Class ___4?-_^ Book / Qsii^rff^ (Mmm" i xn O P O y) H w o < J^ ^ p O H-! 30 THE WESTERN SPIRIT In the torrid sun of sunnncr^ Arched with rainbows all aglow, Pours the frantic, foaming river To the caldron down below. I have slept beside your torrent, I have sported in your spray, I have breathed the balmy Ijalsam Of your pines at break of day. Dizzy heights a bed of blossom ! Eugged rocks with mosses rare. Decked with nature's lingerie — Trailing tress of maidenhair. Hark ! a quartet in the distance Blend their voices with your own. Are they muses long imprisoned Near the queen of beauty's throne? Or did Neptune, god of waters, And the Queen of Thunders wed ? Sprung these five Titanic daughters From such wild Cascadian bed? Tell me not of old Niagara, Or the cataract Ladore, Till you've seen this group of grandeur Lying almost at your door. Wild the leap of old Multnomah, Sweet the Falls of Bridal Veil, But this Garden of the Graces Gathers all within its pale. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 31 With a voice of many tliuiHlers Like the roaring of the sea, Queen amid the magic wonders- Silver Creek, sing on for me ! ^ ^ ^ THE LEWIS AND CLAEK TEAIL (Written for the Lewis and Clark Exposition at Portland, Oregon, 1905.) As o'er a sea mitried and dark, Into the setting sun, Colimibus di'ove his gallant l)arqiie IT]itil a world was won, So into the west two hearts as strong As ever sat under a sail Into a wilderness deep and long Followed an unknown "Trail." 32 THE WESTERN SPIRIT O'er pristine j^rairies rolling wide Where roamed the buffalo. O'er parching sand and deep divide Hard by eternal snow, Past wolves and wildmen held at l)av, And cataracts wild and grand, The "Star of Empire" led the way On to the mystic land. But the Trail at last ran into the tide That washes the wonderful West, Where the Oregon pours her waters wide On the "Peaceful Ocean's" breast. And they planted there the standard true That waves on high to-day — "They builded wiser than they knew" As they blazed the rugged way. For lo ! a caravan in white With priceless pilgrim freight. Soon crowd the path, and wondrous sight. They build an empire great ! Along the Trail so wild and bleak The harnessed lightnings play — And hark ! I hear an engine sliriek In triumph o'er the way. Now see them come ! In tiers, on tiers. They throng the hill and vale. To view the growth of a hundred years Along the ancient Trail ! THE WESTERN SPIRIT 33 The treasures of the East they bring, E'en from the fiekls of Avar, While wireless wizards on the wing Bring greetings from afar. Let paeans ring from "Golden State" To Yukon's golden shore ! Tlie world is waiting at our gate — Throw open wide the door ! "•THEY BUILDED WISER THAN THEY KNEW" 34 THE WESTERN SPIRIT AN OREGON DAWN On the tide of the morning, the light Came flooding the inlets of day, And all the dark rivers of night Were burnished Avith heavenly ray. Then the Angel of Light swung open The glorious gates of the dawn, And the jubilant choirs of creation Marched into the day and marched on. ^ ^ ^ HAEVEST IN UMATILLA Heigh-ho ! for the Oregon highlands, That Garden of Ceres aglisten ! Climb a Blue Mountain summit supernal! Put your ear to the ground as you listen ! And what is that tremble and tramping? 'Tis a score and more thousand of feet — 'Tis an army of harvester horses — Umatilla is cutting her wheat. Hear the champing and tramping and neighing, The buzz and the hum and the rattle ! 0, the billowy cereal ocean Is a glorious field for the battle. Hear the whistle and song of the drivers ! See the maidens with hurrying feet ! Umatilla is threshing in earnest Her five million bushels of wheat. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 35 And look at the pyramids rising, And the long laden trains on the way ! Why, for each one of Uncle Sam's children A biscuit is reaped in a day. Then take off your hats, all ye rivals, And cast your bouquets at her feet. And yell like the '^'^rooters" in college — Umatilla is reaping her wheat ! ^ i^ ^ THE APPLE FATE What is all this fuss about? Trains all loaded in and out. Blushing fruit and blushing maid — Sauces, jellies, marmalade — Pies and dumplings scent the air — • Why, it's Oregon's Apple Fair ! "Pyrus Malus King shall be," Shout the Profs, from 0. A. C. — Till every apple gets in style With the famous "Billiken smile." Balmy Indian summer air — All aboard for the Apple Fair ! See the beauties, old and new — Starks and Spitzens, Baldwins, too. Yellow N"ewtowns, Kings, and Spies, Gloria Mundis Jumbo size! Your aunts and uncles will be there, So don't you miss that Apple Fair ! 36 THE WESTERN SPIRIT Sturdy stock from every clan From Halifax to Hindustan All reach perfection in the sun Among the hills of Oregon — So toss that headgear in the air And shout, "Hurrah for the iVj^ple Fair !' «- ^ AUTUMN ON THE UMPQUA The sun is peeking o'er the edge Of yonder blue and bristling ledge, And flinging o'er the vagrant night An aureole of golden light That crowns a ridge of regal firs, Whose plumes the morning zephyr stirs. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 37 The wind is like a wounded dove, Still sobbing soft her deathless love — So come with me and we will ride The lordly Umpqua's flowing tide, For none e'er dreamed a grander dawn Than greets the hills of Oregon. And none e'er dreamed a sweeter maid Than blends her charm with sheen and shade, The while her western sj^ell she weaves With scent of wild vanilla leaves — Did e'er the Dannbe or the Don Bear fairer girls than Oregon? The skulking river seems to hide Where black basaltic bluffs divide; Weird Echo Island takes our shout And sends it bounding all about, While royal salmon sport and spring. Their golden armor glistening. We see old Bruin grunt and sniff And shuffle off behind a cliff; While by yon laurel's ruddy base. Unconscious of her sylvan grace, A doe is feeding with her fawn — And this is life in Oregon ! !N'ow hark old Neptune's rising roar. And mark the maples on the shore — Did not some Turner from the skies Here lavish all his mystic dyes To paint a cosmic masterpiece To grace a paradisan Greece? 