two books of history, two of fiction, a 
 Pageant, and one volume of poetry; also of Hamlin 
 Garland whose prose productions far outbalanced 
 his poems. It became necessary, however, to classi- 
 fy them among the poets, owing to the fact that you 
 cannot quote at length from a prose work. They 
 will, nevertheless, have to be considered in both 
 fields. 
 
 Those who have been treated herein as "novel- 
 ists" are, therefore, the ones who have written 
 novels exclusively, who are recognized as novelists 
 and who have left poetry entirely alone. 
 
Kate and Virgil D. Boyles 
 
 Biographical — Virgil: Born, Louisville, Illinois, January 
 22, 1872. Family removed to Dakota in 1874. Settled on 
 claim near Olivet. 
 
 Kate: Born, Olivet, S. D., 1876. Family removed to 
 Yankton in latter '70's. 
 
 Both of them educated in the Yankton city schools and 
 at Yankton college. 
 
 Kate taught in the country; also for three years in the 
 Yankton schools, and one year in Boyle's Business college, 
 Mitchell, S. D. Married J. H. Bingham, 1908. Home in 
 Chamberlain. 
 
 Virgil settled in Mitchell in 1898. Court reporter, fourth 
 judicial circuit. Married Grace Glezen, 1897. Father of two 
 children — a girl and a boy. 
 
KATE AND VIRGIL D. BOYLES 
 
 In the realm of fiction the two South Dakota 
 writers who have gained the greatest recognition 
 thus far are a sister and brother — Kate and Virgil 
 D. Boyles. These two writers have adhered rigidly 
 to prose composition. Their mastery of ideal 
 English, their powers of imagery and their ability 
 to portray life — all combine to make them our best- 
 loved authors. 
 
 Their first book, entitled "Langford of the 
 Three Bars," which appeared in 1907, proved to be 
 a great seller ; in fact the yearly sales of it to this 
 day still run into the thousands. For a long while 
 it was the McClurg Company's heaviest seller over 
 their retail counter in Chicago. Eastern life had 
 been threshed bare by eastern authors. Down-east 
 folk were hungry for something western. This 
 book helped to gratify them. 
 
 It has an attractive title — one of the chief 
 assets in stimulating sales for any production. It 
 is admirably illustrated in colors by N. C. Wyeth, 
 whose ability to portray western life commands re- 
 spect. 
 
 In the early days of Dakota, one of the greatest 
 outlaws and cattle rustlers in the whole country was 
 the notorious Jack Sully, He was shot on a lonely 
 island in the Missouri river by a posse under Deputy 
 
>248 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 U. S. Marshal Petrie, in 1904, after he had broken 
 jail at Mitchell a few months before. Sully, under 
 an assumed name, is made to play the leading role 
 in "Langford of the Three Bars." It is a typical 
 western story with the plot covering the region 
 around the mouth of the White river where it 
 empties into the Missouri. 
 
 The opening chapter, headed "The Island With 
 a Mystery," carries a person boldly and at once 
 to the scene of human disaster. The reader's at- 
 tention is promptly arrested. In the second chapter 
 one is put directly "On The Trail," while in the third, 
 "Louise" is introduced with telling effect. It is, 
 withal, a masterpiece of fiction, with an historical 
 setting which gives to it much of the nature of an 
 historical novel. 
 
 The leading character passes through many 
 startling incidents ; is caught ;• placed in jail ; escapes ; 
 and, finally, in Chapter XXII, makes "The Outlaw's 
 Last Stand." 
 
 Of the four books which the Boyles have now 
 placed upon the market — all of them through A. C. 
 McClurg & Co., of Chicago — their first one is evi- 
 dently their best, provided its merits can be ascer- 
 tained by its demand. 
 
 In 1909, their second book appeared. It is 
 called "The Homesteaders ;" and like their first one, 
 the plot to it is laid in the region west of the Mis- 
 souri river, in South Dakota. This one also proved 
 popular. It was followed in 1910 by "The Spirit 
 
PROSE WRITERS 249 
 
 Trail," an Indian tale growing out of "The Treaty of 
 Laramie" in 1868. Although the plot is laid in 
 Wyoming, it shifts its way across South Dakota, and 
 has a great deal to do with the development of the 
 region around Yankton during territorial days. 
 
 Their last book, 'The Hoosier Volunteer," came 
 from press in 1914. For a soul-stirring tragedy — 
 that is, for a succession of minor tragedies, which, 
 when put together, make up a completed whole — it 
 certainly outclasses their first book; although its 
 demand, to date, could not be given a comparative 
 rating with the first one which has now been on the 
 market for nine years. The recurring ghost story 
 in it surpasses anything of its kind in English — the 
 one in Hawthorne's "House of Seven Gables," or 
 indeed, "The White Old Maid" itself, not excepted. 
 
 LOUISE ELLIOT 
 
 One of the happy volumes that appeared upon 
 the market during 1913 was Mrs. Elliott's "Six 
 Weeks On Horseback Through Yellowstone Park." 
 It is, in reality, a travelogue containing fifty-two 
 high grade illustrations of scenery in the park. The 
 book contains the camp letters which Mrs. Elliott is 
 presumed to have written to her parents during her 
 journey. These letters are knit together by a dainty 
 love story that gives to them a fascination out of the 
 ordinary. The book is valuable for its wealth of 
 detailed geographical information. 
 
Mrs. Jewell Bothwell-Tull 
 
 Biographical — Born, Yates Center, Kansas, Aug. 3, 1892. 
 Removed to Montana, then Idaho, then Utah. Educated in 
 University of Idaho. Specialized on English and French. 
 Spent one year abroad. Studied French in Paris. Married 
 Prof. Clyde Tull, 1912. Home at Mitchell, S. D. Instructor 
 in French, Dakota Wesleyan University. Has written 
 numerous short stories and poems, published by eastern 
 houses. Author of two books to date. She is a member of 
 the Delta Gamma National Society and her biography appears 
 in the book, "Who's Who in Delta Gamma." 
 
JEWELL BOTHWELL-TULL 
 A new book which appeared in 1915 is Mrs. 
 Tull's "Winning of the Bronze Cross." It is the 
 story of a boy scout who leaves Chicago on Sunday 
 afternoon and starts to Idaho to visit his uncle. 
 Throughout the long journey he encounters a start- 
 ling series of misfortunes ; yet in all of these trying 
 circumstances the boy acquits himself in a splendid 
 way and out of his many trials he em.erges each 
 time possessed with the spirit of a true boy scout. 
 The story reveals a sympathetic knowledge of boy 
 nature, his struggles, his failures, his successes, and 
 his ideals. 
 
 A fitting companion to her first book, entitled 
 "Rob Riley — The Making of a Boy Scout," issued 
 from press this year (1916) . In it she has used some 
 of the characters of her former book, and by adding 
 several new ones she has worked out a plot that in 
 the end reveals a typical boy scout in the finest 
 light. 
 
 Mrs. Tull is also author of two plays, "Home" 
 and "Rose-Petal," both of which have been success- 
 fully produced. 
 
Dr. Will Lillibridge 
 
 Biographical — Born, Union County, Iowa, 1878. Raised 
 on a farm. Graduated, Dental Department Iowa State Uni- 
 versity, 1898. Came to Sioux Falls. Practiced Dentistry. 
 Wrote six novels and one descriptive book. Died Jan. 29, 1909. 
 
WILL LILLIBRIDGE 
 
 Among our novelists, proper, the name of Dr. 
 Will Lillibridge, of Sioux Falls, holds a prominent 
 place. It is unfortunate that one possessed of such 
 talents as he, should have died at the age of thirty- 
 one when his literary career was just unfolding it- 
 self. And yet it is not strange, for there is a natural 
 limit to human endurance. He practiced dentistry 
 during the day and did all of his writing at night — 
 producing seven books in the brief period of eight 
 years. He was not very strong, and this double 
 duty soon sapped his strength. 
 
 In his auto-biography, he says: "Every Novel 
 may have a happy close, but a Real life's story has 
 but one inevitable ending — Death." His was a "real 
 life's story" and it had an early "inevitable ending." 
 
 Mrs. Wilbur Teeters, reviewing his writings 
 in the "Iowa Alumnus," says : "Dr. Lillibridge's field 
 of romance was his own. Others have told of the 
 Western mountains and pictured the great desert of 
 the Southwest, but none has painted with so master- 
 ful a hand the great prairies of the Northwest, 
 shown the lavish hand with which Nature pours out 
 her gifts upon the pioneer, and again the calm 
 cruelty with which she effaces him. In the midst 
 of these scenes his actors played their parts and 
 there he played his own part, clean in life and 
 thought, a man to the last." 
 
254 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 His first novel, "Ben Blair," published in 1905, 
 brought him national fame as an author. This book 
 has now been dramatized by a motion picture pro- 
 ducer. He followed this in 1907 with "Where the 
 Trail Divides," and in 1908 with two more novels, 
 "The Dissolving Circle" and "The Quest Eternal." 
 The year 1909 saw his "Dominant Dollar" appear. 
 After his death, A. C. McClurg & Co., of Chicago, 
 wrote his widow to ascertain if he had left any un- 
 published manuscripts. She found and submitted 
 to them his "Quercus Alba" which they published in 
 1910, and his "Breath of the Prairie," which they 
 brought out in 1911. 
 
 One is led to ponder meditatingly over the fact 
 that Charles Bracy Lawton, one of our ablest poets, 
 should have met his fate at thirty-two years of age ; 
 that Mrs. Tatro, the state's leading poetess, to date, 
 should have died at forty-eight; that Will Sterling, 
 the finest natural orator the state has produced, 
 should have passed away at thirty-four, and that 
 Lillibridge should have answered the final summons 
 at thirty-one. It will always be regretted by stu- 
 dents of our state literature that these four promis- 
 ing careers could not have reached their full ma- 
 turity ; yet each of them, in turn, lived long enough 
 and wrote a sufficient amount to make us their last- 
 ing beneficiaries. 
 
 Not alone to the white race within our state has 
 been given the privilege of developing our fiction. 
 The Black man has also done his share. Two splendid 
 
PROSE WRITERS 255 
 
 novels by Oscar Micheaux (Me-show), a young 
 negro from Gregory county, and a graduate of 
 Tuskeegee Institute, are now widely read. The first 
 is his "Conquest," a charming love story. His latest 
 effort is "The Forged Note." This latter book deals 
 with the negro conditions of the south. It is a mas- 
 sive volume of 521 pages, elaborately illustrated. 
 
 A new novel that put in its appearance in 1915 
 is "The Boy From Reifel's Ranch," by Rev. J. S. 
 Ellis, of Conde. 
 
 Other good novels by South Dakotans — all old 
 but valuable and delightful reading, are : 
 
 Thomas A. Stubbins, "The Patriot." 
 
 Eva Dye, "The Conquest." 
 
 Stella Oilman, "That Dakota Girl," and a 
 "Gumbo Lilly." 
 
 Gov. G. A. Pierce, "A Dangerous Woman." 
 
 Mrs. Douglas, "Beryl, or the Silent Partner." 
 
 S. E. White, "The Westerners." 
 
 Eleanor Gates, "The Biography of a Prairie 
 Girl," "The Plow Woman." 
 
 H. A. Rodee, "The Prairie Patriot." 
 
 HISTORIANS 
 
 No literature of any state could be complete with- 
 out making suitable mention of its historians. They 
 divide themselves into two classes : Historians, 
 proper, and Biographers. 
 
 In the early years of the present century, Mose 
 K. Armstrong published an elaborate history of 
 
256 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 South Dakota in Territorial days. It is a massive 
 volume, beautifully illustrated, and considered very 
 accurate by competent critics. Two other small 
 volumes also appeared : one by G. A. Bachelder and 
 one by James Foster. Numerous other small books 
 and pamphlets appeared, giving mostly the history 
 of some important event, or of some particular sec- 
 tion of the state, but nothing definite and general 
 in its character was done until Hon. Doane Robin- 
 son, our state historian, brought out his "History of 
 South Dakota from its Earliest Times," in 1900. 
 The law of the state was promptly changed and an 
 examination in South Dakota history, as well as 
 U. S. history, was demanded of eighth grade gradu- 
 ates and of applicants for teachers' certificates. A 
 course in South Dakota history was inserted in the 
 state Course of Study for common schools. Robin- 
 son's book was made the text for practically the 
 whole state. Renewed interest in our state history 
 promptly followed. In 1904, Robinson's "Complete 
 History of South Dakota" (2 volumes) appeared. 
 This was followed in 1905 by his "Brief History of 
 South Dakota." In 1907, Prof. R. F. Kerr revised 
 Robinson's "History of South Dakota from Its 
 Earliest Times," and the Educator Supply Co., of 
 Mitchell, brought out a new edition of it. However, 
 in 1912, Frank L. Ransom published a new school 
 history of South Dakota, called "The Sunshine 
 State." 
 
PROSE WRITERS 257 
 
 Subsequent to these former efforts, Hon. George 
 Kingsbury, of Yankton, and Professor G. M. 
 Smith, of Vermillion, in 1915, placed upon the 
 market an elaborate five-volume history of the state. 
 The first three volumes, covering the territorial 
 history of the commonwealth, were written by 
 Kingsbury ; the last two volumes, covering our state 
 history, were written by Smith. This is by far the 
 most complete and authentic history of the state 
 that has appeared to date. 
 
 In addition to these histories, the history of 
 every church and religious denomination operating 
 in the state, has been written by some prominent 
 member of each particular organization. It is use- 
 less to enumerate these. Copies of each of them are 
 on file in the Department of History where access 
 to them may be had at any time by interested parties. 
 
 Attorney Charles DeLand, of Pierre, has earned 
 prominent mention as an historical writer of certain 
 expeditions, and of special events. His contributions 
 to the state Historical Reports are among the best 
 productions of the kind. His "Errors in the Trial of 
 Jesus," is more historical than biographical in its 
 nature. 
 
 Attorney N. J. Dunham, of Mitchell, has written 
 a history of Jerauld County and one of Davison 
 County. Likewise, D. R. Bailey has written one of 
 Minnehaha county. General Conklin has written 
 one of Clark county, but it has never been published, 
 except in newspaper form. 
 
258 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 A "History of the French Revolution," in two 
 volumes, is being prepared by Dr. Christophelsmeir, 
 of the State University, and will be commented upon 
 in the next edition of this book. 
 
 BIOGRAPHERS 
 
 One of the earliest biographies to appear in the 
 state, was the "Memoirs of William B. Sterling," by 
 the Honorable Coe I. Crawford. It is a large volume, 
 bound in half leather, stamped in gold, and contains 
 a steel-plate engraving of Mr. Sterling. Over half 
 of the book is devoted to Sterling's speeches ; the rest 
 is given to the speeches that were made in his honor 
 at the time of his death. 
 
 Much of Doane Robinson's two volumes of 
 South Dakota history, published by Bowen & Co., 
 is given to short biographies. The same thing is 
 true in Kingsbury's history — ^the last two volumes, 
 bearing on state history, being devoted largely to 
 biography. 
 
 In this field, one of the very strongest books that 
 has appeared is "Joseph Ward of Dakota." It is 
 from the pen of Professor George H. Durand, in- 
 structor in English at Yankton college. The manu- 
 script was prepared originally to be embodied in 
 the state Historical Reports, but it . assumed such 
 proportions and had woven into it so much vital 
 state and church history that it was finally decided 
 to publish it in book form. It is a volume of 252 
 pages from The Pilgrim Press, Boston. The bio- 
 
PROSE WRITERS 259 
 
 graphy is replete as to detail. It begins with the 
 history of Ward's forebears when the first one 
 landed in Massachusetts in 1637 and traces his 
 ancestry on down through the succeeding years to 
 the birth of Joseph Ward, himself, at Perry Center, 
 N. Y., May 5, 1838. Of his ancestors the author 
 says : "They form a noble succession of strong men — 
 representatives, magistrates, builders of settlements, 
 defenders of liberty, founders of churches and 
 schools. Their record is a type of victorious 
 progress of Pilgrim civilization." And then, with 
 reference to Dr. Ward he says : "And Joseph Ward 
 in his character and life work, as missionary, pastor, 
 educator, and statesman, was true to that noble in- 
 heritance." The book compels admiration for its 
 choice diction, and it is well illustrated throughout, 
 making it a good piece of state history. 
 
 For other standard biographies, see the 
 Educator Company's list of publications in the back 
 part of this book. Hon. Doane Robinson, in his 
 Historical Reports, keeps the field of biographies 
 well covered. 
 
 JOURNALISM 
 
 Journalists divide themselves naturally into five 
 classes of writers : Political, Religious, Educational, 
 Descriptive, General. Some of the strongest writers 
 in the state are found wholly in the field of journal- 
 ism. Usually, newspaper men are so crowded with 
 work that they become careless and indifferent as 
 
260 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 to their literary style — argument being the main 
 thing sought by them. However, there are, and 
 have been, some notable exceptions. 
 
 Our strongest Political editors are Charles M. 
 Day, of the Sioux Falls Daily Argus,Leader ; Wheeler 
 S. Bowen, of the Huronite ; F. J. Cory, of the Water- 
 town Saturday News (formerly editor of Public 
 Opinion) ; Mark M. Bennett, of the Yankton 
 Herald ; J. S. Sanders, of the Aberdeen Daily News ; 
 J. F, Halladay, of the Iroquois Chief ;' Clate Tinan, 
 of the Kimball Graphic; W. R. Ronald, of the 
 Mitchell Daily Republican ; E. B. Yule, of the Alex- 
 andria Herald; Mrs. Nana Gilbert, of the Salem 
 Pioneer Register; E. S. Danforth, of the Vermillion 
 Hepublican; and I. D. Aldrich, of the Big Stone 
 Headlight. Three prominent political writers have 
 retired. They are E. H. Willeyof the Vermillion Re- 
 publican, John Longstaff, of the Huronite, and 
 0. M. Osbon, of the Howard Spirit. Several have 
 died, among them being N. C. Nash, of the Canton 
 News; S. J. Conklin, of Conklin's Dakotian, and 
 Arthur Linn, of the Canton Leader. 
 
 As a Religious writer. Rev. J. A. Derome, as- 
 sociate editor of the Sioux Falls Daily Argus-Leader, 
 is making a record for himself. He edits the "Week- 
 ly Meditation" which has appeared each Saturday 
 in that paper for several years. These are the most 
 learned treatises on the Bible and the history of 
 religious songs that have ever appeared in the state ; 
 in fact, they take rank with anything of that char- 
 
PROSE WRITERS 261 
 
 acter that has been produced throughout the nation. 
 