38 THE WESTERN SPIRIT Smooth as yon coots upon the keel. Our launch glides onward, as we feel The charm where coast and country kiss In one enchanted land of bliss — Then know that life is scarce begun Until you've lived in Oregon. Talk not of ^^melancholy days/' Of "naked woods" and "icy ways/' And "dark forebodings of the snow"; Let old October come and go, For Spring and Summer blend in one When Autumn comes in Oregon ! ^ 5^ ^ THE FATED EACE I stood on the banks of the Klickitat, In an Indian camping ground, Where a dusky band of Yakimas Had pitched their tents around. They could see the bluffs of an ancient fort Where their fathers had bent the bow — Where wdiite and red had fought and bled In the battles of long ago. They could see the white man's furrowed fields Where they could hunt no more. And their hearts grew cold as the snowy peaks That dotted the landscape o'er. "he sadly gazep on the busy road 40 THE WESTERN SPIRIT They sadly gazed on the busy road Where once they followed the trail, AVhile in the twilight gleamed the si3ires Of the village of Goldendale. That night I saw them move their camp, And ride with solemn tread As if they were chanting a requiem In honor of their dead. The long line threaded the Simcoe hills Where now they are forced to stay, And only the dying embers showed Where a "nation" camped that day. Like phantoms grim were the willow shades Where the path ran into the stream, And I saw them cross it one by one In the moonlight's silver gleam. And this, said I, is an emblem true Of all their fated race — They are crossing the river one l)y one AVhile the white man takes their place. Thus civilization surges on, Nor waits for flesh and blood, And those who cannot stem its tide Must sink beneath the flood, THE WESTERN SPIRIT 41 VICTORIA rock-rihbed city of the western sea, \Mio could not tune his lyre in song tor thee? AVith solemn castles gazing out across the sea, ^yith grand Olympics smiling back at thee, You float in ^''ipon's soft salubrious breeze, A tropic island in the northern seas, A full-blown rose of old Victorian days. And loath to leave your cherished mother's ways. Enriched with all the century can give, You still take time to think and feel and live. As a ripple in a treasure-laden stream Gathers the gold-dust born through shade and gleam, So thou hast sifted well the flowing tide Of ruthless Western wealth and Eastern pride. Upon the "Lion's" mane you safely cling Nor fear the rustle of the '"Eao-le's" win a-. portal fair to Yukon's oil and gold. Prize well the envied vantage ground you hold ! seagirt goddess rich in mead and mine. Guard well "Britannia's far-flung battle line !" 42 THE WESTERN SPIRIT JASON LEE A cry from the gloom of the western wilds ! A pleading, outstretched hand ! "0 who will give iis the white man's book. The trail to the spirit land?" 'Twas the death wail of the Indian race, And longer, londer grew, Till the winds caught up the weird refrain And echoed, "Who— 0, Who?" And methinks that heaven took up the cry Around the glassy sea. And whispers leaped from lip to lip — "Who will the hero be?" And on our shore the angels looked And wept in sympathy. But none could find the man to go Till God said, "Jason Lee." Then Freedom cried with clarion voice, "Where is the soul so bold To tame yon howling wilderness With its buried hope and gold? Who will, for me, unfurl the flag For the millions yet to be ?" And Old Glory seemed to vibrate With the name of Jason Lee. Again the voice of heaven called, "0 w^ho will go for me. And consecrate a lonely spot In that empire by the sea, THE WESTERN SPIRIT 43 For a stately Concord of the West — A Salem yet to be?" And Heroism answered back, "The wife of Jason Lee." Anon a temple to our God Arose majestic'ly Beside the silent camping ground Where both sleep peacefully. Among a galaxy of stars, Whose shall the honor be? And some said this and some said that, But God said, "Jason Lee." In Old Willamette's hall of fame. First shall her founder be — Ah ! now methinks I see him stand On heaven's balcony — So big in body, heart, and brain. And modest dignity — The prince of western pioneers — The stalwart Jason Lee. iP- ^ ^ THE OLD BARLOAY EOAD (Written at Government Camp, Mount Hood, August 15, 1910.) Tread softly, boys, 'tis sacred dust. Though only a mountain trail, And every tree is a monument. And each stone a coffin nail. 44 THE WESTERN SPIRIT We stand on the famous Barlow Road, Cut deep in history, For o'er it came the immigrant train From "the States" to the western sea. This mile or more is abandoned now, As a better route was found. No modern wheel or automobile Has defiled the holy ground. From Sherer's bridge across De Chutes, Moved many a famished crew. Around Mount Hood, down Zigzag Gulch To the town of lievenue. Thence onward to Willamette Falls Slow crept the caravans. Or southward to Chemeckety Where now a statehouse stands. And o'er this trail for centuries gone Had the muffled moccasin passed. But the white man took the red man's road- And his wide domain at last. Here are footprints, too, of the weary feet Of the Indian mother or maid. Who bore in pain her merciless load. And her merciless lord obeyed. So the dust we tread is eloquent dust — See, here is an arrow head, iVnd these Avhispering trees arc telling the tale Of the battles of white and red. WE STAND ON THE FAMOUS BAKLOW ROAD' 46 THE WESTERN SPIRIT There's the skull of an ox by yonder rocks, And here a bit of leather — Eelics, perchance;, of the pioneers, Defying wind and weather. That cedar root, all worn and torn, Is a legend of many a line ; It was written there in human blood By the wheels of "forty-nine." And see ! This bone is a woman's arm Unearthed by the rains, no doubt. They buried her here beneath the road So the wolves wouldn't dm her out. "to And yonder slab, rough-hewed and rude, Was placed by a woman's hands; She buried her husband there, they say. Then drove on o'er the sands. Alone, she chiseled the name and date — With love and an ax 'twas done. Ah, the women that trod the Oregon Trail Were mothers and men in one ! And to journey on, what a lonesome way For her and her little flock! And every camp was farther away From the little sacred rock. And here they swung the wagons down With rope and chain and stay, For every wheel was a wheel of fate And could never return this way — THE WESTERN SPIRIT 47 Or better, wheels of Progress they, In Civilization's march, And the Zigzag Pass on the Barlow Eoacl Is the great triumphal arch. So this to me is sacred dust, Though only a "Witches' Trail," And every blaze is an epitaph, And each clod a coffin nail. # ^ ^ YELLOWSTONE PAEK— THE SECOND PAEADISE In ages past when Art was young. And Music had not found her tongue. Since man had fallen neath the curse. The Maker of the universe, In love, methinks, conceived to plan Another paradise for man. Exploring angels sought afar To find a site where nought could mar. And high upon the Eocky's crest. Like a gate to heaven for the West, They found a mystic land unknown. Which now we call the Yellowstone. ^T would be a place the race could sense The grandeur of Omnipotence; Where through the ages, hour by hour. Would be displayed his sovereign power, While every tender touch of love Would woo the soul to things above. 48 THE WESTERN SPIRIT All heights, all depths, all heat, all cold Were fashioned in a mammoth mold. Both heaven and hades tribute paid When this new paradise was made. For God in nature reigned alone In carving out the Yellowstone. But, as the hare more swiftness feels Who hears the hound upon his heels, And has another chance to live, Which fair incentives could not give, So God commends his love to men By danger signals now and then. Plence all the hideousness of hell. With lurid light and noxious smell, From every dark and dismal shore, With horrid hiss and vengeful roar Is raging like a living thing From fiery pit and Stygian spring. Great caldrons built on Titan plan. Well named "The Devil's Frying Pan," And gushing geysers vent their wrath And leave a brimstone aftermath. But, awe and fury are not all That's writ on sky and mountain wall. For Beauty is a boon that's given To bless this world, as well as heaven. Fair angel artists sought afar For shade and sheen from every star — For every rare and radiant gem. To deck the mountain's diadem. "and gushing geysers vent their wrath'^ 50 THE WESTERN SPIRIT The cliffs and clouds alike were kissed With dyes of some great alchemist, While sa})phire flame and burnished gold Were rolled in splendor, fold on fold, To arch the canyon's yawning deep, And paint the lakes that lie asleep. The "Paint Pots" and the pools are here, The "Easel Lake" and gossamer. The "Sleeping Giant" and his seat — An artist's studio all complete — The God of Beauty held his throne When heaven made the Yellowstone. Anon, the moisture-laden breeze Bore in its burden from the seas. And soon a river leaped in play And galloped toward the gates of day. While to the westward hastened one Where in the ocean falls the sun. But, that the place thus set apart Should ever keep to Nature's heart. Old warden Winter shuts the gate. And white-robed sentries stand in state. While silent moons they come and go. Until the flowrets pierce the snow. 'Tis paradise for beast and bird, Where hunter's gun is never heard. Here plays the antelope and fawn. The eagle, osprey, and the swan; The beaver builds his house in peace. The wapati and moose increase. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 51 And here converge from all the earth The friends of truth, the knights of mirth. The fainting heart and laggard brain Are girded for their task again, For God in nature reigns alone, Within the walls of Yellowstone. jg- ^ jg- THE SLEEPING GIANT (This unique natural curiosity is in Northwestern Wyo- ming, and is formed by a strange grouping of mountains. It is especially vivid and imposing from Lake Yellowstone.) for some language from on high To catch the spirit of the sky In which this monarch sleeps ! Eecumbent on his rugged throne, Where summits pierce the ether zone He crowns the beetling steeps. 52 THE WESTERN SPIRIT His white-capped sentries stand around, As if by some unearthly sound They petrified with fear. His altar fires still smolder low, His fountains leap with overflow In royal gardens near. Was he some prehistoric man, Built on the ancient Aztec plan To rule from shore to shore? Or Thor, the noisy thunder god, Put fast asleep by Morpheus' rod And left for evermore? In bold relief against the sky, With clitf-made l)row and heavy eye, Upon Ids back he lies. The spirit of the AYest, methinks. Incarnate in this sleeping sphinx, For aeons did not rise. With biggest dreams his soul is stirred. He only waits his Master's word — The clouds are flushed with dawn. But half awakened to his power. He gathers vigor for his hour. To lead the nations on. He dwells among the primal things. And save the swish of eagle's wings. And angry Lightning's tramp, Hull Silence reigns about his head — A hollow stillness draped with dread. Where things eternal camp. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 53 His couch is veiled with mountain mist, His brow is by the morning kissed, And his the last good-night. Above the petty strifes of man, Where Envy smites, and keeps who can, He faces toward the light. How like our race that cumbent form ! A target where the Titan storm With fiery feet has trod ! And when it seemed that it was sleeping, An age-long vigil it w^as keeping. Still looking up to God. jg- eg- J^ ODE TO MOUNT HOOD (Written at Mount Hood, August 14, 1910.) Author of music, majesty, and might, Lift me to nobler heights than I have known — Expand my soul, breathe bigness in my words, For mighty Hood demands a song high-pitched Above mere Kipling rhymes and common things. No puny pipes 0' Pan play here on reeds. But Boreas, whose smile the rainbow is. Sounds forth his deep-voiced organ of the North. Majestic monarch of the proud Cascades, I drink thy beauty as the gates of dawn Are lifting o'er thy gilded glacier fields. Was heaven stripped of all her gorgeous dyes To paint this rainbow on the skies, that fills The vast horizon's arcli, and crowns in light Thy solemn silhouette against the sky? WHi < o o Q O M H o Q h- 1 H THE WESTERN SPIRIT 55 What cataclysm reared thy mighty form And strewed thy fragments for a hmidred miles? Does old Mollis, fabled King of Winds, Dwell here, "Steel's Cliff'' his brazen sounding board, His acolytes the harpies of the storm ? From whence this curling smoke and sulphur fumes, And why this heat around thy ancient throat? AYill Stygian fury some day spew its rage Anew on lurid skies and leaping hills? On Cloud Cap Inn, and new Pompeii's Camps? No "Alps on Alps" beyond thy crest arise. With ermine robe and Hermes' fleecy veil Thou hast the morn's first kiss and last good-night. Just now the dove of peace hangs o'er thy head And hovers gently in the sleepy clouds, Which pendant hang as o'er a newborn heaven — But while I speak, I hear the rumbling storm Like chariots o'er these hollow fields of ice. And heaven's dome is etched with zigzag light, And frescoed with the foam that breaks around Thy head — the target of the thunderbolt. Thy lakes and caves are reservoirs of power, Thy cliffs and canyons, autographs of God. These pinnacles are heaven-pointing hands. These jutting ledges, arabesques divine. N"o Pharaoh bleaches 'neath thy pyramid — Nor was it built by blood of goaded serfs — ■ The Lord alone reigns here — he was, and is. And is to be thine only potentate. 