 Dean C. M. Young (deceased) and Prof. George 
 M. Smith, formerly editors of the South Dakota 
 Educator, a monthly educational journal, are the two 
 men to date who have made records for themselves 
 as Educational writers. 
 
 For keen, vivid, effective Description, one's 
 mind turns intuitively to Osbon, formerly editor of 
 the Howard Spirit. The following clipping is taken 
 from an old copy of the paper: 
 
 WAITING FOR TAPS 
 
 There is not a more pathetic sight than the row of bent, 
 gray-haired old men sitting on the veranda of our national 
 soldiers' home waiting for the last bugle call to the muster 
 of death. They are not the ones you would have marked, 
 could you have seen them five and forty years ago, as the 
 idlers of the earth. Bright, alert, quick of step and keen of 
 eye, they were the boys you would have chosen to do things. 
 And they did things — things that brought them to this com- 
 plexion — while their neighbors, who looked the heirs ap- 
 parent of helpless, hopeless senility, stayed at home and stole 
 the millions which make them "our distinguished townsmen" 
 of today out of the wormy hardtack and measly pork they 
 fed to these heroes. 
 
 Thank God, all of us, that Sheridan's troopers, turning 
 back the tide of defeat at Winchester; Meade's heroes, stand- 
 ing in the whirlwind of death as solid as the granite walls 
 of Little Round Top, and Grant's gallants, tightening the 
 coils of death about the neck of treason at Vicksburg, could 
 not look forward and see themselves as we see them today. 
 Thank God the future was hidden from him; else the arm 
 that bore the starry banner up Lookout's rugged heights; the 
 
262 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 hand that flasVied the saber "from Atlanta to the sea," would 
 have fallen, palsied at the sickenmg sight. They won a 
 nation and redeemed a race — and saved for themselves a few 
 years of cold charity in a semiprison. 
 
 And there they sit, helpless, hopeless misanthropes, the 
 milk of human kindness soured by disappointment, racked 
 with pain, bent and distorted by diseases contracted in swamp 
 or prison pen, wrecked — some of them — by vicious habits 
 contracted in those four years of unbridled passion. 
 And others, almost the saddest of all, who escaped 
 the touch of death and disease, who came home pure 
 in heart and clean of hand, to find their places filled, them- 
 selves out of beat with the onward march of progress, and 
 who have trailed through life in the rear of the procession 
 unable to catch the step. In the sight of men they are 
 failures, but before the most high their lives are the pascal 
 lamb sacrificed on freedom's altar. 
 
 And there they sit and wait — for what? Think of it! 
 Put yourself in their place. Life ended, no cheer, no child's 
 prattle in their ears, no love in their lives, no hope, no future, 
 no present — only a dim, shadowy past, already forgotten by 
 half the world. 
 
 Waiting only for their summons — "Lights out!" that low, 
 sad requiem, with a heart-break in every note, falling, with 
 increasing frequency on their dull, old ears. 
 
 As a General writer, on all classes of subjects, 
 Wheeler S. Bowen, of the Daily Huronite, must be 
 given recognition. Following is a fair sample of his 
 regular daily composition : 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 Through so many years of prosperous peace has the 
 memorial anniversary in honor of the dead of the Civil War 
 been observed that the event has become as well established 
 as our Christian Sabbath. As the swift years go by, in- 
 creasing solemnity is attached to the observances of each 
 
PROSE WRITERS 263 
 
 30th of May, couched though they are in the forms that admit 
 of no variation. 
 
 It is far away now, the weary march, the bristling line, 
 the sputtering fire, the roar of musketry, the boom of artil- 
 lery, the weird cadence of flying shells and the hiss of the 
 death dealing minnie, the sobbing away of life, the moans, the 
 shrieks, the shouts of triumph, the groans of despair. 
 
 So far away and covered by so many years of rising and 
 advancing generations that the life of today knows little of 
 the significance of Memorial Day to the survivors of one of 
 the world's bloodiest periods. 
 
 And the appreciation of the soldier of the '60's is some- 
 what dimmed, for he has lived long since there came un- 
 sought into his life experiences that were wrought into his 
 soul in the red-hot crucible of war. He may feel that he, too, 
 would be willing to lie down in his place "on fame's eternal 
 camping ground," for the journey is becoming a weary one 
 and the thinned column drags along the line of march. 
 
 Today, under the stars that were saved and the stripes 
 that wreathed about them, all over the loyal portion of our 
 land, the people have turned their thoughts to the men of the 
 sixties, have honored them as they will again on each re- 
 curring 30th of May, giving the present the glorious lesson 
 of the past, that the future may be saved against the con- 
 spiracies of evil. 
 
 Although E. H. Willey was classed as a political 
 writer, and although he gained wide recognition in 
 that field, he must also be treated among the general 
 editorial writers. For nearly a half century, he 
 made the Vermillion (Dakota) Republican one of 
 the strongest literary weekly newspapers in the 
 state. Willey was an apprentice lad. He never at- 
 tended school a day in his life, yet through sheer 
 
264 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 application he became one of the recognized literary 
 editors of the state. What could be more musical 
 as prose than the following paragraph, taken from 
 his lengthy editorial on Senator A. B. Kittredge, at 
 the time of the latter's death in 1910? 
 
 Today he sleeps in the village cemetery of the little New 
 Hampshire town of Jaffrey, but his memory will remain as 
 enduring as the granite of which are composed the encircling 
 hills that will keep watch above his place of rest. For happi- 
 ly, and most surely, his work in every way was a credit to the 
 state of his nativity as well as to that of his adoption, and 
 the honor becomes the heritage of the nation. 
 
 SCIENTIFIC WRITERS 
 
 Under the head of Scientific Writers, must come 
 our writers of science, proper, our text book authors, 
 aside from historians, our compilers and our 
 critiques. Hundreds of valuable pamphlets, bearing 
 on strictly scientific themes, have appeared during 
 the past thirty years, but we must confine ourselves 
 as far as possible to a consideration of bound 
 volumes. To delve into this phase of our literature 
 merely for historical purposes, would necessitate the 
 cataloging herein of over 200 valuable scientific 
 pamphlets. This would prove impractical for our 
 purpose. Again, the able dissertations of the men 
 of science who are connected with the faculties of 
 our state and denominational institutions of higher 
 education, if catalogued, would be interesting, but 
 they would be valueless as literature; hence, their 
 omission. , 
 
PROSE WRITERS 265 
 
 GEOLOGY 
 
 The Geology of the state, in addition to the 
 government reports, was first written by Professor 
 Todd, in bulletin form. His leading works are 
 "Boulder Mosaics in Dakota," and "Moraine of South 
 Eastern South Dakota." Later, the regents of edu- 
 cation authorized Dr. Cleophas C. O'Harra, presi- 
 dent of the School of Mines, to go East and collect 
 all of the reports on the Geology of the Bad Lands 
 that he could find, and to condense these with his 
 own investigation, into one paper-bound volume at 
 state expense. This was done, and so we have a com- 
 plete record of that interesting region. Dr. O'Harra 
 also wrote the "Mineral Wealth of the Black Hills." 
 Dean E. C. Perisho, as state geologist, gave to us the 
 following reports : 
 
 The Geology of the Rosebud Reservation. 
 
 The Bad Lands of South Dakota. 
 
 Bulletin No. 5, covering the geology as well as 
 the geography of south central South Dakota. 
 
 Bulletin No. 7, covering the geology and the geo- 
 graphy of northwestern South Dakota. 
 
 Rock Formations of South Dakota. 
 
 T. H. Lewis has given to us pamphlet 6, cover- 
 ing the "Boulder Outline in Dakota." With all of 
 this valuable material at hand, our Geology is con- 
 sidered quite complete. 
 
266 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 MUSIC 
 Inst7mmental 
 While the words to vocal music might profitably 
 be studied under the head of Poetry, yet musical 
 compositions, on the whole, must be considered as 
 scientific productions. It would not be feasible to 
 list herein all of the instrumental compositions that 
 have been produced to date by South Dakota com- 
 posers, for they now number about fifty. Without 
 showing partiality, special mention must be made 
 of the "First South Dakota Infantry March," com- 
 posed by Frank M. Halstead, leader of the South 
 Dakota Infantry band, because of the wide recogni- 
 tion which this composition gained. Then, too, 
 Carrie E. Stratton has excelled in sheet music. Her 
 ''Iroquois Grand March" became a national selection. 
 Scarcely less popular were her "McKinley's Memor- 
 ial March," and her "Frolic of the Prairie Chickens." 
 
 However, the state composer who, to date, has 
 risen into a field wholly his own, is Dean E. W. 
 Grabill, head of the College of Music, University of 
 South Dakot-a. He lives in music, revels in it and 
 radiates it from his whole being. Not only has he 
 gained recognition at home, but from Canada comes 
 the following sonnet written to him by the popular 
 Canadian poet, J. D. Logan, and published by the 
 latter in his volume of poems : 
 
PROSE WRITERS 267 
 
 DULCET MELODIST 
 
 (To Ethelbert Warren Grabill — the most poetic interpreter 
 in America of Chopin, Grieg, and MacDowell.) 
 
 DULCET MELODIST whose fingers kiss 
 
 The longing keys with fondest tenderness. 
 
 What soft allurement lies in thy caress 
 
 That they should answer with the thoughts we miss 
 
 Of love ineffable? Oh, tell me this: — 
 
 How thou dost draw from seeming nothingness 
 
 The unheard love — complaints that burn and bless 
 
 And break the heart with bitterest tears of bliss? 
 
 Thou utterest soul-throbs Chopin made us hear. 
 
 As if he wept again upon the keys, 
 
 MacDowell's plaint and Grieg's immortal Peer 
 
 Who never knew the loneliness of peace: — 
 
 Ah, must thine own heart burn with love like these, 
 
 When thou canst bring their sweetest art so near! 
 
 Dean Grabill's piano compositions include a 
 number of mazurkas, waltzes, a romance, a set of 
 album leaves, and a set of Cuban Voudou dances. 
 He has composed a large number of songs for solo 
 voices, including: 
 
 Serenade (Love Wakes and Weeps), words by 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 ' A Song of Love, words by Sidney Lanier. 
 
 Du bist wie eine Blume, words by Heine. 
 
 Come Not When I am Dead, words by Tennyson. 
 
 Visitors, words by Helen May Whitney. 
 
 Lullaby, to original words. 
 
 Besides these, the Dean was specially commis- 
 sioned by Toronto friends of J. K. Bathurst, the 
 Canadian poet, to compose the music to the latter's 
 
268 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 "Love's Pilgrim," a poem of singular beauty and 
 power. Grabill has also written Incidental Music 
 (songs and orchestra) to Goldsmith's "She Stoops 
 To Conquer," and some works for chorus, including 
 "My Misery," to original words in negro dialect. 
 
 Vocal 
 
 Our vocal selections that have gained recogni- 
 tion and for which music has been written are not 
 numerous. "My Pilot," by Rollin J. Wells (see poets) 
 has been set to music ; has had a good sale, and has 
 been incorporated in a church hymnal. 
 
 J. W. Coates, of Conde, wrote "The Sunshine 
 State," the music for which was composed by Dean 
 Grabill. 
 
 President Willis E. Johnson, of the Aberdeen 
 normal, wrote both the words and the music to a 
 song, entitled "South Dakota," which has become 
 popular throughout the state. 
 
 MONEY 
 
 Our money problem has been vividly set forth 
 by Hon. H. L. Loucks in his "New Monetary Sys- 
 tem." A companion book is his "Government Owner- 
 ship of Railroads and Telegraph." 
 
 RELIGION 
 
 In addition to the "Weekly Meditations" (see 
 Journalists), by Rev. J. A. Derome, consideration 
 must also be given to that class of religious writings 
 which have been preserved in book form. As was 
 stated under the head of "Historians," we cannot 
 
PROSE WRITERS 269 
 
 give special thought to the able religious essays and 
 kindred material that have appeared during the 
 past thirty-five years. 
 
 We have from the pen of the learned Dr. 
 Samuel Weir, who for seven years was a member of 
 the faculty of Dakota Wesleyan University, a pon- 
 derous volume along religious lines, entitled "Chris- 
 tianity as a Factor in Civilization." Coupled with 
 this, is the "Necessity for the Christian College," by 
 Dr. Thomas Nicholson. But the two modern 
 treatises on religious themes, that are having a wide 
 sale are the works of Dr. Craig S. Thoms, of Ver- 
 million. His "Bible Message for Modern Manhood" 
 struck a responsive chord in modern thought. It 
 was followed by his "Workingman's Christ" which, 
 if possible, is proving still more popular than his 
 first book. 
 
 TEXT BOOK AUTHORS 
 
 AGRICULTURE 
 
 While Eastern men have been preparing texts 
 along the line of agriculture, to meet the demand for 
 this new phase of industrial education, our home 
 authors have not been idle. Arthur A. Brigham has 
 brought out his large volume, "The Progressive 
 Poultry Journal." Professor C. Larsen and W. 
 White have published their "Dairy Technology ;" and 
 Larsen and McKay are the joint authors of "Prin- 
 ciples and Practice of Butter Making." Larsen is 
 also the author of "Exercises in Farm Dairying." 
 
270 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 BOOKKEEPING 
 
 A large volume on bookkeeping, entitled "Farm 
 Accounting," written by Prof. S. D. van Benthuysen, 
 is in press at this time, and cannot be commented 
 upon intelligently until the next edition of this 
 Literature is issued. 
 
 CHEMISTRY 
 
 Dr. James Henry Shepard, professor of Chem- 
 istry, State College, Brookings, has written the 
 "Elements of Chemistry," a "Brief Course in 
 Chemistry," "Organic Chemistry" and "Inorganic 
 Chemistry," four texts that are used extensively 
 throughout the colleges of the country. 
 
 In addition to Shepard's books there have been 
 prepared a number of able dissertations on this 
 branch of science by leading professors of the state. 
 
 CIVICS 
 
 Our Civics writers began with Smith and 
 Young who prepared a book entitled "The State and 
 Nation." This was followed later by the "History 
 and Government of South Dakota," by the same 
 authors. It is one of the standard texts of the state. 
 
 J. A. Ross wrote a brief text on this same theme, 
 entitled "Ross' Civics." It had a large sale. Later, 
 Frank L. Ransom re-wrote and enlarged it under the 
 title "Civil Government of South Dakota and the 
 United Stales." The overhauling was so complete 
 that it entirely obliterated the Ross resemblance, 
 
PROSE WRITERS 271 
 
 and made a new book of it. This book is also used 
 extensively in the schools of the state. 
 
 Under the title, "South Dakota, a Republic of 
 Friends," President Willis E. Johnson, of the Aber- 
 deen normal, brought out another book on civics 
 which has found a ready sale, not only as a text on 
 this subject, but as a book for popular reading and 
 for reference, as well. 
 
 ECONOMICS 
 
 "Outlines of Elementary Economics," H. J. Da- 
 venport, a 280 page volume. 
 
 GEOGRAPHY 
 
 The first book of Geography to appear was one 
 written by General Beadle in 1888, entitled "Da- 
 kota, Its Geography and History." 
 
 The next serious attempt was that of President 
 Willis E. Johnson who brought out his "Mathema- 
 tical Geography." Although this book does not treat 
 especially on South Dakota, but is general in its 
 character, it is, nevertheless, a literary production 
 by a South Dakota author, and must be recognized. 
 Johnson also wrote the South Dakota "Supplement" 
 to Frye's standard geographies. 
 
 The latest text on this subject, however, is the 
 "Geography of South Dakota," by Perisho and 
 Visher. It is a condensed book, well adapted to 
 class-room work. 
 
 For publishers and prices on South Dakota authors' books, see catalog 
 of such publications in the back part of this book. 
 
272 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 GERMAN 
 
 Under this head comes "Lessons and Views, for 
 Study of German by Conversational Method," by 
 Prof. Geo. M. Smith. 
 
 LAW 
 
 The subject of Law will also be treated under 
 the subsequent head of "Compilers." However, for 
 our purpose here we must confine ourselves to 
 authors of text books on this theme. The man who 
 stands near the head of the list is H. E. Willis, of 
 Yankton, who has given to us two valuable texts on 
 law, "Contracts" and "Damages." Charles E. De- 
 land is the author of "Trial Practice and Appellate 
 Procedure," and of numerous annotated pamphlets 
 on special phases of law, such as Corporations and 
 other kindred themes. Dean McKusick, of the Law 
 School of our state university, is just completing 
 his volume on "Negotiable Instruments." 
 
 LOGIC 
 
 A splendid book on Logic is rapidly being com- 
 pleted by Dr. Tollef B. Thompson. No doubt it will 
 become a standard text in the schools of the country. 
 
 MATHEMATICS 
 
 One of the first serious attempts at Mathematics 
 is the "Moad Script Number Primer," written by 
 the Moad sisters (Altha and Ethel) and made to 
 adapt itself to the number work for the primary 
 
PROSE WRITERS 273 
 
 grade, as outlined in the state course of study. This 
 is soon to be followed by Book II, covering the work 
 of the second and third grades. 
 
 Another mathematical work that is revolution- 
 izing the teaching of numerical combinations in the 
 grades is the Guhin Number Method, by M. M. Gu- 
 hin, of the Aberdeen Normal, formerly superintend- 
 ent of Brown county. It is an arithmetical chart 
 which does away with the old-time multiplication 
 tables. A manual accompanies the chart. 
 
 MEDICINE 
 
 The only books on Medicine which we have been 
 able to locate for examination are : "The Obstetric 
 Guide," by Dr. Robert L. Murdy, of Aberdeen, and 
 *'Le Bonne," by Mrs. Cassie L. Hoyt, of Ft. Pierre. 
 
 PEDAGOGY 
 
 We are now to deal with a mental giant in the 
 field of prose, a man who might be classified as a 
 straight scientific writer as well as a text-book 
 author, Dr. W. Franklin Jones, head of the Depart- 
 ment of Education, University of South Dakota. 
 The president of a board of trustees of a certain de- 
 nominational school once wrote, "An education that 
 is not productive is not vital." In this sense Jones' 
 education is vital, because it has been productive. 
 To date he has written and published two books and 
 four weighty pamphlets. 
 
 His best book is his "Principles of Education." 
 It is written in short, choice, model sentences, and 
 
274 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 is used as a text-book on pedagogy by a large number 
 of the leading colleges and universities of the 
 country. Two paragraphs, under the head of "Lit- 
 erature," (Page 31) will suffice to give both his style 
 and his logic: 
 
 We have seen that history deals with realized life, and 
 that it offeirs us the richest experiences of real lives of the 
 past, in the hope of guiding life of the present. Literature, 
 on the other hand, deals w^ith idealized life, life that never 
 was, just as literature reveals it; hence, it is to our immediate 
 purpose to inquire how the human mind comes to know ideal 
 life, and what values literature seeks to reach in dealing with 
 such life. 
 