56 THE WESTERN SPIRIT THE INDIAN DEATH WAIL All the village of Rikawrus Is a pageant of mii'th, As a band of Cheyenne wari'iors, With their painted shield and girth, Eide and chant a song of triumph, All in war paints bloody red, With a crest of eagle feathers Bristling gayly from each head. Hear the dance and savage music — Roman revel gone insane — Old and young in gaudy trappings — Painted demons "raisins: Cain." Scalps and trophies, shields and banners Deck the wigwams and the trees — Shouting heralds spread the tidings Of the recent victories. Bonfires glare in garish glee. Ghoulish shadows farther crawl, Till a silence suddenly O'er the feasting seems to fall. From the bleak and barren mountain, Looming grim upon the plain. Comes a wail upon the night wind Like a desert ghost in pain. 58 THE WESTERN SPIRIT Worse than wail of starving panther, Dismal as from doomed souls. Louder, longer, wilder, weirder, Wave on wave the anguish rolls. They are j^oor, defenseless women — Women wailing for their dead — Hungry, cold, and all forsaken — Winter's blast upon their head. One by one had they departed, When a runner first revealed That a husband, son, or lover Had been left upon the field. Lonely Chip-pe-wy-an Mountains Mock the cadence of their cry — If the wolf-pack soon assembles They will neither fight nor fly. Tell me not, sordid Saxon, That an Indian cannot feel — That the "font of his affections Has been frozen cold as steel.'' True, he has been dwarfed and hardened- Made to drink life's bitter mead. Made the target of the tempest. And the victim of our greed. But, Shoshone or Cheyenne, Sioux, Nez Perce, Powhatan — Still beneath the stoic breast Beats the aching heart of man. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 59 THE GARDEN IN THE SKIES I see a garden in the skies, Fresh with celestial showers — Is it some mirage of j^aradise? Or the spirit land of flowers? Whatever it be, It seems to me More beautiful than ours. Above the purple hills of dawn A giant sunflower peeps, And when his yellow disk is gone And the moon her voyage keeps. She's a lily — Pale and chilly. On her azure lake she sleeps. Yon burnished clouds are floral banks On the grave of Yesterday — See the sable nuns in broken ranks File down the j^ath to pray, And strew the night With petals white, Which makes the "Milky Way" ! A comet is a big bouquet Trailed headlong in a race; Each star a white anemone Emplanted in her place — So shy and pale. So fair and frail. She gives the garden grace. 6o THE WESTERN SPIRIT When through the clouds at evening's ebb, I saw those twmkling eyes, It used to seem a diamond web Where sifted gold-dust lies, But now it seems That perfume streams From a flower bed in the skies ! i ^-^ ,' >*. y.m' ^ ^ > -'3 '0>^ PIER AZURE LAKE SHE SLEEPS" THE WESTERN SPIRIT 6i ODE TO ASTOEIA On Columbia's broadened breast At the Gateway of the West Is a city which the Muses did decree Was to sit a sylvan queen On her terraced hills of green While she listens to the music of the sea. Once a famous financier With a j)rophet's listful ear Built a rustic little hamlet on the shore. With its rugged palisade In the gloomy forest shade, Methinks that I can see it as of yore. In the mists of early dawn, In the century agone, I seem to hear a siren as it sings : "Let the trapper ply his trade. While the dusky Clatsop maid Looks wdth wonder on ^the ships with the wings.' "Let the sportive spotted fawn Feed upon the sylvan la^vn, But mind the couchant shadow in the tree ! Let the mighty, magic river Mingle with the mists forever As it's wedded to the Avaters of the sea. "0 the lonely, nameless shore Where dumb silence evermore ,Is but deepened by the sobbing of the tide ! the mute and mulBed sigh When the bloody arrows fly. And a scalp is brought a-quiver to a bride" ! Q I— I < P o o p X H I— I H THE WESTERN SPIRIT 63 But the mystery and maze Of romantic early days Are but setting for the centuries before. There's a flush upon the sky, Her crowning day is nigh, And she finds herself sitting at the world's front door. Port of entry potentate, In an empire growing great, Stretching eastward to the Eocky Mountain's crest — Pioneer of pioneers, Gath'ring treasure with the years. Old Astoria, the Brooklyn of the West ! Not an isolated post, But a city she shall boast Where the ships shall ride at anchor from the world. Firmly fixed by N'ature's law On the path to Panama, Let her banners to the breeze be unfurled. Astoria, my pride. On Columbia's heaving tide. With the balmy ocean breath on your breast. May your purpose point as high As your cedars in the sky, While you safely guard the Gateway of the West. ^ ^ ^ THE PATH TO PANAMA Bring your dredges. Uncle Sam, Now they're done at Gatun Dam, Open up our channel mouth For the traffic going south, < O H M H <1 P4 W O o THE WESTERN SPIRIT 65 Di^i^- it deep and dig it wide, Make Invention help the tide, For the busiest place you ever saw Will be the Path to Panama. Stand upon the dock w4th me In a year or two and see ! ^Tilot," calls some Southern Star, "How much water on the bar?'^ "Forty feet or there about. Enough to float the navy out — With all the water you can draw. We're on the Path to Panama." Upon the Path to Panama! Where gulls have nuggets in their craw — Where Golden Gates are swinging free, And doughnuts ripen on the tree — Where fish have "silver sides" and skies Are painted rich with "Diamond Dyes" — And "swellest" tides without a flaw Will sweep the Path to Panama. And now's the time we're glad to be Upon this highway of the sea. 'Tis Uncle Samuel's royal road, Where all the nations will "be showed," For the biggest fair you ever saw Will grace the Path to Panama. "So bring you ma and bring your pa" Along the Path to Panama. 66 THE WESTERN SPIRIT OEEGON HOLLY (Why should not Berberis Aquifolium, or Oregon Grape, become to our Pacific Coast what holly is to England? Could it not be suggestive of all the sentiments of patriot- ism, home and religion, and especially foster veneration for the pioneer, and all that is distinctively Western in spirit?) As holly tells of feudal days, Of yuletide feasts and laughter, So thou, the pride of Oregon, Shall trail thy glories after. When woodland flowers are all asleep And hazel wands are bare, You reign like some primeval chief Who oft has tented there. Your leaves are laundered by the rain. And glossed by winter's wing To garnish festive hall and home. And the temples of our King. Hast holly sharper spines than thou? Her leaves a richer hue? If she should boast of berries red. Boast thou of berries blue. And if perchance, from prestige proud. She does not grant your greatness. Then take this arrow and atone . For any charge of lateness : "O'er every sea the healed have sung The virtues of my root — Can English Mary's famous tree Make bitters from its foot?" THE WESTERN SPIRIT 67 Let holly reign in Britain's land And Scotland sing of heather; For ns, the grape of Oregon Has both their charms together. jg. ^ ^ BACK TO ALBANY A bird turned loose among the flowers, In the San Diego smi, Soon sighed to see the gentle showers, And struck for Oregon — About an hour, it seems to me, Till it arrived at Albany. A cat, blindfolded in the night Outside the college door, Was carried in a box car tight A thousand miles or more — The train was wrecked, but all agree The cat showed up in Albany. A man got dry, in this temperance town, And struck for a faster place — He wandered the nation up and down Till his purse was empty space — Then rode a "brake'' from Tennessee, To get back home to Albany. A native here once died, they say, And went to Paradise, He viewed it o'er in a listless way. With a look of sad surprise — Then formed a club and prayed to be Sent back to boost for Albany. 68 THE WESTERN SPIRIT THE WESTWAED MARCH PRELUDE Beside some lost Alaskan lake, The Plover born in Spring ; Ere rising for his southward flight, Before the Winter King, First circles round his native ground To train his tender wing. Tlie lake is all the world to him, The world itself a dream; But instinct paints within his breast Some placid southern stream; And braver grown, he cleaves the zone, In Autumn's glint and gleam. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 69 With kindling eye and pinion strong, At league on league laughs he; The mountain air is wine to him, And wine the heaving sea ; Until the Southland of his dream Becomes reality. So, modestly, Muse of mine, Unfold thy wings for me, And fed by ozone from on high, Emboldened thou shalt be. And Comrade true, whoe'er thou art. Lend us thy company. The voyage now for you and me Is still a way unknown. As westward round the globe we fly. In pathways all our own; Then shrink not at the Alpine blast. Or at the ocean's moan ! THE DEPARTURE As fairy Sleep her gos'mer wove Across my weary brain, Methought I saw an angel form, Come flying o'er the main. And pause upon my sleeping porch. And shake the dripping rain. She gently touched me on the brow. And whispered earnestly: ^'Wouldst read the record of your race? Arise and fly with me — The earth is all ablaze with light. And man too blind to see !" 70 THE WESTERN SPIRIT I know not how I found my wings, I only know I flew — 'Twas easy as the zephyr's wing, That sweeps the morning dew. My strange companion spoke again, As near my side he drew : "Progressns is my earthly name — Impulse I never lack; But ever onward keep my course. Across the zodiac." He touched my eyes and bid me look Along Earth's backward track. A flash ! A strange mysterious light ! I raised my eyes to look. As mists were rolled in heaps of gold While Morn her tresses shook, I saw the centuries unfold. As plain as any book. THE WESTERN SPIRIT BORN Behold a Pilgrim, staff in hand, With God alone his guest; He walks by faith the desert waste. The Promised Land his quest; He turns his back on ancient Ur — 'Tis Abram going West ! The shifting ages onward march In stately steps sublime ; I see three Wise Men pass in view. Their camel bells a-chime, And in their hearts I read the quest Of the knighthood of all time. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 71 Upon all pioneers of Truth Their mantles fall anon. The world's long night has Avaned at last, The East is streaked with dawn; A star hangs over Bethlehem, And westward beckons on. FOUR FAMOUS SEAS Thus westward ever leads the star Of human destinies, And sheds its fairest radiance Around four famous seas; And each is greater than the last, Like God's divine decrees. And first we see fair Galilee Where Jesus walked and talked. Dispensing Balm of Gilead Where sin and sorrow stalked. And saving sailors blanched with fear While in the storm they rocked. But Jordan's hills cannot enchain The Life divinely great. Behold ! He speaks ! Creation moves ! The nations march in state ! Jerusalem rejects her Lord — "Her house is desolate." Her treasure stores are moved to Eome, Like honey moved by bees; The restless spirit is released. And seeks for larger seas. Till Tiber's triremes press beyond The Gates of Hercules. 72 THE WESTERN SPIRIT The Levant soon is left behind For a wilder^ wider sea; The human current pours across Old Gaul to Brittany, And all the region throbs with life From Cork to Zuyder Zee. The nations catch the Wanderlust; It burns in every vein ; 'Tis "Westward ho, with a rumbelo And hurrah for the Spanish Main" ; And the prow of Progress, westward bent. Shall ne'er turn back again. I hear the flap of the salty sail. And the shout of the gallant tars, As around the great Atlantic's rim They march like Sons of Mars, Until upon the western world They plant a flag of stars. Then caravans of pioneers Pushed westward still and on. Till the path ran into an Indian trail And the trail itself was gone ! They thought they saw the setting sun — 'Twas only early dawn. The Star of Empire did not set. E'en at Pacific's brink; It blazed a chain of light across. Each Isle a golden link. Till drowsy Nippon's startled hosts At living fountains drink. > 1-1 > o o o o H P PI M 74 THE WESTERN SPIRIT The king of oceans leashed at last ! And here shall heaven behold The grandest drama of all time Its mighty role unfold; And here the kingdoms of the earth Shall pour their filtered gold. THE CONQUEST OF THE FUTURE Is time no more, Pilot mine ? " ^Tis but begun/^ quoth he, "A thousand centuries with God Are but as yesterday" — And cycles rolled like dust of gold Above a silver sea. The great processional moved on Across the gulf of years; They scaled the walls of Prejudice, And sailed the sea of Fears ; They left a streak of light and love Where all was blood and tears. And in the vision I could see No clash of race or tongue — No discord in the marching step, Or in the song they sung. But with the stride of victory Around the earth