 Every human mind is moved by the thoughts of its 
 destiny. What a man is to become is a matter of the keenest 
 interest to himself, leading him to struggle for what he be- 
 lieves to be his highest good. That which a man wills to 
 become is his ideal, or unrealized, or universal self. That 
 which a man is at any given time is his real, or realized, self. 
 There are two selves, then, in every human being, a real and 
 an ideal. This is a basal fact in education, for without it 
 there could be no education. 
 
 Three of his pamphlets are: "The Vitality of 
 Teaching," a paper read before the Association of 
 School Executives of the South Dakota Educational 
 Association; published by The Psychological Clinic 
 Press, Philadelphia, Pa., and later republished by the 
 Department of Public Instruction, Pierre, S. D. ; "An 
 Experimental Critical Study of the Problem of Grad- 
 ing and Promotion," the same being a thesis "sub- 
 mitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for 
 the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate 
 
PROSE WRITERS 275 
 
 School of New York University ;" and his "Concrete 
 Investigation of the Material of English Spelling," 
 this ''investigation" being the foundation for his 
 famous speller. 
 
 Another of his pamphlets — a University Bul- 
 letin — entitled "Handedness in Education," was 
 published in 1916 by the University of South Dakota. 
 It is the result of an investigation covering seven 
 years of study of right and left hands and arms. The 
 bulletin sets forth the significant fact that its con- 
 clusions are based upon the exact measurements of 
 10,000 pairs of hands and arms, ranging from still- 
 born children to centenarians. 
 
 The instrument devised for making accurate 
 arm measures, and called the "Brachiometer," is 
 fully described in the bulletin, so that teachers and 
 parents may use the instrument freely. Part I of 
 the study shows : 
 
 1. How we may determine whether a child is 
 born right or left handed. 
 
 2. How we may determine whether a child 
 has really adopted the right or the left arm. 
 
 3. How we may know the child that has shifted 
 from the potentially major to the potentially minor 
 arm. 
 
 In addition to the above, a summarizing tabu- 
 lum is given which reveals the significant facts that 
 4 per cent of the race are born left handed, and 96 
 per cent right handed ; that 1 per cent of either right 
 or left handers are shifted to the minor arm by ac- 
 
276 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 cident (arm injuries in early childhood) ; that 77 
 per cent of all born left handers are shifted to the 
 right arm by tradition and accident combined; and 
 that one child out of 25 adopts the wrong (minor) 
 arm. 
 
 Having discovered accurate means of determin- 
 ing the three types of handedness (right, left, trans- 
 ferred) as given in Part I, these measures have been 
 utilized to find 250 individuals of each of the three 
 types, 750 individuals in all, and these individuals 
 submitted to five specific skill tests to ascertain the 
 results of shifting a child from the major to the 
 minor arm. These tests, fully recorded in Part II, 
 clearly show that the pure right hander and the pure 
 left hander are essentially equal in hand and arm 
 skill, but that the transferred child is always de- 
 ficient — a discovery of tremendous importance to 
 education in the day when labor is not only skilled 
 but becoming increasingly skilled. 
 
 In addition to the Jones book, Prof. Geo. M. 
 Smith and Dr. Clark M. Young, are the joint-authors 
 of an able treatise on the "Elements of Pedagogy," a 
 book that has now been in use as a text on education 
 for some time. 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 The "Outlines of Psychology" is the name of an 
 unfinished manuscript being prepared by Dr. Tollef 
 B. Thompson. It will be published during 1917. 
 
PROSE WRITERS 277 
 
 SPELLING 
 
 Dr. W. Franklin Jones, after making his 
 extensive "Concrete Investigation of the Material of 
 English Spelling," covering a period of several years, 
 has had published his "Child's Own Spelling Book," 
 which is revolutionizing the spelling problem, not 
 only of our own state but of many other states as 
 well, where the schools are now using them. This 
 is the only text of this character that has been pre- 
 pared in South Dakota. 
 
 TYPEWRITING 
 
 "The Sentence Method of Touch Typewriting," 
 is the title to a book on this subject, prepared by 
 Prof. S. D. van Benthuysen, of Mitchell, and used 
 extensively by commercial schools throughout the 
 entire Northwest. 
 
 COMPILERS 
 
 In 1877, the "Codes of Dakota" were prepared 
 by Peter C. Shannon, Granville Bennett and Bartlett 
 Tripp. They were written for the committee by 
 General Beadle. Although they are a compilation, 
 yet there is much original matter in them. Ten 
 years later, E. W. Caldwell and C. H. Price compiled 
 the laws of the territory to date. In 1899, Gran- 
 tham's "Codes of South Dakota" appeared. This 
 was followed in 1903 by the "Revised Codes of South 
 Dakota," prepared by Bartlett Tripp, G. C. Moody 
 and James Brown. 
 
 The earliest manual covering the practice in 
 Justices' court was prepared by A. B. Melville, of the 
 
278 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Beadle county bar. It is entitled "The Dakota 
 Justice, Civil and Criminal." 
 
 Immediately after the close of the Spanish- 
 American war, Col. Robert Stewart compiled the 
 Military Codes of the state. 
 
 Another compilation is the "Brand Book of 
 South Dakota," prepared by John Hayes, of Ft. 
 Pierre. 
 
 Just from press is a new volume entitled "A 
 Book of Quotations," consisting of over 1,200 ex- 
 cerpts from standard authors, including a few South 
 Dakota writers, classified under fifty-eight distinct 
 headings, prepared by Mrs. Ida P. Ransom. The 
 quotations are general and are intended for both 
 home and school use. 
 
 CRITIQUES 
 
 One of the earliest critiques made in conjunction 
 with our state literature was that of James Realf in 
 the Arena Magazine of May, 1895, on Doane Robin- 
 son, "A Poet of the Northwest." This is a technical 
 study of Robinson's verse. The next year, Henry W. 
 Austin wrote a critique of Robinson's verse in The 
 Bookman. 
 
 The heaviest critique made within the state is 
 one by Dr. Tollef B. Thompson, professor of Philos- 
 ophy in our State University at Vermillion, on 
 Ibsen's last book, entitled "When We Dead Awaken." 
 This critique is in the form of a lecture, delivered by 
 Thompson before the faculty and students of 
 
PROSE WRITERS 279 
 
 Chicago University, and published in its entirety in 
 the 1909 summer number of Poet Lore. In taking 
 his general bearings preparatory to launching upon 
 his special theme, Thompson says : 
 
 The painter spreads his ideal conception upon the surface 
 of his canvas. The artistic photographer catches his object 
 on the ground glass and transfers it to his plate; but Ibsen, 
 like the sculptor, preserves the original object, the ground- 
 glass image and all in crystal form. If the object, or rather 
 if the group of moving objects, is true to life, and if the 
 focus on the general principle at the other end of the frustum 
 is clear cut, we have in the Ibsen drama a piece of art which 
 can be purchased for the price of a book, a form of art which 
 is capable of infinite expansion, while the definiteness of out- 
 line may be traced with the point of a pin, and which is 
 perfect, embodying as much thought and feeling as can be 
 crowded into the whole phantasma of moving, talking objects 
 at the base — aside from the general artistic effect. 
 
 This brings us to the Epilogue. It was written in 1899, 
 and is the last production of the dramatist. Some of you 
 doubtless remember with what eager anticipation the readers 
 of Ibsen awaited its publication. Many feared that the im- 
 paired health and physical decrepitude of the dramatist would 
 not permit of his bringing the final work to a successful 
 finish. In the minds of most of these Ibsen was, and prob- 
 ably is today, the mystic of the time. "When We Dead 
 Awaken" promised them something of a revelation. To some 
 the words meant "When the Clouds of Mysticism have Cleared 
 Away." Others looked for an elaboration upon the final 
 chapters of the Bible, or an effort at dramatization of Swe- 
 denborg's "Heaven and Hell." This latter class was dis- 
 appointed, and the former remained staring in blank astonish- 
 ment at the closed covers, not knowing whsther to laugh or 
 weep. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 ORATORS AND ORATORY 
 
 Quite naturally, the orators of our state are not 
 found wholly within one profession, nor did they 
 come from any one line of endeavor. Rather, they 
 are found in all walks of life. In other words our 
 orators have made their livelihoods in various fields 
 of action, using their splendid oratorical talents only 
 on special occasions. 
 
 The Law gave to us Crawford, Egan, McFar- 
 land, and Will B. Sterling (deceased). Education 
 brought forth Perisho, Harmon and Kemple. Busi- 
 ness added Branson, and the Military gave us 
 Conklin, while the Church has added eloquent men 
 galore. 
 
 To read about an orator is always gratifying, 
 but real inspiration — second only to hearing him — 
 comes from studying his speeches, or at least copious 
 extracts from them. Well may we profit by a brief 
 istudy of the oratory that is available from the 
 gifted men of our state! 
 
O. L. Branson 
 
 Biographical — Born, Whiteside county, 111., Feb. 3, 1861. 
 Kemoved to Iowa with parents in 1867. Spent youth on 
 farm. Taught school, Carroll county, la., at age of fifteen. 
 Elected principal of schools, Arcadia, la., at eighteen. 
 Cashier Rawlin County Bank, Atwood, Kan., 1885-87. Or- 
 ganized bank of his own at Atwood in 1887. Admitted to 
 Kansas bar. Sold out in four years and moved to Olympia, 
 Wash. Three years later removed to Osmond, Neb. Engaged 
 in banking and the practice of law. Sold both interests. 
 Came to Mitchell, South Dakota, Dec. 31, 1896. Took charge 
 of First National Bank at Mitchell. Bought the controlling 
 interest of institution at the end of the year. Became its 
 president. Sold out in February, 1915. Operating farm 
 loan and investment company. 
 
O. L. BRANSON 
 
 Among the universal orators of our state — that 
 is, those whose oratory has inspired, and been in- 
 spired by, a great variety of occasions — none have 
 held higher rank than 0. L. Branson, of Mitchell. 
 Tall, erect, graceful ; educated first for a teacher and 
 then for a lawyer ; studying and practicing mean- 
 while for a public speaker, he has, through his own 
 efforts, become one of the foremost orators of the 
 west. 
 
 Branson's orations and his forceful delivery of 
 them are both of that finished character that 
 commands universal respect and brings an audience 
 to its feet. A fair example of his inspiring eloquence 
 will be found in the following extracts taken from 
 his address delivered to the graduating class at 
 Volga, this state, in May, 1905 : 
 
 I always feel an inspiration on an occasion of this kind 
 that I never experience upon any other; for while it brings 
 its sorrow in a measure, because from this time forward 
 those who are graduating here are expected to fight the battle 
 of life for themselves, yet I never stand in the presence of 
 the youth of our land but what I feel as though the joyous 
 hour of spring is here — 
 
 "Mighty nature bounds as from her birth, 
 "The sun is in the heavens and life on the earth; 
 "Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 
 "Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream." 
 
284 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Hail! beautiful morning time, when to these young men 
 and women all nature seems to be in harmony. The golden 
 sunlight of morning is resting upon the horizon and shedding 
 its brilliant rays over their young lives; fresh buds are 
 bursting, song birds are singing, the whole Universe is 
 joining in that glad hallelujah chorus — singing to the angels 
 beyond the stars; and what message shall I bring to them 
 that will help to guide them in the great journey they are 
 soon to begin? 
 
 ***** 
 
 Then too, whatever you do, do well. Don't be a weakling; 
 don't be a frittering frailty; but in everything you undertake, 
 be master of the situation. See the greatest of the Roman 
 senators quietly walking down the aisle of the Roman senate, 
 never dreaming* of danger; see those twenty-three blades of 
 steel pierce his flesh, and as the blood flowed from twenty- 
 three wounds his soul went to make its peace with the 
 Great Judge in Heaven. The angry mob that gathered about 
 his prostrate form demanded justice and swore vengeance 
 upon Brutus, but quietly and calmly Mark Antony stood 
 over the dead body of Julius Caesar, master of the situation. 
 
 Hear the thunder of cannon and the rattle of musketry 
 upon the field of battle; see the charge and countercharge at 
 the point of the bayonet, and finally see the Union forces in 
 disorderly retreat. But, listen! away in the distance I hear 
 the clattering of hoofs, and finally I see a black charger 
 all covered with foam hurrying to the scene of action, and 
 Phil Sheridan rides up the Shenandoah, master of the 
 situation. 
 
 Take your lesson from the "thunderbolt of war." More 
 than a hundred times he led the armies of France to victory. 
 He lowered the colors of the enemy at Austerlitz, and stood 
 triumphant in the face of shot and shell at Lodi Bridge. He 
 led his conquering heroes to the summit of the Alps and 
 carried the Eagles of France to victory beyond the clouds. 
 But, in an unguarded moment, 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 285 
 
 "There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered there 
 Her beauty and her chivalry," 
 
 and while the red wine flowed and the merry dance went on, 
 the Duke of Wellington was marshalling the forces that 
 carried the day at Waterloo; and the pendulum of time ceased 
 to swing for Napoleon on the rock-bound coast of St. Helena. 
 
 Once more we catch our orator in a different 
 mood. This time, with his silvery tongue inlaid with 
 "pearls from many seas," we see him standing before 
 a joint-session of our state legislature, sounding 
 forth the praises of the martyred McKinley. Space 
 forbids the use of more than a few paragraphs of 
 this able eulogy: 
 
 When I think of the greatness of my theme, I almost 
 hesitate at the thought of even attempting to approach it, 
 but when I think of his splendid character that shines forth 
 as brilliantly as the lighthouse that marks the pathway of 
 the mariner at the midnight hour, I am inspired to go forward 
 and do my duty; not because I believe I can tell the story 
 better, not because I believe I can sing his praises more 
 sweetly, but because I believe down deep in my heart that 
 some of the most beautiful lessons in the world's history are 
 to be found in the life of William McKinley. 
 
 In June, 1896, in the city of St. Louis, the Republican 
 National Convention was held. That mighty host of delegates 
 from every state in the Union was determined to bring back 
 to our country that confidence and prestige that seemed 
 to be swiftly departing from us. They called for a leader; 
 the trumpets were sounding, the bugles rang forth; and 
 the knightly McKinley came forward as the man of the hour. 
 His spurs had already been won in the halls of our national 
 
286 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 congress, and the voters of the nation were quick to rally 
 around his standard. The contest came — one of the fiercest 
 that has ever been known in the history of politics. For 
 days and weeks two great political parties of the nation were 
 doing battle royal; but on the evening of election day, when 
 the smoke of battle had cleared away, it was found that 
 the hosts of democracy were retreating, and the victorious 
 banner of the republican party went streaming by. 
 
 Was there ever such an hour as that? Have you ever 
 stood by the sea-shore and watched the ebbing of the tide? 
 the receding waters drifting — drifting, until it seemed as 
 though they were gone forever? Then the change comes. 
 You can see the returning waters, the sea-gulls, the canoe 
 and all that ride upon the bosom, of the mighty deep, come 
 gliding merrily in to greet the sea-shore. So with the 
 condition of our nation. After hope had fled and confidence 
 had gone almost forever, the incoming tide brought us the 
 greatest period of prosperity ever known in the history of 
 our country. 
 
 THE CLOSING PART OF HIS FOURTH OF JULY 
 ADDRESS, AT SCOTLAND, S. D., 1915 
 
 But we have cause to rejoice today greater than any that 
 has come to us since that great day when the heavens rang 
 with those sweet chimes in '76. We rejoice because peace 
 dwells in our midst. Today, our great flag is speaking as it 
 has never spoken before, to a hundred million people, and 
 is carrying its own appeal to the nations of the world. 
 Everywhere today our country is ablaze with the glory of 
 the American flag. From every city and every hamlet its 
 bright stars are twinkling through her jeweled diadem and 
 its great beams, entwined with a garland made from a 
 hundred million loving hearts, are waving our messages of 
 sympathy to the distressed across the sea. We plead for 
 peace — not because we are a nation that is lacking in courage; 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 287 
 
 for, Sir, numbered among our gallant hosts are ten million 
 patriotic men with red blood running thi'ough their veins — 
 young, gallant, courageous, energetic men — men who have 
 the courage to bare their breasts to any foe. But why should 
 we send them forth in the full glory of their young manhood 
 only to bring them home again as cripples, halt, and lame, 
 and weak, and blind, and their garments dripping with the 
 blood of their fellowmen? O America! My America! 
 Beautiful queen of the empires of the world! Clad in your 
 royal robes of purity and peace and love and hope and 
 happiness, lead on: on through the dark chasms of cruel war, 
 and with the wails of heart-sick mothers ringing in your ears, 
 lead the way to that great court that will insure universal 
 peace, and then — then shall the people of the world come forth 
 with their hallelujahs to greet your coming, and "The 
 nations will rise up and call you blessed." 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY, WHITE LAKE (closing). 
 
 I must remind you today that time is fleeting. Long 
 ago we were told that the River of Time is a wonderful stream 
 as it runs through the realm of years. It is ever flowing on 
 and on. Today we hear the faint rippling of its waters. 
 On the other side, I hear the reveille waking up the blue 
 battalions that have gone to show us the way. Yes; there 
 I see the great leaders of our country, many of whom are 
 sleeping in Arlington, and the tens of thousands of boys who 
 marched in the ranks and whose graves are wearing garlands 
 of flowers today, all marching in review before the untold 
 millions who have gone before. Horses bridled and bitted; 
 flags flying; bands playing, and at the head of the procession 
 upon a scroll I see the name that brings a picture of a 
 shackled race set free, brought from out the ban of bondage 
 to the joys of liberty. 
 
 "And Abraham Lincoln Leads the Way." 
 
288 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 On this side of the River I see all who are left of the 
 boys in blue, journeying toward that wonderful stream. 
 They have already passed by; their faces are turned toward 
 the setting sun. In the distance I hear them faintly singing: 
 
 "I am a pilgrim; I am a stranger. 
 
 I can tarry, I can tarry but a night. 
 Do not detain me for I am going 
 
 Where the fountains are flowing ever bright." 
 
 Taps are sounding! Boys in Blue, farewell, farewell! 
 
 My countrymen: They have consecrated to our keeping 
 the destinies of our country; and what will your answer be? 
 At this hour, on this eventful day, for you I pledge. We will 
 never desecrate this day! As the years come and the years 
 go by, on each Memorial Day we will cover the graves of 
 our soldier boys with beautiful flowers. We will remember 
 the Relief Corps; we will fire our salute over the graves 
 of the unknown dead; we will sing anthems for the dead and 
 speak words of cheer to the living; we will protect the flag 
 and wherever it waves we will know its colors are bright 
 and spotless; we will remember the great men who lead our 
 armies in battle; we will remember the boys who marched 
 in the ranks: 
 
 "And when the last great trumpet 
 
 Shall sound the reveille. 
 And all the blue battalions 
 
 March up from land and sea; 
 He shall awake to glory 
 
 Who sleeps unknown to fame, 
 And with Columbia's bravest 
 
 Will answer to his name." 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 289 
 
 FROM ELKS MEMORIAL, SIOUX FALLS, S. D. 
 
 We meet today to linger for a while around the memories 
 of the departed. We draw back the curtain which separates 
 us from the mistifying beyond and look out through the 
 mists of the gray dawn to those battlements where many 
 were fighting in life's greatest battles, who today are not 
 here to answer roll-call. Their barque has drifted to the 
 full sea; their anchor is down, and for them the tide will 
 come in no more. All Elkdom bows today in solemn medita- 
 tion. At this hour we pay our loving tribute to the memories 
 of our departed brothers who in life gallantly bore the emblem 
 of our Order and who in death calmly, patiently, willingly, 
 took up their journey to that land where "shepherds abide in 
 the field." 
 
 I must remind you today that this life at best is fleeting. 
 A good man dies; the church bells toll; the curtains are drawn 
 for an hour in our places of business; the funeral procession 
 passes by, and like the dropping of a pebble in the sea, his 
 place is soon filled and the world moves on. 
 ***** 
 
 During the ordinary life of man, wonderful things have 
 been accomplished: wonderful things by nature; wonderful 
 things by man's inventive genius; and I wonder if you have 
 ever thought of the most wonderful thing in all the world. 
 
 I well remember the first mountain I ever saw. It was 
 Pikes Peak. I watched it tower high into the, heavens, and 
 I stood at its base and beheld its grandeur and its magni- 
 tude, and I wanted to cry out in the joy of my heart, "This 
 is the greatest thing in all the world;" but it is not. 
 
 Yonder is a vessel putting out to sea. The good-byes 
 are said; the captain is on the bridge; the stoker, at his post. 
 Proudly she ploughs the mighty deep until lost to view. 
 Finally, she encounters a fog and is unable longer to mark 
 her pathway. Another vessel is approaching; a collision 
 occurs; the ship begins to shudder and tremble and is 
 
290 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 gradually sinking. All is excitement on board. Laughter 
 is changed to cries of grief; prayers go up for relief; the 
 great pumps are unequal to the task and the vessel is going 
 down; but just at the last moment when all hope seems to 
 have fled and nothing seems to await all on board but a 
 watery grave, a shout of joy is heard — a rescue ship is 
 approaching and all on board are saved. Wireless telegraphy 
 has done its work. Wonderful! wonderful invention! but 
 not the most wonderful thing in the world. 
 
 Hear the booming of cannon and the rattle of musketry 
 on yonder mountain peak. Hear the call of the bugle as it 
 rings out on the morning air and rebounds to the valley 
 beyond. See the hurrying and scurrying of men in action, 
 climbing from crag to crag, from peak to peak; and you 
 ask me what it is. My answer is, "It is the mighty Napoleon 
 leading his army and carrying the flag of his country to 
 victory in that battle beyond the clouds." Wonderful battle! 
 but not the most wonderful thing in the world. 
 ^ On yonder hill-side, overlooking the beautiful city of 
 Florence, is a building peculiar of construction — ancient, 
 weather-beaten, quaint and old; renowned today perhaps only 
 for the history it brings to mind as the traveler passes by: 
 
 "For humanity sweeps onward; 
 
 Where today the martyr stands, 
 On the morrow crouches Judas 
 
 With the silver in his hands. 
 Far in front the cross stands ready 
 
 And the crackling fagots bu^^n. 
 While the hooting mobs of yesterday 
 
 In silent awe return 
 To glean up the scattered ashes 
 
 Into History's golden urn." 
 
 It is the home of Galileo, the illustrious scientist. It is 
 where for years he read the secrets of the midnight sky; 
 where he solved the mysteries of the universe. It is where 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 291 
 
 he invented the telescope; where he went on and on with 
 his research; where he announced to the world that that great 
 luminous pathway spanning the heavens is in reality the 
 pathway of innumerable suns. It is where, while yet in the 
 zenith of his career, he lost his vision, and in that condition 
 traveled the melancholy road to the ending. Upon the walls 
 of that building is a marble bust of the most renowned 
 scientist of his day, looking down fiwm its pedestal as if to 
 tell the traveler the events that long since transpired. 
 Wonderful building! wonderful history! but not the most 
 wonderful thing in the world. 
 
 Over yonder is the much talked of city of the Caesars; — 
 Rome, the eternal city; the renowned city of the past, where 
 rolls the Tiber and where history also has been made brilliant 
 in years gone by. Shades of Marcus Aurelius, of Nero, of 
 Cicero, of Titus — Rome the Great, where thundered the 
 chariots of v/ar and where the Gladiators trooped to death. 
 There, Mark Anthony calmed the turbulent mob when 
 Brutus' dagger felled the mighty Caesar. Wonderful city! 
 but not the most wonderful thing in the world. 
 
 But what is the most wonderful thing in the world? 
 Come with me and I will show you what it is. Come to that 
 little cottage yonder where the curtains are drawn and where 
 the lights are burning low. Tread softly; enter; and there, 
 in its mother's arms, is the new-born babe. Life! Life is 
 the most wonderful thing in all the world! 
 ***** 
 
 But all roads lead to the ending. It is not for me to 
 even discuss the mysteries of the beyond. That is a question 
 each one must settle for himself. I only know we part at 
 the River "where stately ships go on to their haven under the 
 hill," and it is that parting that brings sorrow to everyone's 
 heart. Many of us are approaching that hour of separation; 
 we have passed the meridian of life where twilight greets 
 the early dawn; springtime is gone; summertime has passed 
 away, and we are now where we can see the autumn leaves 
 
292 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 falling. The sunset is beautiful — so calm — so serene; its 
 bright golden rays reflecting upon the western sky bespeak 
 a day well spent. We look back over a sweet and happy 
 past, and we see scattered along our pathway friends we 
 loved so well: 
 
 "Some are in the churchyard laid; 
 
 Some sleep beneath the sea, 
 But few are left of our old class 
 Excepting you and me. 
 
 And when our time is come, Tom, 
 
 And we are called to go; 
 I hope they'll lay us where we played 
 
 Just twenty years ago." 
 
General S. J. Conklin 
 
 Biographical — Born, Penn Yan, N. Y., May 5, 1829. At 
 twelve years of age apprenticed to a shoemaker. At eighteen 
 completed apprenticeship and entered business for himself. 
 Finally learned to read. Read law nights. Admitted to N. Y. 
 bar, 1857. Active in politics. Helped to organize the Re- 
 publican party in 1856. Joined Union army, 1862. Com- 
 missioned a lientenant. After war, internal revenue collector, 
 Wisconsin, three years. Spent four years in re-construction 
 work; headquarters, New Orleans. Began newspaper work, 
 Wisconsin. Came Dakota, 1879. Established "Conklin's 
 Dakotaian" at Watertown. Moved to Clark. Practiced law. 
 Edited paper. Appointed Adjutant-General State (now 
 National) Guards, 1901. Died, Battle Mountain Sanitarium, 
 Hot Springs, S. D., 1914. 
 
GEN. S. J. CONKLIN 
 
 For scathing sarcasm and bittery irony, General 
 S. J. Conklin, newspaper man and attorney at law 
 (deceased), had few equals. Although many of his 
 able editorials are still available in the old files of 
 his paper, yet the only trace of his speeches that 
 could be found was the following which he uttered 
 as a young attorney in court at Clark, South Dakota, 
 in pioneer days : 
 
 Nature in her bountiful munificence has provided us with 
 a safeguard against the monsters which a violation of her 
 laws! has brought into existence: as the morning light in the 
 east warns us of the coming day, and the darkness at noon- 
 tide of the approaching storm; so nature hangs out upon 
 the face of man a record of the light or darkness that dwells 
 within; with an indelible finger she traces upon the features 
 of every living creature of our race the history of their 
 virtues or their vices, whether the man is to be loved or ad- 
 mired or detested; advertises to the world whether he loves 
 peace or contention; whether he strews the highway of human 
 life with flowers or with thorns; whether he lives to bless or 
 curse his race. 
 
 Look this man in the face and tell me whether he 
 makes peace or trouble in this world of ours. Hatred, revenge, 
 and all the evil passions which language can express hang 
 out in bold relief from every feature and tell you why he 
 chose darkness rather than light to commence this prosecu- 
 tion; why he crept to your home and roused you from your 
 slumbers at mid-night to listen to his perjured deviltry. Go 
 to the seven-hilled city of Rome, that summit of perfection 
 in art, and search until you shall find the most accomplished 
 
296 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 delineator upon canvass of the human face and human 
 character that the art world can furnish; employ him to 
 visit all the great commercial centers and cities of the known 
 world, and require him to descend into all the slums and 
 dens, and hells of vice and infamy and human degradation, 
 and to study faithfully the lines of character and debauchery 
 and crime chiseled upon the human face; then have him search 
 out the condemned felons in all the jails and penitentiaries 
 of the civilized world and study with care every shade and 
 shadow of the emotions and passions that crime traces with 
 indelible characters upon the features of its victims, from 
 boyish innocence to hardened crime; then let the artist repair 
 to his studio and there by years of patient toil have him paint 
 one fiendish face, the character lines of which shall express 
 all that is low and vile and licentious and dishonest and 
 devilish that he has seen and studied and then bring that 
 picture here breathing from every outline all that is loath- 
 some, inhuman, dishonorable and infamous, and hang it upon 
 the wall yonder for us to gaze upon, and it would be a thing 
 of beauty, a paragon of lovelinesss compared with the face 
 of this man. 
 
Senator Cce I. Crawford 
 Biographical — Born, Allamakee county, Iowa, January 
 14, 1858. Spent boyhood on farm. Attended semi-graded 
 school at Rossville two years. Also took private lessons 
 under Dr. Simeon H. Drake. Taught school, Ohio, two years. 
 Sold books two years. Graduated Law School, Iowa City, 
 Iowa, 1882. Taught again for a short time. Junior member 
 law firm. Independence, Iowa, one year. Came to Dakota 
 in 1884. Settled at Pierre. Practiced law. Elected states 
 attorney, Hughes county in 1886. Formed law partnership 
 with Chas. E. LeLand. Elected territorial senate, 1888; state 
 senate, in 1890. Elected Attorney General of the state in 
 1892; served four years. Defeated for congress in 1896. 
 Moved to Huron in 1897. Attorney for Northwestern Rail- 
 road Company. Elected governor of South Dakota in 1906. 
 Elected to U. S. Senate by the state legislature in January, 
 1909. 
 
SENATOR COE I. CRAWFORD 
 
 It is refreshing, indeed, to study an orator with 
 such a range of speech as the gifted Coe I. Crawford. 
 Some orators fail in effect because their volubility 
 exceeds their thought. Not so with Crawford ! His 
 speeches are all well balanced. 
 
 His early efforts at oratory, were begun while 
 he was yet a law student at Iowa City; in fact, he 
 was one of ten orators chosen, out of a class of 130, 
 by the faculty of the law school, for commencement 
 honors. Again, in his early law practice, just 
 after coming to Dakota, he soon became noted for 
 his power of speech. His natural inclination toward 
 politics drew him early into numerous campaigns, 
 and he was soon heralded as the ablest stump 
 speaker in the state. 
 
 Crawford might rightfully be styled a "born 
 orator," for he can rise to his feet without a 
 moment's warning and make a model extemporane- 
 ous speech on almost any subject. His oratory is 
 always exhilarating and effective. Before leaving 
 the U. S. Senate he filled engagements for the 
 Eastern Empire Lyceum Bureau, and since then 
 he has done lecturing for two other bureaus. 
 
 Among his wide range of speeches that have 
 been stenographed from time to time, only a few 
 extracts can be given in a work of this kind. Speak- 
 
300 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 ing on Attorney William B. Sterling- (deceased), at 
 Huron in the fall of 1897, he said : 
 
 Four and thirty years cover the brief space of time that 
 our friend lived upon earth, and the character he established, 
 the impression he left, the noble words he uttered, the work 
 he did, are encompassed by these years. Indeed, the first 
 twenty of the thirty-four belong to that plastic period when 
 the world guesses what the future of the boy will be, but 
 is confined to prophecy and speculation. The cradle, in this 
 case, contained a favored child. The genii kissed him in his 
 slumbering there, and left their imprint upon his brow, and 
 m his heart, and upon his brain. He had not wealth, except 
 a sound mind in a sound body, with a face and form as fair 
 as Alcibiades, and a heart as true and noble as a Washington. 
 
 Upon God's everlasting hills, somewhere, our friend still 
 lives. He is not dead! We have his character enshrined in 
 our hearts, and years and years hence, when South Dakota 
 is old; when she shall have become one of the very pillars 
 of the Republic, with archives, laden with her own history, 
 it will be said that among all her illustrious citizens — among 
 all the great names cherished by her children — none shine 
 brighter, none with more fading luster, than that of the 
 brilliant young man who gave his years to her service in 
 that day when she first assumed the dignity of a sovereign 
 state. 
 
 As the years go on he will become more and more a 
 picturesque figure in the history of this state; and the time 
 will come when his name will be as inseparably blended 
 with that of South Dakota, as that of Henry with Virginia, 
 or Prentiss with Mississippi. 
 
 The block of Parian marble, under the mallet and chisel 
 of a Phidias, grew into all the grace and beauty of a divine 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 301 
 
 Apollo; but under the eye and special direction of Genius, 
 he (Sterling) took the warp and woof into his own hands, 
 and wove them into a rare and beautiful character and 
 rounded life. We love that Character. It still lives. It 
 cannot die! 
 
 In closing his great speech in the United States 
 Senate, as to why Senator Lorimer should be un- 
 seated in that body, he said : 
 
 White says that when Browne paid him $850 "Lorimer 
 money" at the Briggs House in Chicago on June 16, 1909, he 
 "had a belt around his waist that was made of blue cloth and 
 pinned on with safety pins"; that Browne told him that he 
 carried money in that belt and that he had $30,000 on his 
 person the day before (p. 81). Whose money was it? What 
 special interests were using money so lavishly as that among 
 members of the Legislature of Illinois? And for what pur- 
 pose? Was it to strangle legislation at Springfield and to 
 send a representative to this body? People in these days 
 indulge in all sorts of attacks upon Congress, and most of 
 the attacks are both unfair and unfounded. Magazines 
 cruelly and wantonly assail the names of men in public life 
 who are above reproach. This is all wrong. I have no 
 sympathy with it. I believe that a very great majority of the 
 men in official life today are faithful servants of the public. 
 Character and reputation should not be wantonly assailed. 
 A man who will attempt, out of malice, to destroy the good 
 name of a fellowman is no better than a murderer. But 
 whither are we drifting if conditions like these at Springfield 
 are to be passed over in silence? We may make mistakes in 
 framing tariff laws, Mr. President, but they can be amended. 
 We may adopt wrong policies in the administration of public 
 affairs, but they can be corrected. But, sir, what is the 
 future representative government if men are to enjoy seats 
 in the legislative department which have been purchased with 
 
302 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 paltry! gold? What is to become of our institutions and who 
 can answer for tomorrow if legislation in great States like 
 Illinois is to be bought and sold by men who are provided 
 with a corruption fund for that purpose — a United States 
 Senatorship thrown into the bargain? Where is all this to 
 end? Is all sense of honor benumbed and is conscience only 
 a myth? Is the Senate of the United States with all its 
 traditions, its proud sense of honor, its noble dignity, and its 
 lofty standards, to forget the warnings uttered time and 
 again in this historic Chamber? Are the voices of the past, 
 which in this place have so often stirred the hearts of men 
 and the supreme faith which inspired the fathers who 
 wrought here to be overwhelmed by a corrupt and sordid 
 tendency which would sacrifice every public trust upon the 
 altar of commercialism and make a thing of merchandise 
 of every public duty? Are the Members of this Senate will- 
 ing that testimony like this, which I have attempted to 
 review here, shall be put aside as insufficient to overthrow 
 a formal certificate of election simply because that certificate 
 comes here under the seal of a great State? 
 
 TRIBUTE TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN PAID BY CRAWFORD 
 IN ONE OF HIS CAMPAIGN SPEECHES 
 
 Nearly three generations ago — in the back-woods of 
 "Old Kentucky" — there came into this world one of the 
 rarest, noblest specimens of the human race. Above the 
 cradle, while he slept, the genii came and lingered. They 
 left the imprint of the immortelles upon his brain and in his 
 heart. In a rude cabin on the "dark and bloody ground" — 
 where the cries of Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton had 
 scarcely died away — and in the wilderness in which they 
 fought wild beasts and wilder savages — was witnessed the 
 birth of Abraham Lincoln — a child of the people. 
 
 No other name is so enshrined in the hearts of his 
 countrymen. How we love to follow his career! We remember 
 that miles and miles of wilderness and mountain lay between 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 303 
 
 this boy and the world, east of the Alleghanies, where Hamil- 
 ton, Jefferson and Madison, under the steadying hand of 
 Washington, had introduced, to the parliaments of the world, 
 the American Republic. We follow him to those remoter 
 settlements in Indiana. We see him borrowing every book 
 that strayed in there, and watch him as he lies at night, before 
 the fire-place, pouring over its pages by the flickering light 
 of burning fagots. We see the glint and hear the sturdy 
 blows of his ax in the crash of falling trees as he fells the 
 mighty oaks of the forest. We witness those tragedies which 
 bereft him of mother, sister, sweetheart — tragedies that left 
 upon his face a trace of grief and sadness which never left 
 it. We go down the Mississippi River to New Orleans with 
 him on the flatboat; we follow him to the Northwest in the 
 Black Hawk Indian war; we see him walking twenty miles 
 from New Salem to Springfield to borrow law-books; reading 
 Blackstone's Commentaries by the roadside; we go with him 
 on horse back over the circuit, a struggling country lawyer; 
 we see him in Congress; we hear his clarion voice at 
 Springfield declaring that "this Nation can not exist half 
 slave and half free." We are present at his debates with 
 Steven A. Douglass. We hear the eloquent appeal of his 
 first Inaugural; the majestic utterance of unyielding resolu- 
 tion and righteous wrath in his second Inaugural. How 
 we love him! We see him at Gettysburg, under the trees 
 whose trunks and branches had been rent and torn by shot 
 and shell a few days before — standing upon a vast battle- 
 field covered by countless new-made graves — the personifica- 
 tion of consecrated grief and patriotism — looking into the 
 faces of a great multitude — with an epic in his heart which 
 has become immortal; we hear him say to those present 
 and to their countrymen everywhere in all the land: 
 
 "From these honored dead we take increased devotion to 
 the cause for which they gave the last full measure of de- 
 votion; we here highly resolve that the dead shall not have 
 died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a new 
 
304 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 birth, of freedom, and that government of the people, by the 
 people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth." 
 