they swung. CONCLUSION Mine eyes were opened then to see My messenger so meek. The angel of the Lord was he — THE WESTERN SPIRIT 75 I bowed to hear him speak : "God is himself the Holy Grail The nations blindly seek." Each renaissance the world has known AVas born at his behest; Brave Progress wears his symbol trne Upon a valiant crest; Disguised, God leads the column still In the spirit of the West. The world is all ablaze with light, But man's too blind to see. "And East is East and West is West/' But one the twain shall he. When the peace of God shall fill the earth As the waters fill the sea! "STILL BORE ALOFT THE BANNER BRIGHT, WHILE THUNDER CLOUDS WERE RIVEN' THE WESTERN SPIRIT 77 A SONG FOR INDEPENDENCE DAY Arise and shout, ye native sons ! And sing, ye daughters fair ! Your natal sun ascends the East And rides in glory there. And in the sky methinks I see A gay mirage of light Eeflected from a million flags With stars emblazoned bright. And let the eagle scream her joy Who, through the fateful years When war baptized the land with blood And washed it with its tears, Still bore aloft the banner bright, While thunder clouds were riven. Until it caught the falling stars From heaven in tribute given. And shout ! Ye millions foreign-born, Who sought this western world To pluck fair Freedom's rarest flowers And keep her flag unfurled. And let the echoes roll and roll, In a ravishing refrain. From sweet magnolias of the South To princely pines of Maine. Let Yukon's golden trumpet sound. And bells of freedom ring From every isle that nestles now Beneath the eagle's wing. 78 THE WESTERN SPIRIT Let cascades leap^, and ge^j^sers play, And oceans roar their glee, Till a tidal wave of liberty Shall roll from sea to sea ! 1^ * * THE VISIT OF THE FLEET ("There go the Ships." — David.) In a long majestic line against the sky I see the massive squadron marching by — Great bristling 2:)alaces of triple steel, But riding smooth as coots upon the keel. Each of the score, a fortress all complete. Could hide old Jason's Argonauts and fleet. Ten thousand men they bear, with shot and shell Enough to storm old Satan's citadel. '&' And see the clouds from vulcan chimneys rolled ! A mountain chain in ebony and gold. That floats as graceful on the lingering dawn As taAvny tresses of an Amazon. Green forests wave a welcome to our home. And eagles scream from old Sierra's dome. Let Shasta swing the Golden Gate and smile, AVhile Lick^ shall flash the news to Luzon's Isle! For old Balboa's ocean never bore A pageant half so grand as this before ; A thousand centuries she had to wait To see Columbia's fleet march by in state. 'The Lick Observatory, California. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 79 Sail on ! ye i^roiid policemen of the deep, While safely now Pacific cities sleep. Sail on ! Sail on ! till navies sail no more — Till the dove of Peace shall reign on every shore. ^ ^ ^ THE CHRIST OF ARGENTINE (In 1898, war between Chile and Argentine having been averted by arbitration, a bronze statue of Christ was erected on the very summit of the Andes, on the disputed boundary line, as a monument of perpetual peace.) 0, blood-red races, lift yonr eyes Toward the Southern Cross ! Two valiant rivals rise above The war clouds' direful loss. And these the lands that once' were torn By the bloody Almagro — Where freedom followed Bolivar A hundred years ago ! How oft they trod the crimson path The race itself hath trod, And trampled on the flower of Peace, That sacred fioAver of God. But now on Andes' dazzling height, The earth and heaven between. They lift the nations' arbiter — The Christ of Argentine! Then come, thou sturdy Southern sons. Receive thou each a star ! A nobler coronet you've won Than e'er was won in war. 8o THE WESTERN SPIRIT Your nitrate beds and sulphur mines That fed the fumes of hell, Shall hurl a thousand blessings now, Instead of shot and shell. And bleeding Mercy, lift thy head ! The race will yet be free ! The Christ of Peace has been enthroned Where all the world can see. Grim prophet of the Golden Dawn, Majestic and serene. The snowy peak thy pedestal, Thou Christ of Argentine ! Let fair Aurora Australis Use all her magic light To paint a halo o'er thy head On winter's silent night. Then flash a signal to The Hague, And one to heaven be hurled; "The parliament of man appears, The federated world !" Forever hold thy regal throne. The earth and heaven between. Till all the tribes have joined their hands With Christ of Argentine ! ^ ^ ^ HYMN FOR MEMORIAL DAY Lift your eyes to yonder city On the placid plains of Peace ! See the human river flowing In a stream that does not cease ! THE WESTERN SPIRIT 8i '"Tis "the river that makes happy The city of our God/^ Where the priceless blood of freedom Never stains the sacred sod. Those the royal knights and noble Who once died to keep their tryst As they bound their country's colors Eound the banner of their Christ. See them passing through the portals ! See the epaulets they wear ! Kindred spirits, brave immortals, For the hero's home so fair. See the scarred and halting remnant Who their Captain's call await! Painfully the white procession Presses upward to the gate. But the ranks are ever filling With the souls who dare to die For their faith in God and country And a holy purpose high. Maids and mothers still are lifted In that sublimated love Where they live on lost caresses And the treasured hopes above. Still in tears they bid their warriors, "Go and battle for the right," While they brave life's long nightwatches That the land may have the light. 82 THE WESTERN SPIRIT And recruits will e'er be ready For the battles yet to be, Till a flag of truce is lifted Over every land and sea. ^ ^ ^ MENTAL HOEIZONS T. Mr. Smallman — Selfishness. With the markets his spirits rise and fall, His sympathy stops with stomach wall. He would pull the world in his little shell, Nor glance to see who stood or fell. Both church and charity plead in vain, And a school tax simply raises Cain. But thanks to nature, few survive. Hatched in this Lillij^utian hive. II. Mr. Booster — Civic Pride. His interest leaps to the city line — "The civic weal," he cries, "is mine," And I cheer him on with a loud, "Amen !" But listen a moment, he's shouting again — "No neighbor town is worth a cent — They all are grafters — after rent — *^The coming London,' '^the Western Hub' — But the spokes are short — '^aye, there's the rul).' " He tries to boost his little town By knocking other boosters down. III. Mr. Wholecoast— The Western Spirit. But a larger soul rides in the list. And swings a lariat in his fist — THE WESTERN SPIRIT 83 (^Tis only a Jiabit from earlier date, For now lie is dealing in real estate) — • And he cries, ^'The West ! The wild, wide West! From Nome to Frisco, the last and best I" It tingles my blood like a veteran's gun, And I cheer for the land of the setting sun. IV. Colonel Spreadeagle — Patriotism. But I hear the tramp of a marching host; Then look l)eyond our far-flung coast As our spangled flag goes floating by. And freedom's shout ascends the sky; "America" we proudly sing, And the orator bears us on the wing : "Xo East, or West, no Xorth, or South, For the nation bought at the cannon's mouth !" V. Professor Whitepride — Race Prejudice. Anon approaches a critical sage, Unrolling the record from age to age. And cries in a cold and cynical whine, ^'My brotherhood stops with the color line — ■ The Anglo-Saxon race for me — The race that was and is to be; Down with the rest, a mongrel herd, Whether Jap or German, Swede or Kurd !" VI. Brother Bigheart — Christianity. The creed I hold is too divine To be walled in by a color line. I praise the Lord for a humble place In the mighty Anglo-Saxon race. 84 THE WESTERN SPIRIT All circles of loyalty I prize, But a vaster vision greets my eyes. I shout for the East, I shout for the West — I shout for our nation God has blest, But my horizon is the race — Its radius great as God's own grace. From my heart's embrace I let none go, Whether man in the mansion, or "man with the hoe"- Hurrah for humanity's rich, red blood. That throbs its way to the throne of God. ^ ^ ^ THE EAGLE EIDE; OE, SEE FIEST THY NATIVE LAND "The eye may well be glad that looks Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall, But he who sees his native brooks Laugh in the sun has seen them all." I The bell tolled "Ten" ; then sang "Eleven" in glee And yet I mused. Then rising restlessly I gazed across the 'luring moonlit sea Where siren voices ever call. I held a "Tourist Guide" from lands afar, Adorned with Alpine staff and jaunting car — "I'Jl see earth's wonderland," I told a star, "From Hammerfest to Aspinwall." II The "Wanderlust" still gnawing at my mind. Upon my couch I carelessly reclined And slept. But suddenly a bird unkind, More weird than ever haunted Poe, 'A BIRD . . . MORE WEIRD THAX EVER HAUXTED POE 86 THE WESTERN SPIRIT With flapping wing, against the window pressed — Then bursting through, the wild, uncanny guest Drew near, "Old Glory" floating from his crest. His tawny feathers flecked with snow. Ill Erect, defiant, like an outraged king He stood, as if a challenge he would bring, And execute with cruel threatening wing, Eude blood-stained claws and Eoman beak. His eye like liquid fire upon me gleamed. And with the same imperial pose he screamed, "See first thy native land," while proudly streamed His banner with those words in Greek. IV One "solar plexus" then I seemed to be — The earth spun round with such rapidity That Stars and Stripes was all that I could see. But, lo ! at length I seemed to glide Far inland from my cot beside the main. O'er seas of evergreen, till from the plain I saw Multnomah's cascades leap in vain And tumble in Columbia's tide. V But towering specter-like above the scene, Her glacier fields the earth and heaven between, We spied Mount Hood, enthroned as Western Queen, And near her stood her waiting maids. The Sisters Three, all sweet in gowns of white. But northward now my escort took his flight Above Bach's fabled "Bridge" — uncanny sight Of wild romance and Indian shades. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 87 VI Soon Puget's waters in the moonlight glare — A sea ensnarled among the mountains there, It lay a-dreaming of the Yukon Fair, Earth's Mecca for the coming hour — A world of beauty cast in magic mold ! Arena for the races young and old, Where Eastern gem shall vie with Western gold For world supremacy and power ! VII The pale Olympics caught Boreas' beam, And like a line of turbaned gods, they seem To throw this legend on the night's wild dream : "See fair Columbia first of all." Soon Walla Walla's waving wheat I saw. Then Yellowstone's enchanted ground, in awe I viewed, and heard earth's hungry, hissing maw Belch forth Plutonian rage, and fall. VIII Old Faithful played "America," I know. And e'en the bear and elk and buffalo All seemed to snort their protest, ere I go Abroad in search of scenery. And burnt in living letters on the flag That backward bent like horns of flying stag. And echoing from the beetling mountain crag And borne by blizzards to the sea, IX I heard the same imperious command : "See first — see first — thine own — thy native land" ! H I— I P o w H o p P4 CO THE WESTERN SPIRIT 89 It rose and rolled like some celestial band O'er inland seas and sweeping plain — O'er Northern pines, and sighing cypress trees Where f reedmen chanted it upon the breeze, Till old Niag'ra, striking all lier keys, Roared forth the same sublime refrain. X Above this liquid tempest, wheeling wild. My winged steed disported like a child And shrieked: "Can Ehine or Ehone, or Poe so mild Exhibit one Xiag'ra Falls?" But eastward blown by some tremendous gust, We looked on marble pile and noble bust Where stately elms weep over Concord's dust — Our own Westminster's classic halls. XI Witli southward sweep o'er many a hero's tomb, We caught the breath of "Sweet Magnolias' bloom," And saw the Everglades awake from gloom To burnish bright their southern star. But seized by restless romance of the West, O'er Houston's far-flung plains he pushed his breast — Before "The Holy Cross" he bowed his crest. And lightnings flashed the scene afar. XII Old "Eagle City" first his homage drew, Then "Garden of the Gods" and "Manitou," And up the spiral road of Pike he flew — That conquered monarch of the air — go THE WESTERN SPIRIT And thrilled by kindred taste in building homes, He flapped his pinions o'er the cliff -built domes Where Toltec tribes have left their sphinxine gnomes To guard their ancient glory there. XIII Low swooping where the Colorado curled, With dipping wing, a hundred leagues he whirled Adown the one great canyon of the world. My heart was wild with native pride! Six thousand feet below the wond'ring sky ! Six thousand feet of terraces on high ! As if by Titans plowed in years gone by. The earth's bare breast lay open wide. XIV But soon "The City of the Angels" shone— Where nature, art, and