 Governor Crawford was not a candidate for re- 
 election in 1908, but sought the United States senate 
 instead. The legislature of 1909, guided by the 
 senatorial primary held the previous June, which 
 Governor Crawford had carried, elected him, by a 
 unanimous vote, to the U. S. senate. He was in the 
 office of his successor, Governor Robert S. Vessey, 
 turning over to him the affairs of state, when a joint 
 committee, appointed by the two houses of the legis- 
 lature, in executive session, called upon him to noti- 
 fy him, officially, of his election and to escort him 
 to the house of representatives' hall to speak. He 
 said: 
 Gentlemen of the Senate and House cf Representatives: 
 
 It is impossible for me to express in v^^ords the emotions 
 of my heart at this time, when the formal record which you 
 have just made is the final and culminating act which places 
 in my hands a great trust and imposes upon me a great re- 
 sponsibility, linked with the most distinguished honor which 
 the State of South Dakota can bestow upon one of her 
 citizens. 
 
 For the fidelity with which you have executed the com- 
 mand given by the people of the state under the law, and for 
 the personal kindness you have shown to me, I am profoundly 
 grateful. 
 
 To you and through you to the constituencies you repre- 
 sent in the gi'eat legislative department of the state, and to 
 all the people of the state, who have thus reposed confidence 
 in me, I wish, without reference to party, faction or creed, 
 to express my appreciation of the signal honor thus conferred. 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 305 
 
 For me, this moment is not one of vain-glory nor 
 boastfulness, but mingled with the feeling of gratitude for 
 the confidence and the honor which it signifies, is a feeling of 
 humility and of deep concern lest I fail to meet the expecta- 
 tions of my friends and the demands which the problems of 
 the time present to members of the Senate of the United 
 States. 
 
 I am not unmindful of the difficulties I shall encounter, 
 nor of the strength of character, the vast knowledge, the 
 wide experience, the commanding power, and the vigor of 
 intellect which will overshadow my limitations in the great 
 body of which, if I live, I am to become a member. 
 
 I shall not, I hope, look upon this position as the goal 
 at which all effort ends; nor as a pinnacle from which it will 
 be a privilege to fold one's arms and look down upon his 
 fellow mortals. I hope it may prove to be the entrance into 
 a field for larger service and usefulness, and that during the 
 time it is my privilege to serve the state, the keenest pleasure 
 I shall experience will be in the consciousness that I am 
 accomplishing some good for the people whom I sei've, and 
 taking a humble part in the settlement of questions of mo- 
 ment to mankind. 
 
 I shall, no doubt, be misunderstood at times and mis- 
 represented, perhaps, but I wish to assure you — whatever 
 may be said or reported — that always the underlying pur- 
 pose of my life will be to give the best there is in me to the 
 public service. I shall make mistakes, and there will be 
 times, doubtless, when what seems to me the right course may 
 appear to some of you to be the wrong one, but you will, I 
 am sure, be generous enough to believe that I was acting 
 from sincere and honest motives and according to the light 
 my conscience and judgment give to me. 
 
 In the campaigns which have recently swept over the 
 state, the controversy was heated and some bitterness was 
 engendered. I want it understood here and now, that out of 
 the storm of conflict, I bring no malice. It shall be my pur- 
 
306 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 pose to work for all. None shall have cause to hesitate to 
 apply at any and all times to me for such aid as this great 
 office may enable me to render without considerations of 
 partisanship or factionalism. The democrat who just now 
 recorded his vote for the candidate of his party, and the re- 
 publican who opposed me before and at the primary, are con- 
 stituents and fellow citizens, entitled to my services as a 
 public officer as fully as if they had been personal sup- 
 porters, and in so far as I am capable of giving it, they shall 
 have fair and just consideration. There is patriotism and 
 good citizenship, there is principle, there is civic virtue in the 
 people of all factions and parties, and when it comes to the 
 obligations of official duty, those obligations extend to all 
 without regard to politics, religion, or previous condition of 
 servitude. 
 
 I cannot leave you without thanking those loyal friends 
 everywhere throughout the state, who have been so stead- 
 fast through evil, as well as through good report. My hope 
 today is that I may retain their confidence and merit their 
 approval in the future. 
 
 To serve one's country; to be at all times true to one's 
 convictions of duty; to serve one's fellows; to make the most 
 of one's opportunities; to develop the best of which one is 
 capable; to assist in pushing forward the work of his day 
 and generation; to cherish and uphold as the cornerstone of 
 it all, the family, the home and the highest ideals of the 
 state — these are the things that should, and which I believe, 
 do count most in the equation of life. 
 
 My service can be of aid to you only in so far as it is 
 dominated by a desire to help the people by seeking the 
 greatest good to the greatest number, and by striving always 
 to protect and to defend the principle that all men are equal 
 before the law — rich or poor — high or low — black or white — 
 low-born or well-born; that there should be no special privi- 
 lege in civil government; that all should be held to the same 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 307 
 
 degree of accountability before the law without fear or favor; 
 because — in the language of the civil law — "Salus Populi; 
 Suprema Lex" — the public welfare is the highest law. 
 
 Again pledging you fidelity to these principles, and 
 thanking you one and all, I bid you good bye 'till we meet 
 again. 
 
George W. Egan 
 
 Biographical — Born, Bartlett, Iowa, Nov. 7, 1871.. Self- 
 educated until he grew up. Entered Iowa State University 
 in fall of 1896. Took B. A. degree therefrom in 1900; LL. B. 
 in 1901; LLM. and M. A. in 1903. Married Miss Vernice 
 Cochran, of Logan, Iowa, May 22, 1902. Childless. Practiced 
 law, Logan, la., Aug. 15, 1901 to Sept. 15, 1907, when he re- 
 moved to South Dakota to practice. Brought into prominence 
 by Kaufmann murder trial. Active in politics. 
 
GEORGE W. EGAN 
 
 Splendidly endowed by nature with a dramatic 
 istyle of oratory, peculiarly his own, George W. 
 Egan, of Sioux Falls, comes to the foreground for 
 review, and really goes in a class by himself. His 
 English flows in an unbroken stream of beautiful 
 words. This, coupled with his striking personality 
 and his vigorous, dramatic delivery, gives to him a 
 wonderful power over men and makes him a com- 
 plete master of the platform. 
 
 On the lecture platform, Egan is an artist. 
 No speech delivered in the West has elicited more 
 universally favorable comment than his scholarly 
 lecture on "The Trial of Jesus of Nazareth." In 
 this lecture he reviews the Mosaic law under which 
 Christ was tried before the great Sanhedrin late at 
 night on April 6, A. D. 30, and the Roman Corpus 
 Juris Civilis under which he was tried early the 
 next morning before Pontius Pilate. He then lays 
 a foundation for comparison by citing the trials of 
 Socrates before the dicastry of Athens, of Warren 
 Hastings, of Charles the First, of Mary Stuart, of 
 Aaron Burr and of others; and then he declares: 
 "These were indeed great and momentous trials, and 
 they affected deeply the people of their day ; but they 
 pale into insignificance when compared with that 
 
310 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 great judicial tragedy, of which I shall speak to you 
 tonight, the trial and execution of the Gallilean 
 peasant, Jesus of Nazareth," 
 
 Again, speaking of Jesus, he says : "He was 
 not an orator, yet, judged from every viewpoint, his 
 sermon on the Mount is the most perfect oration 
 in the world. He was not a painter. Yet he in- 
 spired every picture and every statue that today 
 decorates the galleries of the world." 
 
 But we must consider Egan from the standpoint 
 of an attorney and an orator at the bar, rather than 
 merely a lecturer, for it is before a jury that he is 
 always at his best and pours forth his most im- 
 passioned eloquence. 
 
 The speech that first brought him into promin- 
 ence in South Dakota was his closing argument 
 made to the jury, on behalf of the state, in the 
 famous Kaufmann murder trial held at Flandreau 
 in May, 1907. This eloquent speech was afterwards 
 published in book form and sold to lawyers all over 
 the northwest. In it he says, in part: 
 
 May it please the Court, and you gentlemen of the jury: 
 
 Your solemn countenances, this uncounted assemblage of 
 anxious people, the great questions to be here, by you, deter- 
 mined, suggest beyond the power of language to describe the 
 solemnity and significance of this ' occasion. I am reminded 
 as I rise to speak to you in this momentous hour that you 
 are all strangers to me. Your faces I know only by the 
 common image that we all bear to our Maker. Your thoughts 
 and sentiments, hopes and temperament, I know only as I 
 know the thoughts and sentiments, the hopes and tempera- 
 ment of our common nature. But we are not totally un- 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 311 
 
 acquainted, for in your exalted character as officers of this 
 court and citizens of the magnificent commonwealth of South 
 Dakota, I bear you a passport of good-fellowship and a letter 
 of introduction! 
 
 Gentlemen of the jury, you have resting upon you the 
 highest and most important duty that the state can ever 
 delegate to its citizens. You have been selected by the 
 commonwealth and this defendant to perform a most high 
 and solemn duty. You are more than members of the em- 
 bodiment of organized society, for the time being, deliberating 
 upon the highest and most solemn of all issues. 
 
 ^i ^ :]c :{c :f: 
 
 I say to you, gentlemen, that the day that you are big 
 enough to assume a grave and responsible position like this 
 and discharge your full duty to the state and a defendant, 
 uninfluenced by sympathy, passion or prejudice, will be the 
 proudest day of your lives, and you can count time from that 
 glad hour, as peasants do from holy days, as maidens do from 
 trysting hours. 
 
 I have been in mid-ocean on a mighty vessel when a 
 storm approached. I have seen the lightning flash and heard 
 the great artillery of God. I have seen the mighty ship 
 writhe and twist and felt her tremble in her battle with the 
 waves, and I have known that this was great. I have gone 
 far down into the earth and seen its treasures and listened 
 to the voiceless silence of its mighty depths and I have known 
 that this was great. I have crossed the rugged Alps, and in 
 imagination's fancy saw the mighty Hamilcar and heard him 
 swear young Hannibal in eternal vengeance against his 
 country's foe, and I have known that this was great. I have 
 crossed vine-covered France into sunny Italy to ancient Rome 
 where Catiline conspired and Caesar fought, and, standing on 
 the ruins where Cicero addressed the multitudes beneath the 
 
812 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Coliseum's roofless walls, I have known that this was great. 
 But the greatest thing I have ever seen and the grandest 
 thing this side of the throne of the eternal God, is an 
 American citizen clothed with the honor of the law — inspired 
 by the memory of his fathers, who declared that "this is a 
 government of laws and not of men", sworn to do his duty 
 and doing it without sympathy, passion or prejudice, too 
 proud to wrong a defendant, too honest to deceive the state. 
 
 Gentlemen, they read to you from story books and 
 stretched their imagination to find something to interest you 
 in a hope to lead you from the great facts of this case. If 
 you will bear with me, I will tell you another story. I will 
 take it from your hearts as you received it from the witness 
 stand. It is a story of joy and sorrow, of grief and woe, of 
 pain and anguish, of cruel torture, as sad and melancholy 
 as can be woven from the "warp and woof of mystery and 
 death!" As I stand here this morning I am carried on 
 imagination's swift-flying wings to the far-off land of 
 Austro-Hungary, to the land of Louis Kossuth, the Hungarian 
 patriot, and there, in the little village of Bodersdorf, I see 
 old John Polreis, his good, old simple wife, and their two 
 little girls. In their humble cottage I can see these two 
 girls — Elizabeth, the younger, and Agnes, the fairer and 
 stronger child! It is September, 1905. The father has re- 
 ceived a letter from the older sister, who lives in South 
 Dakota. She urges them to come! The old father takes the 
 hand of Elizabeth, that sweet, simple girl, who stood before 
 this jury, while Agnes, in her girlish glee, skips on before! 
 I can see them as they come down to the wharf and stand 
 and gaze out upon the sad and solemn sea. I can see the 
 tears gather in his eyes as he thinks to leave his native land, 
 where all his people live, or are numbered with the dead. 
 I can hear the little songs, the Hungarian sonnets, that the 
 good woman, Mrs. Grosse, said Agnes sang to her children 
 every day! I can see the ships come gliding in from every 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 313 
 
 land, and hear the old father as he says to the children, "That 
 ship bears the flag of Spain, across whose history is written 
 the bloody page of the Inquisition. And this other is the flag 
 of England, who stole from India her nationality and from 
 Ireland her constitution and her legislature! And this ship 
 bears the flag of France, that shiftless, boasting people, who 
 once put over their doors that hopeless sentence, 'There is no 
 God!'" They go along a little and soon they see kissing the 
 breeze of heaven that undying emblem of charity, liberty and 
 love, the Stars and Stripes. And the old man says to his 
 children, "This is the flag of the country to which we shall 
 soon go, where the beautiful Goddess of Liberty stands in the 
 harbor and holds aloft a torch lighting the world, welcoming 
 all people from all countries everywhere. Though we belong 
 to the third estate, though in our veins flows the blood of 
 centuries of grinding and submission, there shall we hold up 
 our heads, for the Stars and Stripes shall make us free, 
 and we shall know equality before the lawl" 
 
 Gentlemen of the jury, a little while and my labors shall 
 have ended and yours will have begun! We stand for the 
 law and demand its impartial enforcement. We stand for 
 that law which surrounds each of us when first we breathe 
 the breath of life; that law that surrounds and guides the 
 infant footsteps at the mother's side; that law that sustains 
 and maintains the rights of American citizenship in the 
 hour of manhood's strength; that law that gives security to 
 the mother at the hearthstone and the babe upon her knee; 
 that law that plants the star of hope in the bosom of the 
 weary and downtrodden of every land. Yes, we stand for 
 that law that will protect and support each of you and 
 defend you against the oppression of the strong when you 
 take your last feeble steps with crutch and cane, and in 
 sanctity will it guard the place where your dust shall rest 
 until resurrection morn! 
 
314 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Gentlemen, they have clamored loud and made much 
 ado, because Erickson said that just as they were wrapping 
 the girl to take her from the Kaufmann home, Mrs. Kauf- 
 mann came and looked at the girl, and shedding a few tears 
 spoke to her in their own dialect. Erickson did not know 
 what she said, but the girl turned her eyes upon this de- 
 fendant and spoke a word in a soft, gentle tone. They tell 
 you that if the defendant had murdered her as we claim, 
 the child would not have spoken with this forgiving tone. I 
 tell you, gentlemen, that if that little girl, with her latest 
 breath spoke softly and gently to the woman who had 
 murdered her, it does not disprove the crime. It but shows 
 that in that sad hour, standing in the mists between two 
 eternities, without envy, malice or hatred in her heart, she 
 was filled with the spirit of Him who said to the repentent 
 thief upon the cross, "This day thou shalt be with me 
 in paradise." 
 
 However, one of Egan's most effective speeches 
 was an extemporaneous outburst of genuine elo- 
 quence, delivered to the Court at Yankton, on March 
 1, 1911, when he was arguing a motion for a con- 
 tinuation of the murder trial of Millard J. Lampo. 
 He said in part : 
 
 May it Please the Court : I had thought that it would not 
 be necessary for me to speak in behalf of this motion, because 
 it had not occured to me that it would be seriously opposed; 
 hence I must, at this time, confess myself much surprised 
 and taken wholly unawares. 
 
 As I see and hear the very determined opposition to 
 this motion by the learned and able counsel for the state, I 
 am much confused and deeply stirred. Did he stand, or did 
 this honored court stand, as I stood on yesterday, and look 
 as I looked, into the sad and melancholy eyes and tear- 
 stained face of the young wife of this defendant * * * one 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 315 
 
 glance would have been more eloquent than any words of 
 mine and more effective on this occasion, than any periods 
 that ever fell from Grady's lips of gold. 
 
 She called to me, as I did leave her to her sorrow, for 
 her days are all accomplished — "Please, Mr. Egan, please 
 put off this case until I may stand by his side and all will be 
 well." Forgetting, as woman always forgets, herself, even 
 in her saddest and most terrible hour, she pleads for him, her 
 husband, with the tenderness and sympathy that fits woman 
 always as a garment — Will, I ask, this Court, and this state, 
 hear her cry and heed her not? 
 
 ***** 
 
 And why this hurry and this haste? What motive 
 actuates, what duty impels the able counsel for the state to 
 hurry this defendant, bended in grief and broken in spirit, 
 into trial for his life in this ungracious day? The informa- 
 tion in this case, charging his offense, has just been filed 
 within an hour. The state can wait! South Dakota owes 
 something to this mother and her child. Our state is more 
 interested in the weak than in the strong; in the young 
 than in the aged; in the new than in the old. The state can 
 wait! 
 
 Shall wifehood be held for naught and motherhood be 
 rebuked by the hurried and unnecessary action of the great 
 state of South Dakota? Shall this young wife be denied the 
 word of encouragement and the act of charity, as she goes 
 down into the valley of the shadows of death? Who knows 
 what fruits she may bear, if encouraged, for the glory and 
 happiness of this Republic! 
 
 ***** 
 
 Motherhood, that sacred and awe-inspiring word — before 
 it the gentle Joseph wept in that famous manger, while 
 kneeling with the spouse of God; and inspired by it all the 
 good and great who have lived and died made us their debtors 
 in this glorious hour. 
 
316 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 Motherhood, the charm and fascination of that noble 
 word! The greatest writer of the human tongue, when 
 weighing all the nouns and verbs and adjectives that followed 
 the shining pathway of his glorious pen, declared that in all 
 the language knov^Ti to the heart of man, the noblest word, 
 is Mother. 
 
 Mother in Motherhood! What a picture and a painting 
 the suggestion calls to the mind of every living man! To 
 me it suggests all that is dear and sweet and soft and kind 
 in life's uneven ways. To me it paints the picture, the 
 grandest scene that ever blessed my eager eyes. It is the 
 picture of a woman whose cheeks were rosy and whose hair 
 was white; whose religion was kindness, and whose creed 
 was love, giving to me her sacred benediction as she left me 
 with the assurance that we should meet again at the feet of 
 God, if I would but practice mercy that I might receive it, 
 on the final day — my gentle, kindly mother, the noblest 
 daughter of the sons of men! And could she speak today, 
 could the mother of any man present speak, she would plead 
 for that young wife up at Utica, who at this sad hour sits 
 alone in the shadows of her great grief. Sympathy! Yes, 
 call it sympathy! I declare it boldly, for sympathy is the 
 grandest flower that blooms and blossoms between "the 
 bleak and barren peaks of two eternities." 
 
 ^ :^ :{: :f: :)( 
 
 Way back yonder, in that ancient city of Bethlehem, 
 God sent His angels and His stars to stand guard while a 
 child was born who should be the Judge of Judges and the 
 King of Kings. Will not South Dakota, speaking through 
 the lips of this kindly judge, give this girl a chance? 
 
 The legal phase — I feel, your honor, that to place the 
 young man on trial under the existing circumstance and 
 convict him would cause this Court to promptly set aside the 
 verdict. The law contemplates a fair and impartial trial for 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 317 
 
 the defendant, with all his faculties alert, his mind un- 
 perturbed with the young wife sitting by her husband's side. 
 Today this cannot be. 
 
 But, your honor, I do not place my client before you, 
 nor base my argument in support of this motion, wholly upon 
 the narrow confines of the technical rules of law, born of 
 laborious logic by the light of the midnight lamp. I stand 
 upon no such narrow and exclusive ground. I appeal to a 
 law that is older and higher than your statutes or your con- 
 stitution. A law that was, before God spoke to Moses and 
 commanded him to organize the great Sanhedrin, that ancient 
 criminal tribunal of the Jews — a law that was white with age 
 when Marcus Aurelius taught his philosophy in the city of 
 the seven hills; a law that found full incarnation only, in the 
 life of Him, the meek and lowly One, whom cruel Pilate sur- 
 rendered unto death. To this law — the law of the human 
 heart — I appeal * * * Relying on that ancient and beautiful 
 law and the justice of this righteous Judge, I rest my case 
 in confidence, knowing full well that this motion will prevail. 
 
 The following brief extracts are taken from 
 Egan's masterful eulogy over R. W. Dickinson, of 
 Sioux Falls, who died in the early spring of 1916, 
 and who, prior to his death, requested that George 
 W. Egan should deliver his funeral oration. The 
 gifted orator said : 
 
 "How beautiful on the top of the mountain are the feet 
 of him that bringeth glad tidings." 
 
 These golden words of the prophet Isaiah, quoted fre- 
 quently by me to my friend, with his approval, while his blood 
 flowed warm and true, I shall make my text today, as we come 
 to pay our tribute and last respects to him who sleeps beneath 
 these blossoms and these flowers. 
 
318 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 The one consuming passion of his life was love of country 
 and of men. Patriotism with him became a high and holy 
 purpose; and to him there was no North, no South, no East, no 
 West. He loved his country in a lump. In the depths of his 
 kind and gentle heart, there was room for every acre of his 
 country's sunny soil; its every hill upon which morning 
 breaks; its every vale that cradles the evening shadows; its 
 every gentle stream that laughs back the image of the sun. 
 
 I have said that he loved man. Yes; he loved every 
 living creature. He fed the birds and they knew him. The 
 fowl of the air and the beasts of the earth came at his call. 
 He understood them and they loved him. Not man nor beast 
 nor bird went hungry from his door. If all the birds he fed 
 with his loving hands could gather at his bier today, with 
 cords of affection fastened to their wings, they could bear his 
 body to yonder eternal hill to rest in peace. If all the men 
 and women, living and dead, to whom he spoke a tender word 
 or for whom he did a kindly act, could gather at his bier 
 today to raise their voices in praise, a mighty chorus would 
 ring forth that would drown the ocean's never-ceasing roar. 
 
Prof. T. A. Harmon 
 
 Biographical — Born, Plymouth, Michigan, May 27, 1871. 
 Graduated from Plymouth high school 1889; from Normal 
 College 1896; took his A. B. degree at the University of 
 Michigan 1909. Superintendent of schools, Casnovia, Mich., 
 three years; Watervliet, Michigan, five years; Hart, Michigan, 
 two years; Yankton, South Dakota, seven years. Married 
 Miss Flora Radcliffe, 1900. Father of two children — a boy 
 and a girl. 
 
PROF. T. A. HARMON 
 
 In addition to being an artistic word painter, 
 Professor Harmon gives to his orations an historical 
 setting that bespeaks the mind of the finished 
 scholar. He has a style that is plainly individualistic. 
 Then, again, having studied elocution and oratory 
 while in college, his delivery is forceful and inspir- 
 ing. He has excelled, not only as a popular lec- 
 turer, but as one of the leading commencement 
 orators of the state. 
 
 His first regular series of Chautauqua lectures 
 was delivered in Kentucky, Arkansas, and Missouri, 
 in 1914, under the auspices of the American Bureau, 
 of St. Louis. From the opening date his lectures 
 proved popular — so much so that a large number 
 of towns along his route promptly asked for a return 
 date. In 1915, he lectured for the Britt Lyceum 
 Bureau, of Lincoln, Nebraska. 
 
 Harmon is the orator eloquent as well as argu- 
 mentative. A study of the following extracts from 
 a few of his addresses will reveal the beauty and 
 vigor of his style : 
 
 From "THE SIGN ON THE OPEN ROAD." 
 
 There are other scenes we might have visited; other 
 problems we might have studied; other lessons we might 
 have found: this is the last. It is midnight. A distant clock 
 slowly tolls away the hours, and crowing cocks announce the 
 approach of a new day. High above and far away rides the 
 
322 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 moon like an aerial ship upon the fleecy-like clouds of the 
 sky; the stars, thousands upon thousands, twinkle and sparkle 
 and glitter. They represent aeons of other lives and 
 other worlds. And now, as we turn to view our last 
 scene together, we behold first a low iron fence, and then, 
 beyond it, clusters of dark pines, tall rising spires, small gray 
 stones, and an occasional tufted mound. It is the resting 
 place of the dead. How quiet it lies in the softened light of 
 the night. Back somewhere among the pines, the harsh 
 strange call of a bird is heard; and all else is silent save the 
 mournful cry of a loon that floats from the distant woods like 
 the wail of a lost soul. To our right the Open Road extends 
 for a little distance, like a silver cord, and then is lost to us 
 forever. It goes on and on and on — on into eternity. But 
 to you and to me, the Open Road ends here. 
 
 From "THE PIPER OF DREAMS." 
 
 This profusion of principles is shown in the great master 
 minds of art, literature and music. It is seen in the compo- 
 sitions of Richard Strauss. His incomparable symphony ex- 
 presses the development of the human race from its origin 
 through its various phases — religious, scientific, philosophical, 
 psychological — and its atmospheres of romanticism, idealism 
 and realism, from barbarian mythology to the Superman of 
 Nietzsche. 
 
 The symphony begins like Angelo's Last Judgment; it 
 ends in the spirit of Dionysius, Nietzsche's idea of despair, 
 defeat, conquest and tragedy. For Strauss, there was no 
 God; yet he filled his music with the spirit of the Divine. 
 He intended his inspiration as an homage to the genius of 
 Frederick Nietzsche, the Jew. In Zarathustra, Nietzsche 
 writes: "God is dead." The works of Bernard Shaw, too, 
 thrill us with the Nietzschean dream of the Superman. The 
 sculpture of Max Klinger breathes its spirit. The over-soul 
 of Emerson is a repetition of the soul of Zarathustra. 
 Wagner is another illustration of this conflict of human ideals. 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 323 
 
 This artist felt the ceremonial atmosphere of the Roman 
 Catholic Church; yet he sang the philosophy of Buddhism. 
 He worked out the fatalistic philosophy of Schopenhauer. 
 
 Like the voice of the night wind, rich with sentiment, 
 aspiration, achievement, and rich with resistance, defeat and 
 tragedy; so is the tone of the spirit of today. It is a complex 
 of the like and the unlike, the Christ and the anti-Christ, the 
 beautifully barbaric imaginative and the lonely barren. The 
 sermon on the Mount mingles with the insane ravings of a 
 Nietzsche; the spirit of Apollo quickens to the bacchanalian 
 dance of a Dionysius; the golden age of one ideal feels the 
 iron heel of the next. Materialism, idealism, monism, plural- 
 ism, empiricism, romanticism, naturalism combine to form the 
 enlightenment of the moment. 
 
 From "A MESSAGE OF PEACE." 
 
 In the Wiertz gallery in Brussels is a picture called 
 "Napoleon in Hell." Napoleon with folded hands and face 
 unmoved is shown sinking slowly into the land of the shades. 
 The background of the painting is filled with the faces and 
 forms of the dead. They represent 3,070,000 men and boys 
 who fell upon the field of battle that the name of Napoleon 
 might be made illustrious forever. More than half of this 
 number were sacrificed to the fame of Napoleon by France 
 herself. Their dead bodies lying upon the field of battle mark 
 the trail of Napoleon's glory beyond the Alps, into Italy and 
 Egypt, over Switzerland and Austria, through Germany and 
 Russia. "Let them die," he said, "You can always replace a 
 common soldier." Yes, it is indeed, a trail of glory leading 
 to the harvest fields of death. 
 
 Pierre Frittel in his wonderful painting, "The Conquer- 
 ors," represents the great war generals of the ages. Caesar, 
 Napoleon, Sesostris, Alexander, Charlemagne, and others are 
 shown in their splendid equipments, the paraphernalia of war. 
 This line of irresistible masters of nations gradually passes 
 into the shadows of the background of death. For here, on 
 
324 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 either side, is represented the millions of men who suffered 
 and died in battle. The conquerors marched up through this 
 avenue of lifeless forms, through the valley of the shadow of 
 death, that they might occupy the center of the picture; that 
 their names might be written large on the pages of history; 
 that their deeds might ever be retold to the children of 
 nations; that they, themselves, might always hold in the 
 memory of the world a position for adulation and honor. But 
 in the background of the picture are the gleanings of war, 
 the grinning skulls of men, the uncounted myriads of the 
 dead, sacrificed upon the field of battle for individual power, 
 individual ambition, and individual glory. 
 ***** 
 
 The nineteenth century had eight important wars. These 
 wars as usual took their toll. The damage to business, I can- 
 not estimate; the loss to invention, art and literature, I cannot 
 guess; the effect upon home and nation, I do not know. The 
 records only show that these eight wars cost $3,760,000,000, 
 and that they killed 14,000,000 men and boys. 
 
 When we glance over this array of figures; when we 
 realize that these expenses must be paid by succeeding gen- 
 erations; when we see how heavily the cost of battle burdens 
 the workers of a country; when we find the beautiful and the 
 sublime of a nation surrendered to this mortgage of blood; 
 when we picture the scenes of conflict with men in companies, 
 regiments, battalions, and divisions, hacking, stabbing, pound- 
 ing, shooting each other to death; when we see the dead lying 
 in winrows ov scattered thickly over the field; when we ob- 
 serve the writhing of the wounded or listen to the last 
 message of the dying; when we sense the meaning of their 
 loss to the folks at home and to the nation as a whole; when 
 we fully comprehend this organized murder, this systematic 
 killing as instituted and practiced by nations, we come to 
 our conclusion, the only conclusion possible for us to reach: 
 War is unnecessary and has never offered a suitable excuse 
 for action to a rational world. 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 325 
 
 From "JOAN OF ARC." 
 
 Great events in history come from causes numerous, 
 interrelated and complex. However distinct, individualistic, 
 or independent wonderful happenings may seem to the casual 
 student, they are found upon close observation to spring 
 from many sources. These sources or causes are political, 
 moral, social, religious and industrial. 
 
 The philosophy of history, in its interpretation, points to 
 scientific speculation, to original systems of reasoning, to the 
 explanatory principles of nature, to scholastic theological 
 conceptions, to improved methods underlying industrial devel- 
 opment, to the vital forces of political ambition, to the in- 
 fluence of the mob, to the spirit of the times, to the soul of 
 the genius. It also points to the infinite — that mystical ele- 
 ment which escapes analysis. For as Goethe once remarked: 
 "Existence divided by human reason leaves always a re- 
 mainder." There is no exact way to measure the infinite. 
 
 In dealing with this subject, humanity is ever groping 
 for cause, for limit and for reason. The problem always 
 baffles solution; the answer is never to be had. But, not- 
 withstanding the uncertainties of this profound force, man's 
 curiosity is forever prompting him to study its manifesta- 
 tions and its results. So it is that the thought we would 
 pursue here, points to this unknowable factor in the lives of 
 men. For, after making allowance for the expression of the 
 social spirit, for the personality of a race, for the peculiar 
 temperament of a people, for artistic, economic or religious 
 environment, there yet remains one great agent in the con- 
 cerns of mankind. It is the hand of fate, the act of provi- 
 dence, the mind of God. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Clothed in white, the emblem of purity, the token of 
 sainthood, Joan of Arc now stood alone. Did I say that she 
 was alone? No; No! She was not alone. For now a heavenly 
 vision came to the little peasant girl of old Donremy. True 
 to the last, St. Catherine, St. Margaret and St. Michael ap- 
 
326 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 peared to her in this fearful ordeal of death. It was then 
 that she understood the meaning of their prediction: "Do not 
 lament your martyrdom; through it you will come to the 
 kingdom of paradise." 
 
 It was at this time that Father Cauchon shouted: "Joan! 
 I am come for the last time to exhort you to repent and seek 
 the pardon of God!" Her reply was: "I die through you." 
 These were the last words she spoke to any person on this 
 earth; for, at that moment, a pile of black smoke shot through 
 with red flashes of flame, rolled up in a thick volume, and 
 hid her from view. Her voice, sweet in prayer, was yet to 
 be heard from the depth of this darkness. Then for one brief 
 moment, the wind drew the smoke like a curtain from the 
 girl, and showed for the last time, the wonderful pleading 
 eyes, the saint-like face turned toward the cross, loyal to her 
 God to the last; and they saw the moving lips whisper again 
 and again, the One Great Word in all the world — "Jesus." 
 
 The end was sudden. For a great volume of fire and 
 flame burst upward, and enveloped the girl in a roar of 
 seething rage and fury. Bones and blood and flesh and soul 
 disappeared: Joan of Arc had gone to her long reward. 
 
 Morality will ever weep for the deeds of the Maid of 
 Donremy; Reverence will always number her beads; Liberty 
 will honor her memory; Religion will crown her a martyred 
 saint; and Mankind will cherish her — a model of piety, patri- 
 otism and human love. 
 
 ***** 
 
 This simple unlettered peasant girl of the fifteenth 
 century, listening to the voices of her angels, gave her all to 
 her country, her king and her God. Knowing that defeat was 
 to be her fate, she marched on; knowing that disgrace, suffer- 
 ing, calumny were in store for her, she marched on; knowing 
 that death — the cruel death of fire — was ahead, she marched 
 on; actuated by the love of her native land and her God, she 
 marched on — marched on to defeat, to disgrace and to death. 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 327 
 
 We may not fully appreciate this little martyred girl of 
 old France. To the student of the unknowable factor in 
 human affairs, the vision of Joan, holding in death the torch 
 of national liberty and the crucifix of God, represents the last 
 word in human idealism. They who catch this vision and this 
 meaning divine, see again a slender form of girlish beauty; 
 behold once more the upturned face, the pleading eyes, the 
 moving lips; and observe the cross of God held high above 
 the flames. It is in such a vision of Divine purpose that the 
 student feels the full force of Christian faith and Christian 
 love. It is in such a manifestation of the human and the 
 infinite that he can sense the meaning of the Divine, under- 
 stand the loyalty of the soul, and comprehend the union of 
 the two. Such in purpose, meaning and result was the 
 heroine of France, the servant of God, the master of men; 
 the girl, known, written and recorded in the archives of her 
 native land — Joan of Arc, the Lady of the Lily, the one 
 great representative of the unmeasured factor in human 
 affairs. 
 
Kemple 
 
 Biographical — Born, Preston, Minn., Aug. 16, 1873. 
 Farmer's son. Graduated from Country schools, Preston high 
 school. State Normal at Winona, and took special work at 
 Highland Park college. Eleven years in educational work. 
 City superintendent at Jasper, Arlington and Wheaton, Minn., 
 and at Madison and Watertown, S. D. Lecturer, past eight 
 years, Wright Lyceum Bureau, St. Louis. 
 
ROBERT L. KEMPLE 
 
 The only South Dakotan, as yet, to gain per- 
 manent recognition on the lecture platform is Prof. 
 Robert L. Kemple, of Watertown. Since 1908, he 
 has been identified with the Wright Lyceum Bureau, 
 of St. Louis, Missouri. As a popular lecturer he has 
 gained a national reputation. His subjects are : 
 "The American Boy," "A Young Man's Possibili- 
 ties," "Fits and Misfits in Life," and "The Other 
 Side of the Door." 
 
 First of all, Kemple must be considered as a 
 humorist. Although there is a backbone of high 
 grade philosophy extending through all of his ad- 
 dresses, yet his illustrations are perfect models of 
 the most startling wit. Passing "from the sublime 
 to the ridiculous," he paints a picture of his own 
 babes lying peacefully asleep in their trundle beds 
 and then follows it a moment later with the city boy 
 in the bath-tub ; and thus he holds an audience spell- 
 bound at will. No man in America has had more 
 return engagements than he. This is the best evi- 
 dence of his success. Comparatively penniless when 
 he entered the lecture field, he has, through his own 
 untiring efforts, amassed a comfortable fortune. 
 
 By a comparison of his speeches with the others 
 contained herein, it will at once be seen that his style 
 is very original. Those brief extracts that have been 
 
330 LITEEATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 gathered need no further comment. The happy mix- 
 ture of wit and philosophy contained in them will 
 appeal to all. 
 
 You can all tell by my homely, homely, homely face that 
 I was at one time a school teacher. I had at my last charge 
 as superintendent of city schools, some 1100 boys and girls, 
 and I know just a little of the hopes and possibilities of the 
 boys and girls; ay, their peculiarities also. 
 
 One day I entered my eighth grade room and found the 
 teacher hearing a class in Civil Government. The topic under 
 discussion was copyrights on books. The class had the work 
 well in hand. I took charge of the class. "Boys and girls," 
 I said, "let us make this subject practical. What book have 
 you in the home upon which the copyright has expired?" 
 They did not seem to know, and so, in order to draw them 
 out, I told them it was a book that their mothers and fathers 
 read every night and every morning; a book their parents 
 read nearly all of the day on the Sabbath and certainly was a 
 book they loved and cherished more than any other book in 
 the home. 
 
 A sixteen-year-old girl from the country sat in the class. 
 An expression of intelligence played over her face. She 
 raised her hand. 
 
 I said, "Sue, what book is it?" 
 
 She responded, "Montgomery Ward and Go's Catalogue." 
 
 The greatest inheritance that can befall your American 
 boy is that he was born in poverty and reared in adversity. 
 Riches is harder on the youth of our land than poverty. It is 
 the knocks and bumps the American boy receives in his youth 
 that prepare him for great citizenship. 
 
 Ex-Senator Beveridge tells us that 94 per cent of our 
 governors started from the farm. Let us see how the farms 
 are producing the governors of our country. 
 
 A boy on the farm at the age of five, has environments, 
 such that he early has a duty — the gate is ajar, the pigs 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 331 
 
 break out, he tells mama. He is meeting life; he is working. 
 Work is a great developer of character. At the age of seven 
 he gathers the- eggs and feeds the calves, meeting life. At 
 the age of twelve he is out with a team and plow. The 
 harness breaks; he doesn't run for papa, he runs to the fence 
 and gets a piece of wire and twists it in. "Get up, Dolly" and 
 "Go on. Bill." At eighteen years of age, during the months 
 of December and January, he is up in the morning at five 
 o'clock, builds the old kitchen fire, does the chores, in to 
 breakfast and at eight o'clock is over to the little white school 
 house for one hour of frolic and fun, and take off your hat 
 to the future American boy that will be heard from. 
 
 How about the city or town boy who is nursed in the lap 
 of luxury? At the age of seven he cannot dress himself 
 alone. At the age of ten his mama and papa are still rock- 
 ing him to sleep. Mama's sweetheart and papa's sissy. At 
 the age of eighteen he comes down the street with knee 
 pants, a weakling, physically and morally. He is so slender 
 that when he takes a bath he has to step out of the bath-tub 
 before he pulls the plug or he will go down into the 
 sewer. 
 
 Progress in life proceeds by metamorphic changes. 
 When a thing reaches the acme of its perfection, it changes 
 its form or type as the chrysalis becomes the butterfly. The 
 rude hand-sickle with which the ancients used to cut their 
 grain, passed through a series of improvements culminating 
 in the cradle of which our grand fathers were so proud. 
 Then there was a change of type, and we began with the 
 mower and reaper, the latter of which has improved into the 
 self-binder. The old method of threshing with flail and horse 
 hoof has nothing in common with our modern threshing ma- 
 chine, from whose side the clean grain comes gushing like 
 water from a spring. 
 
332 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 One of the greatest contemplated achievements of 
 modern invention is the production of rain by artificial means. 
 Some have charged the rain-makers w^ith blasphemy for 
 thinking to interfere vi^ith Divine Providence, but never did 
 a farmer turn a sod, or pull a weed in his cornfield that did 
 not as much interfere with Divine Providence. It is by just 
 such seeming interference that man has risen above the 
 beasts. Wild nature was given man to subdue; its forces to 
 tame; its beasts to domesticate; its mountains to admire; its 
 valleys to bless; its mines for industry; its seas for commerce; 
 its soil for food, and its forests for shelter; its stars to con- 
 template and its flowers to love. Ay, truly, man is the 
 favored son of creation and needs only to shake the drowsy 
 sleep from his eyes to behold the magnitude of his blessings 
 and opportunities. 
 
 Yesterday, America was discovered but yet her moun- 
 tains of iron and salt, lead and copper, gold and silver have 
 opened and placed their contents at the threshold of the 
 world. The hum of industry is heard in every part of our 
 land, and from ocean to ocean, we have broad fields of grain, 
 waving and rustling in the summer breezes; and by the rail- 
 roads, telephones, telegraph, and wireless telegraphy we have 
 brought the farthest corners of our nation together and all 
 over this fairest and brightest of continents we have builded 
 magnificent homes, schools, churches, and a new civilization 
 has overspread our land like the green of spring time. 
 
 One of the most beautiful things in life is youth and 
 childhood. A little babe that puts its little hands upon your 
 face is nearer the touch of divinity than you will ever find on 
 this earth. 
 
 Seven years ago I had been away for three months on 
 a lecture tour and had not seen my little sweethearts. I re- 
 turned home on Christmas Eve on a delayed midnight train. 
 My wife knew I was coming; she met me at the door, and 
 instantly turned to the little room where my little sweet- 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 333 
 
 hearts lay sleeping. As I turned on the electric lights on 
 that Christmas Eve and looked down into the slumbering 
 faces of my little jewels, to me the most beautiful picture I 
 ever looked upon, this thought came to me: the man that is 
 childless may with his millions buy the picture of a babe, 
 
 upon the canvas or chiseled in cold marble — material things 
 
 but the greatest picture in the world is the living picture of 
 our own little American boys and American girls, and good 
 people, let us so live and act that this American boy may 
 develop into honest, true. Christian manhood; that this 
 American girl may bloom into beautiful womanhood, the 
 foundation of every nation. 
 
Attorney James G. McFarland 
 
 Biographical — Born, Dubuque, Iowa, October 26, 1880. 
 Educated, Dubuque public schools and University of 
 Wisconsin. Took B. A. degree, latter institution, 1902. 
 Completed law course, same school, 1904. Removed at once 
 to Watertown, S. D. Admitted to practice in this state on 
 his credentials. Formed partnership with C. X. Seward. 
 Lasted until 1910, when Seward went onto the bench. 
 Practiced alone till Nov. 1, 1912. Formed partnership with 
 Carl D. Johnson. Married Miss Evelyn Johnson, May 31, 
 1906. Two children — both boys. Elected state legislature, 
 1912. Re-elected, 1914. 
 
JAMES G. McFARLAND 
 
 One of the happiest after-dinner speakers as 
 well as one of the readiest impromptu orators in the 
 legal profession of the state is Attorney James G. 
 McFarland, of Watertown. Inasmuch as he is in 
 such great demand for all public functions, and ow- 
 ing to the fact that he speaks impromptu almost 
 exclusively, it has been hard to gather extracts from 
 his speeches, as the occasions are not numerous when 
 his addresses have been stenographed. The three, 
 .included herein, caught in "the heat of action," will 
 suffice to give one a general idea of his beautiful 
 word painting. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM SPEECH IN HOUSE OF REPRESENTA- 
 TIVES ON MOTHERS' PENSION BILL 
 
 There appears in Court before the Judge — one of our 
 Judges elected by our votes to do justice to poor and rich 
 alike — a woman poor in this world's goods but rich in the 
 mothers' love that pulsates through her whole being. Her 
 gingham dress is torn and old, her head is covered only by 
 a tiny shawl, and clinging to her skirts are four beautiful 
 flaxen-haired children — the youngest but a toddling babe, the 
 oldest a bright-eyed boy of ten. With stern demeanor, the 
 Judge turns to her and says: "What have you to say why 
 judgment should not be pronounced against you that because 
 of your poverty your children should be taken from you and 
 your home be broken up?" 
 
 Is this the vaunted civilization of the fair State of South 
 Dakota? Should not a mother have rights — not privileges 
 alone, but absolute rights on the treasury of our State for 
 
336 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 the rearing of her children when she is a proper custodian for 
 them? 
 
 Every precaution is thrown around this right extended 
 to the widows of our State. The widow and mother must be 
 a proper person to have the custody of her child. She must 
 show or someone must show for her to the satisfaction of 
 the Court that it is necessary in order to keep the home in- 
 tact that she be granted certain aid from the County. Any 
 citizen may object at any time on good cause shown to the 
 further allowance to any person receiving a mother's pension 
 under this act. 
 
 In the name of humanity, in the name of justice and 
 in the name of the future generations of this State, the young 
 man and women who are but babes today, give this bill full 
 and fair consideration and by your votes let your answer 
 to the Judge's question be written on the pages of the history 
 of the State. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM ADDRESS TO JURY IN A CASE IN 
 CODINGTON COUNTY 
 
 Today, gentlemen of the Jury, the nations of Europe are 
 at war. No matter what the causes may have been, no matter 
 who is to blame for the great conflict that is now being waged 
 abroad, no matter who will win in the conflict, each nation, 
 each individual in the great fight, is actuated by love of home 
 and country. If you, as American citizens, were called upon 
 today to fight in behalf of your country, it would be first for 
 your home and next for your country and your flag. In this 
 case one of the sacred principles laid down by our fore- 
 fathers in the Constitution of the United States has been 
 violated. You are called upon to do your duty as Jurors in 
 this case. It is for you to punish one who has violated one of 
 those sacred principles, viz: the freedom of the home and 
 its sanctity. If you have one drop of red American blood 
 in you, you will go to your Jury room and come forth with 
 a verdict which will show this defendant that he cannot 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 337 
 
 violate any of these traditions. You are not called upon to 
 shoulder a musket and go forth in defense of your home, 
 your family, your country, but you are called upon as Jurors 
 in this case to come forth with a verdict which will sustain 
 the principles set down in our Constitution, which will protect 
 the homes of this country, and which will make every woman 
 in the State feel safe in the security of her home, be it night 
 or day. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM MEMORIAL DAY ADDRESS TO ELKS' 
 
 LODGE 
 
 As Elks we have learned that, when the hands of the 
 clock point to the beginning of the last and twelfth hour, 
 and the day is almost done, the chimes ring out a message 
 to the Absent — living or dead; even so, when time points 
 with solemn finger to the beginning of the last and twelfth 
 month and the Year is almost gone, we gather to pay tribute 
 to those who have passed to that great Pasture of Peace, 
 where the grass is always sweet and green, where the sun 
 is always bright, and where rest is eternal. 
 "He's an Elk, 
 
 It matters nothing 
 What the world may say or feel. 
 I have tried him on his honor, 
 And his heart 's as true as steel; 
 
 Of what others say, I care not. 
 Nor of what they think they see, 
 He's an Elk, clean through — God bless him. 
 And he's good enough for me." 
 
 !j; ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Let us scatter flowers along the road of life, 
 nor reck where falls the brilliant rose, the soft tinted 
 violet, or the fragrant stately lily, so that they may bring 
 rest and comfort to some less fortunate or suffering soul. 
 
338 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 You, my brothers, may well catch inspiration from 
 the actors club of long ago and their hope of the future, 
 and should live your part in the Drama of Life to further 
 their cherished end. You should be prepared to fight, if nec- 
 essary, for these things, for a broader, bigger, better life 
 and world; to fight for them under this flag whose rippling 
 folds wave in a perfect blend of colors over the greatest 
 nation in the world and which lies in stately, solemn, holy 
 beauty on the altar of every lodge in the country. 
 
 And so live, that when you hear the sound of 
 the gavel that calls you to take your place in the Grand 
 Lodge above, content in the feeling that you have done your 
 full Elk duty here below, you may go to browse in the sunny 
 pastures of perfect knowledge and drink of the waters of 
 eternal peace. And with this great purpose of Elkdom before 
 us, we can say that indeed a "Vision of the Future rises." 
 
President E. C. Perisho 
 
 Biographical — Born, Indiana. Educated, rural schools, 
 Carmel Academy, Eartham college and Chicago University. 
 Took A. B. at Eartham and M. A. at Chicago. Taught, Guil- 
 ford (N. C.) college, Plattville (Wis.) Normal and University 
 of South Dakota. President State College, Brookings, S. D., 
 since 1914. Author of numerous pamphlets and reports on 
 Geology; also the Geography of South Dakota. 
 
ELLWOOD C. PERISHO 
 
 In order to appreciate the oratory of President 
 Perisho, one must hear it; that is, his forceful de- 
 livery and inviting personality are the main things 
 that give vitality to his public speaking. He is a 
 stirring orator, universally admired, and he is in 
 constant demand as a lecturer in a large number of 
 the different states in the union. For commence- 
 ment, he invariably has more dates than he can 
 possibly fill; in fact, one year, he had tv^enty-eight 
 invitations for the same night. He speaks on a great 
 variety of subjects, and seems equally at home on 
 each theme. Only a few minor extracts from his 
 numerous great speeches can be incorporated herein. 
 
 The following is an extract from an address on 
 "Citizenship" given at Harrisburg, Pa. : 
 
 You cannot have a Republican form of government or 
 maintain the Democratic institutions of a state unless you 
 have an intelligent citizenship. You can not have an in- 
 telligent citizenship unless you have an educated people. 
 You cannot have an educated people unless they have the 
 necessary intellectual training which gives them the funda- 
 mental conception of how to vote and how to rule. 
 
 TRIBUTE TO DEAN YOUNG GIVEN AT THE STATE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 The universal sorrow today of Faculty, Students and 
 friends cannot be expressed in words nor can the grief of the 
 University be told in any form of speech. No words of mine 
 can show the admiration and love of this institution for the 
 
342 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 life just passed. Nothing save the silence of our hearts 
 can tell how much we thought of him or with what full 
 measure we appreciated his work. 
 
 ^ :H H^ * ^ 
 
 So little do we understand, so finite is our wisdom, we do 
 not know but that the best of life comes with death. No 
 system of reasoning will ever make people believe that a 
 condition which becomes universal is an evil. An oriental 
 philosopher taught his people that the Gods hid from men 
 the happiness of death in order that they might live content 
 with life without a murmur. 
 
 It may be that we should think of death — not as a loss — 
 but rather as a gain — not as the end but only as the be- 
 ginning. The larger faith of which we have heard today 
 teaches us that death, even at its worst, is not eternal. 
 
 The following extract is from the address, 
 "SHIPS OR SCHOOLS," 
 
 delivered before the State Educational Association 
 at Mitchell, S. D., in 1912 : 
 
 Two masters now rule the world — Force and Reason. 
 Men everywhere, independent of state or nation; creed or 
 party; trade or profession — are held in the stern grasp of the 
 one or yield to the gentle teaching of the other. Conquest 
 by strength and power — irrespective of the rights of others — 
 is the sentiment of the one. Leadership by intelligence and 
 equity — considerate of all men, is the motto of the other. 
 Might is right, thunders the one. Love will triumph, whispers 
 the other. Under the smoke of conflict, the grime of avarice 
 and the struggle of greed is the one. With the joy of living, 
 the thrill of hope and the "beauty of the lilies," is the other. 
 In the shadow of the coming of swords lives the one; in the 
 light of the morning of peace dwells the other. 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 343 
 
 I congratulate the state and the nation, that the greatest 
 power for conquest this country ever saw is not the standing 
 army, so many thousand strong, with all their cannon and 
 canister, shot and shell, swords and sabers; but it is the rising 
 army of 20,000,000 children enrolled in the schools of 
 America. The most powerful set of officers this nation main- 
 tains are not our generals and captains, the commodores and 
 commanders of the army and navy, but they will be found 
 in the host of more than 2,500,000 teachers, who without drum 
 or bugle, are gently planting deep and securely into the heads 
 and hearts of our boys and girls that best sort of patriotism 
 which in a generation that is to come will prove itself the 
 very bulwark of the American Republic. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO BOOKER T. WASHINGTON, GIVEN 
 
 DURING THE ADDRESS BEFORE THE STATE 
 
 EDUCATIONAL ASSOCIATION AT ABERDEEN, 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1915 
 
 No discussion just now of the value of Industrial Educa- 
 tion would be proper without stopping a moment to pay 
 a tribute to the life' and work of that noted citizen at whose 
 grave a whole race mourns today. 
 
 Born a slave, spending his youth in poverty, but am- 
 bitious to secure an education — he worked his way through 
 Hampton Institute. In the early 80's he went to Tuskegee, 
 Ala., where he founded his great Industrial School. For 
 one-third of a century he gave every effort of his life to the 
 development of this institution. Tuskegee with its 3,500 
 acres of land, its almost 100 buildings, its property worth 
 $500,000, and its student body, present and past — all this 
 is the monument to Booker T. Washington. 
 
 He needs no marble tomb, no granite shaft, no stone 
 Sarcophagus to be remembered by the people of his age; 
 for his very life with its nobleness of service and its in- 
 spiration of work is deeply carved upon the hearts of all 
 his people. 
 
344 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 It took Abraham Lincoln with the Union Army to open 
 the door of opportunity to the negro. It required the Na- 
 tional Congress and most of our States to confer upon him 
 the title of Citizen, but it was left to an humble slave to 
 really show the black men how to pass through the door 
 and make use of this greatest gift — the Freedom of American 
 Citizenship. 
 
 He may not have been the most cultured of his people — 
 yet none were held in so high esteem. He may not have been 
 the most eloquent of his race — yet men everywhere, white 
 and black, were eager to hear him speak. He may not have 
 been the most learned of the Negroes — yet he was their 
 greatest leader. 
 
 Most men becoming famous bow to the dictation of social 
 and political ambition — not so with Booker T. Washington. 
 He never dreamed of Social Equality — he never talked of 
 Race Prejudice — he never thought of Political Office. With 
 him and his race, it was work, preparation, industry, achieve- 
 ment. , 
 
 Tonight men everywhere, no matter their race or color, 
 forgetting all parties and factions, never thinking of Church 
 or Creed, stand with bowed heads and thankful hearts in 
 memory of this great man, for the life he led and the work 
 he accomplished as the Moses of his people. 
 
 The following extracts are from an address, 
 "The Economic Phase of the Liquor Traffic," given 
 before mass meetings in Sioux Falls, Mitchell, Lead 
 and Aberdeen : 
 
 The proposition which I submit for your consideration 
 is this: You can take any great economic question that you 
 choose and you will find that the financial interest of the 
 Liquor problem will rise up and overshadow it completely. 
 The crime of this country is costing the American people 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 345 
 
 $3,500,000 a day — yet newspapers, judges etc. assure you 
 that two-thirds to three-fourths of all the crimes committed 
 can be traced to the saloons of the country. 
 
 Much is said about Taxation and the need of a new 
 system for the collection of taxes — No doubt this is needed — 
 but as we find it today we have a little over $100,000,000,000. 
 of taxable property in the U. S. One per cent of this is 
 $1,000,000,000. Very seldom do we pay as much as 2 per 
 cent — but if all did the total taxes collected would not more 
 than equal the amount we pay for strong drink. 
 
 We are told that the Government should own and 
 operate all our mines. Even if this were true the total gross 
 output of all the gold, silver, iron, lead, zinc, tin and all the 
 other metaliferous products will not exceed $700,000,000, 
 while the annual productions of all our coal, oil, gas, cement, 
 clay, stone, salt and all other non-metaliferous products will 
 not exceed $1,000,000,000. Hence the total in any case of all 
 mines will be far less than the amount the people spend for 
 liquor. Take any great economic problem you please and 
 the Liquor Traffic will rise up and overshadow it completely. 
 
 All this concerning the liquor traffic — and I have said 
 nothing of how it warps in a cloud of mist the judgment of 
 the wisest; changes the most eloquent orator into a stammer- 
 ing inbecile; or goes on with its work of devastation until 
 the REASON is dethroned and the WILL is destroyed, and 
 the poor victim sinks to helpless ruin. 
 
 Nor have I told you that at the door of every saloon is 
 want, woe and wretchedness, regret and ruin — and with these 
 you will always find Neglected Chance, Lost Fortune, For- 
 gotten Vows, and Broken Hearts. 
 
William B. Sterling 
 Biographical — Born, Dixon, 111., Feb. 9, 1863. Graduated, 
 Dixon high school, at age of sixteen. Taught country school 
 and read law. Came Dakota, 1881. Settled on a farm near 
 Huron, with parents. Clerked clothing store, Huron. 
 Studied law with N. D. Walling. Entered State University 
 Law School, Madison, Wisconsin, 1883. Took three-year 
 course in two. Returned Huron. Formed law partnership 
 with William T. Love. Elected states attorney, Beadle 
 county, 1886. Re-elected, 1888. Appointed U. S. District 
 attorney for South Dakota by President Harrison in 1889. 
 Appointed attorney for Northwestern railway company in 
 this state about the same time. Resigned both positions, 
 June, 1895, and accepted attorneyship for the Fremont, Elk- 
 horn & Missouri Valley Railroad Company. Headquarters, 
 Omaha, Neb. Married Miss Olive Snow, Dixon, 111., June 4, 
 1890. Died at Omaha, Oct. 15, 1897. 
 
WILLIAM B. STERLING 
 
 During the pioneer days of Dakota, one young 
 attorney loomed up above all of his contemporaries 
 as an orator. It was William B. Sterling, of Huron. 
 What a calamity that he should have been stricken 
 down by typhoid at the tender age of thirty-four, 
 when the budding flowers of a bright manhood, filled 
 with promise, had just begun to bloom. He was 
 the leader of the state bar, until he left the state 
 just prior to his death — a fearless attorney, a shrewd 
 politician and an inspiring orator. 
 
 After his death, the Honorable Coe I. Crawford 
 collected and had published his "Memoirs." It is 
 from this volume that the following extracts of his 
 speeches are taken. 
 
 Addressing the Beadle County Republican Con- 
 vention at Huron, on May 5, 1888, he said: 
 
 But there is yet another man, who, though he does not 
 seek the nomination, is the property of th^ republican party; 
 and who, if that party were to nominate him unasked, could 
 not and would not, I believe, refuse to stand as a candidate. 
 I refer to him of the great heart and mighty brain, of whom 
 it has been said that he would fire the hearts of the young 
 men, stir the blood of our manhood, and rekindle the fervor 
 of the veteran. I refer to the man who underwent defeat in 
 the last National Campaign, but who rose. Phoenix-like, 
 above the ashes of defeat, and stands before the world today 
 as America's foremost citizen. That man, gentlemen, is the 
 great Commoner from Maine, James G. Blaine. 
 
348 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 After reading the previous outburst, it is easy 
 to discern why the bar of Beadle county, five years 
 later, at the time of Blaine's death, chose Sterling 
 to deliver the eulogy in their behalf. On this latter 
 occasion, he said in part: 
 
 He is dead! That great heart, that mighty intellect, 
 that generous soul, who, for more than thirty years has been 
 one of the most prominent figures in American history, is no 
 more. * * * "God's finger touched him and he slept!" Once 
 more the greatest nation since the world began bows its 
 head in deep humility and great sorrow in the presence of 
 the Divine mystery, the mystery of mortal dissolution and 
 human death; while the people of the whole civilized world 
 pay respectful tribute to the worth and genius of the great 
 departed. 
 
 Sleep on, proud spirit, 'tis well thou art at rest; no more 
 shall thy royal pride be wounded by the shafts of envy and 
 malice; never again shall thy great heart be torn with the 
 fierce and bitter contentions of the busy life thou hast lead! 
 Peace has come, at last, to thine indomitable and unconquer- 
 able spirit, which no obstacle could appall, no misfortune 
 disturb, no defeat intimidate, no calamity subdue. Ended are 
 thy conflicts, thy triumphs and thy defeats. Silent the magic 
 voice that never sounded a retreat, or uttered one complaint 
 against the malignant fates that wrecked the hopes and 
 ambitions of a life time. Into the shadows of the deep and 
 insoluble mystery, thy heroic spirit has taken its flight, 
 leaving as a rich legacy the heritage of a life well spent. 
 
 Speaking at the dedication of the South Dakota 
 building at the World's fair in Chicago in 1893, he 
 said in part: 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 349 
 
 In this brief period of time, scarcely the duration of a 
 heart-beat in the life of this venerable old world, the desert 
 and morass, as if by the touch of a magic wand, have sunk 
 into the bowels of the earth; and in its place, by the shores 
 of yonder inland sea, ever murmuring in loud or gentle 
 accents its song of eternity, has arisen a city more white 
 and beautiful and fair than the human mind had ever thought 
 to see in all its wildest dreams, this side of the pearly gates 
 of heaven; a city whose graceful, winding I'ivers seem to 
 have caught their hues from the skies which bend over them; 
 whose sparkling fountains vie in beauty with the rainbow; 
 whose rose gardens scent the air with sweetest perfume, and 
 whose golden-tipped towers and minarets, kissed by the warm 
 rays of the summer sun, reflect back to heaven a vision of 
 its own loveliness. 
 
 Pillar upon pillar, facade upon facade, dome upon dome, 
 column upon column, rises the great "White City" upon the 
 vision, ornamented by frescoes of rarest beauty and design; 
 and crowned by statuary as beautiful as a sculptor's dream; 
 while beyond, and skirting all, the stately peristyle rears its 
 proud front in silent majesty; and the noble statue of the 
 Republic points the way of all benighted nations to a higher 
 and happier civilization. 
 
 When he determined to leave the state and go to 
 Nebraska, the citizens of Huron gave him and his 
 family a farewell banquet on August 9, 1895. In 
 replying to one of the toasts that had been given, he 
 said, among many other beautiful things : 
 
 As I listened to the kind and flattering words of my old 
 and valued friend, who has just taken his seat; and, as the 
 last fourteen years of my life spent in your midst passed 
 in quick review before my mind, with all the rapidity of a 
 dream, I said to myself, I would rather have deserved those 
 kind words — and I know I have not — and have won the true 
 
350 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 
 
 friendship of the men and women who sit at this board to- 
 night, than to have accumulated, during the years of my 
 residence among you, the fortunes of a king; and I would 
 rather take with me to my new home, in the chief city of 
 yonder sister state, the sincere and honest good-will and best 
 wishes of my South Dakota friends, than to carry away with 
 me the wealth of treasurers and of mines. 
 
 :i« * * * * 
 
 But there are other, and yet stronger ties, which endear 
 this spot to me; ties almost too sacred to be mentioned out- 
 side the sanctuary of the human heart. By yonder river side 
 stands my first home, of sacred memory; the home to which 
 I brought the bride of my heart and love; and where five 
 of the happiest years of my life have been spent in your 
 society; while, as I turn my face to the North, I see in my 
 mind's eye, upon her broad prairies, a plain farm house 
 around which are clustered the holiest, saddest memories of 
 my life. 
 
 Upon your soil my dead are buried, and in your hearts 
 their lives are enshrined. Here I shall leave behind me those 
 who are close and dear to me: father, kinsman, friends. Per- 
 haps some one may say: Why then do you leave all this to 
 become a stranger in a strange land? To such an one I 
 answer: Go ask the birdling why it leaves its mother's nest 
 to fly away to danger, and perhaps to death. 
 
 It seems rather strange that he should have 
 made this implied prediction, and should then have 
 flown away to his own early death in a comparative- 
 ly strange land, only two years later. 
 
 When he and his family arrived in Omaha, the 
 commercial club of that city tendered them a re- 
 ception. Speaking again impromptu, without 
 manuscript or notes, as he was accustomed to doing, 
 
ORATORS AND ORATORY 351 
 
 he made a lengthy address in which he said in part : 
 
 Some one has said, that men build the cities of the 
 world, but that the Almighty fixes the places where they 
 shall stand. 
 
 By the side of yonder mighty river, once a great artery 
 of commerce, and even now a strategic boundary line of 
 transportation and of trade, I believe He has planted His rod; 
 and that here, in the years to come, shall wealth and people 
 and commerce congregate. Standing tonight in this am- 
 bitious young city, as it nestles among the gently sloping 
 hills of the fair valley of the Missouri, with its countless 
 acres of fertile soil, unequalled, save perhaps, by the rich 
 plains of Hungary, or the fat valley of the Nile; and looking 
 off to the westward, upon a vast sea of waving green, leaping 
 beneath the warm rays of a summer sun, to a rich and early 
 harvest, unbroken but for a network of iron bands, which 
 radiate from Omaha like the silken threads of a spider's web; 
 and looking beyond to where the mountains of the West, with 
 their rich treasui-e of coal, oil, silver and gold, rear their 
 proud crests to the sky, I am struck with the belief that 
 nature recognizes your pre-eminent location, and that here, 
 in the next quarter of a century, a great inland city will be 
 reared. 
 
INDEX 
 
 A 
 
 Abel, E. L 228 
 
 Aisenbrey, C. J 229 
 
 Aldrich, I. D 260 
 
 Armstrong, Mose K 255 
 
 Austin, Henry W 278 
 
 B 
 
 Bachelder, G. A 256 
 
 Bagstad, Anna E 30-31 
 
 Baily, D. R 257 
 
 Bathurst, J. K 267 
 
 Beaumont, A. E 236 
 
 Beadle, W. H. H 271-277 
 
 Bennett, Granville 277 
 
 Bennett, Mark M 260 
 
 Biggar, H. Howard 36-37 
 
 Bowen, W. S 260-262 
 
 Boyles, Kate and Virgil 246-247-248 
 
 Branson, O. L 281-282-283 
 
 Brigham, Arthur A 269 
 
 Brown, James A 277 
 
 Brown, Mortimer C 14-15-17 
 
 Burleigh, Andrew F 231 
 
 Burleigh, B. W 233 
 
 C 
 
 Caldwell, E. W 277 
 
 Carr, Mrs. Daisy 42-43-206 
 
 Carr, Robert V 70-71-72-76-78 
 
 Carruth, Hayden 62 
 
 Cearnach, Conal (Mary Martin) 64-65 
 
 Chamberlain, Will 80-81-82-84-85-86-88 
 
354 INDEX 
 
 Christophelsmeir, Dr 258 
 
 Clark, Badger 50-51-55 
 
 Clover, Sam T 58-59-61-62 
 
 Conklin, S. J 257-260-281-294-295 
 
 Cory, F. J 260 
 
 Coates, J. W 268 
 
 Crawford, Coe 1 258-281-298-299-304 
 
 Creed, C. H 241 
 
 Cummins, Mary 244 
 
 Custer, Gen. Geo. A 115 
 
 D 
 
 Danforth, E. S 260 
 
 Davies, James 244 
 
 Davenport, H. J 271 
 
 Day, Charles M 260 
 
 De Land, Charles E 257-272 
 
 Derome, J. A 260-268 
 
 Dickinson, Mrs. Almira J 96-97-98 
 
 Dickinson, R. W 317 
 
 Dillman, Will 232 
 
 Douglas, Mrs 255 
 
 Dunham, N. J 257 
 
 Durand, Geo. H 258 
 
 Dye, Eva 255 
 
 E 
 
 Egan, Geo. W 281-308-309-310-314-317 
 
 Elliott, Louise 249 
 
 Ellis, J. S 255 
 
 F 
 Foster, James 256 
 
INDEX 355 
 
 G 
 
 Garland, Hamlin 104-105-245 
 
 Gates, Eleanor 255 
 
 Gilman, Stella 255 
 
 Gilbert, Mrs. Nana 260 
 
 Grabill, E. W 266-267-268 
 
 Grantham, E. L 277 
 
 Guhin, M. M 273 
 
 H 
 
 Hall, James Fremont 237 
 
 Halladay, J. F 260 
 
 Halstead, Frank M 266 
 
 Hanson, Jos. Mills 112-113-114-115-116-124-245 
 
 Harmon, T. A 281-320-321 
 
 Hayes, John 278 
 
 Holmes, C. E 126-127-129-130-131-133-134-135 
 
 Hoyt, Cassie L 273 
 
 J 
 
 Johnson, Willis E 268-271 
 
 Jones, W. Franklin 273-276-277 
 
 K 
 
 Kelley, John E 244 
 
 Kemple, R. L 281-328-329 
 
 Kerr, Robert F 256 
 
 Kingsbury, George 257 
 
 Kittredge, A. B 264 
 
 Knapp, Fannie E 232 
 
 L 
 
 Larsen, C 269 
 
 Lawton, Charles Bracy 138-139-140-148-254 
 
 Lewis, T. H 265 
 
 Linn, Arthur 260 
 
356 INDEX 
 
 Lillibridge, Will 252-253 
 
 Logan, J. D 266 
 
 Longstaff , John 260 
 
 Loucks, H. L 268 
 
 Lorimer, W. B 301 
 
 M 
 
 Martin, Mary (Conal Cearnach) 64-65 
 
 McFarland, James G 281-334-335 
 
 McKay 269 
 
 McKusick, Dean 272 
 
 McMurty, W. J 235 
 
 Melville, A. B 277 
 
 Micheaux, Oscar 255 
 
 Moad, Altha and Ethel 272 
 
 Moody, G. C 277 
 
 Murdy, Dr. R. L 273 
 
 N 
 
 Nash, N. C 260 
 
 Nicholson, Thomas 269 
 
 O 
 
 O'Harra, Cleophas C 265 
 
 Osbon, O. M 260-261 
 
 P 
 
 Perisho, E. C 265-271-281-340-341 
 
 Petrie, U. S. Marshall 248 
 
 Pierce, G. A 255 
 
 Price, C. H 277 
 
 R 
 
 Ransom, Mrs. Ida P 278 
 
 Ransom, Frank L 256-270 
 
 Realf , James 278 
 
INDEX 357 
 
 Rivola, Mrs. Flora 150-151 
 
 Robinson, Doane 160-161-165-166-167-168-256-258-259-278 
 
 Rodee, H. A 255 
 
 Ronald, W. R 260 
 
 Ross, J. A 270 
 
 S 
 
 Sanders, J. S 260 
 
 Shannon, Peter C 277 
 
 Shepard, James Henry 270 
 
 Silsby, George 227 
 
 Smith, George M 257-261-272-276 
 
 Smith, Reverend Mr 244 
 
 St. John, C. G 239 
 
 Stewart, Robert 278 
 
 Sterling, William B 254-281-300-346-347-348 
 
 Stratton, Carrie E 266 
 
 Stubbins, Thomas A 255 
 
 Sully, Jack 247 
 
 Swift, Flora M 235 
 
 T 
 
 Tatro, May Philips 170-171-172-175-177-254 
 
 Thorns, Dr. Craig 269 
 
 Thompson, Dr. T. B 272-276-278 
 
 Tinan, Clate 260 
 
 Todd, Professor 265 
 
 Tripp, Bartlett 277 
 
 Tull, Jewel Bothwell 250-251 
 
 V 
 
 Van Benthuysen, S. D 270-277 
 
 Van Dalsem, Henry A 127-186-187-198 
 
 Vessey, R. S 304 
 
 Visher, Professor 271 
 
358 INDEX 
 
 W 
 
 Weir, Samuel 269 
 
 Wells, Rollin J 202-203-207-209-213-268 
 
 Wenzlaff , Gustav G 218-219-224-226 
 
 Wentworth, Frank M 235 
 
 White, S. E 255 
 
 White, W 269 
 
 Willey, E. H 260-263 
 
 Willis, H. E 272 
 
 Wyeth, N. C 247 
 
 Y 
 
 Yule, E. B. 260 
 
 Young, Clark M 261-276 
 
CATALOG OF 
 
 SOUTH DAKOTA AUTHORS' PUBLICATIONS 
 
 IN PRINT JULY 1, 1916 
 
 POETRY 
 
 Clark, Badger 
 
 Sun and Saddle Leather (Richard G. Badger Co., 
 Boston) $1.00 
 
 Carr, Robert V. 
 
 Cow Boy Lyrics (W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago).... 1.00 
 
 Dickinson, Mrs. Almira J. 
 
 Ocean and Other Poems (The Author, Pukwana, 
 
 S. D.) 1.00 
 
 Garland, Hamlin (See Prose Writers for a list of his 
 novels) 
 
 Hanson, Joseph Mills (See Prose Writers for a list of 
 his prose works) 
 Frontier Ballads (A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago) 
 
 Cloth 1.00 
 
 Leather 1.50 
 
 Holmes, Charles E. 
 
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 Happy Days (The Author, Outlook Building, 
 
 Columbus, O.) 1.00 
 
 From Court to Court (The Author) 50 
 
 Robinson, Doane (See Prose Writers) 
 
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 My Soul (Dr. Friede Van Dalsem, Huron, S. D.).. .25 
 Poems of the Soul and Home (Dr. Friede Van 
 Dalsem, Huron, S. D.) 1.00 
 
Wells, Rollin J. 
 
 Pleasure and Pain (Educator Supply Co., Mitchell, 
 
 S. D.) 1.00 
 
 Hagar (Educator Supply Co., Mitchell, S. D.) 1.00 
 
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 Sketches and Legends of the West (Prose — Capital 
 
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 Dunham, N. J. 
 
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 Elliott, Louise 
 
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(Prose Writers Continued) 
 
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 Quercus Alba (A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago) 50 
 
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 The Dissolving Circle (Dodd, Mead & Co., New 
 
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 The Quest Eternal (Dodd, Mead & Co., New York) 1.50 
 
 McKay (See C. Larsen) 
 
 Moad Sisters 
 
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 Micheaux, Oscar 
 
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 Brief History of South Dakota (American Book Co., 
 
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 South Dakota Historical Reports — Vols. 1, 3, 4, 5, 
 
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 Ransom, Ida P. 
 
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 History and Government of South Dakota 
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 Van Benthuysen, S. D. 
 
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 The author has not included any of his own eight books 
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SOME OF OUR BEST PUBLICATIONS 
 
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