gold conspire in one To fuse the fairest gem the world has known — One wilderness of wealth and flowers. The Golden Gate still guarded bay and brine. Her goddess radiant from her vulcan shrine. And over orange grove and mead and mine We swept, where King Sequoi towers. XV Past wild Yosemite's gorge my bird sped on — Old Shasta, like a white mirage was gone. And Crater Lake lay smiling at the dawn That crept across volcanic sand. I next expected Yukon's golden shore, But heard fair Ban don's breakers roar And mingle with a parting cry above my door — "See first of all thy native land." m < o o o o o o M M Q H 92 THE WESTERN SPIRIT FATHEE HUCKLEBEERY AND THE AEEOPLANE Well^ 'Mandy, I got home alive, But it's Providence, I guess, For Baldy run the last two miles Like the "Limited Express." I knew he seemed to feel his oats, And still could jump a fence. But I supposed his fourteen years Had given him some sense. He got his Arab ginger up At Mulkey's water trough, And he's never liked that motor car Since they took the horses off. Aud then the wheels and auto-beels Were a-paintin' up the town. Till when I crossed them depot tracks I couldn't hold him down. I had that anxious feelin', Like the dove in Noah's ark. But I seemed to keep my bearin' Till I passed that Goltra Park. When suddently I heard a noise That nearly struck me blind, And saw a big new-fangled thing With a whirl-a-gig behind. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 93 ^Twas like a Salem Easter hat, With its double deck and riggin', And its yards of wire and canvas All a-jmnpin' and a-jiggin'. And settin' on the runnin' gear A-trailin' o'er the trees, Was a man a-ridin' on it As happy as yon please. I thought some "Open Eiver" craft Had blown up from resistance, And tried a-floatin' overland To shorten up the distance. It was puffin' at its engine, And a-flappin' of its wings, Like Old Nick himself was flyin' — And a lot o' other things. Then it kind o' dawned upon me. Since it didn't touch the ground. It must be Burkhart's air machine, A-aviatin' 'round. Of course, from force of habit, I pulled and hollered. Whoa! But it only made him hump himself, And you ought to see him go ! The buckboard tetered back and forth On a single wheel or two, And only hit the highest bumps. Like the scorchin' autos do. 94 THE WESTERN SPIRIT His tail streamed like the comet's tail, His ears were laid down tight — Why, no one needs an air machine When Baldy gets scared right. . So you can have Darius Green, If you keep him out the road, But I prefer the good old ground. And a little bigger load. FATHER HUCKLEBEEEY AT SEATTLE Well, I^ni takin' in Seattle, As the postal mark will show. And I've been here once before. But you wouldn't ever know. For tlie place has been a-changin' Like a girl of sweet sixteen. And a fourteen-story build in' Stands as stately as a queen. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 95 And then little baby oceans That got tangled in the hills Caught the new "Seattle Spirit" And are runnin' boats and mills. And I kind 0' lose my compass, For the car lines twist like snakes Till I seem about to meet myself A-comin' round the lakes. Why, it's one conglomeration Of the city and the sea, And it makes me pause and wonder AVhat its destiny will be. As I watched a train, a-glitterin' Like a comet on the night, It dove beneath the city, And again appeared in sight. And they're diggin' out a channel To Lake Washington the sweet, Where the ships of Uncle Samuel Can come and wash their feet. And they took old Denny Mountain And they cast it in the sea. For their faith is mostly workin' And a-bringin' things to be. Of course the latest thing in Fairs Is the A. Y. P. unique — Where your dollars love to linger As you "pay 'em in a streak." 96 THE WESTERN SPIRIT I had watched the fiery serpents Climbin' up the Bon Marche And was loafin' ^roimd among the parks That bloom along the bay, When a measly little fellow Saidj a-squealvin' through his nose, ^'Don^t it make a Beaver jealous The way Seattle grows?'' And I straightened up my shoulders Like a boy of twenty-two, And I said, ^'The Western Spirit Should be big enough for two." So here's to Portland and Seattle With their treasures and their trains. But they needn't knock each other 'Cause they feel their growin' pains ! eg. jg- 'g. WEBFOOT m THE LEAD Well, I've been to see the capers That they're cuttin' at the fair. And you bet there's somethin' doing And old Webfoot's gettin' there. Why, I'd come to the conclusion That we'd kind o' gone to seed. And the other big exhibits Would be trottin' in the lead. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 97 But you'd ought to see them fellers From the dried-up eastern slopes — Why, they call our cherries peaches, And our peaches cantaloupes ! And we have a little saplin', For to hold the flag, you see. And they nearly break their necks Just a-lookin' up the tree. And a feller lost his manners When he "watched Tacoma grow" — But a slab that we're a-showin' Did some growin' long ago. And there was Homer^ makin' pictures. And Miller^ makin' rhymes, (And a lot of other fellers That were there to make the dimes). And I said, "Trot out your talent With a pencil or a pen !" And it seemed to me that Webfoot Was a-gettin' there again. And talk about "Kentucky beauties'^ And "The lilies of the South"— Why, beside our Mossback maidens They're like roses in a drought ! And I saw some soldiers drillin' With an "M" upon their caps. And I heard the people sayin' "Them's a husky lot 0' chaps !" 1 Homer Davenport. 2 Joaquin Miller. 98 THE WESTERN SPIRIT And when a Webfoot hits "the trail" With his knapsack on his back, Why, it's hard to find the feller That can make a bigger track. AXD THE OTHER BIG EXIIIRIT8 jg- jg- jg- MY FIRST PIECE OF BEAIi In the fall of '95, While the boys were on the drive A-roundin' np the cattle on the range, A trapper friend of mine Caught a brnin, fat and fine. For the momitains of N"ehalem nothin' strange. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 99 And lie cut me off a piece, And I fried it in the grease, And I thought I had a morsel very rare; But it smelled so kind o' funny, Like a mess of fish and honey — As I sized up my first piece of bear. But nothin' could be finer, And a hungry '^Forty-niner" Would have eaten more than that for his share ! But my stomach kept objectin', And I sorter sat reflecting Whether I could really eat a piece of bear. 100 THE WESTERN SPIRIT And it kept a kind o' stickin', And I thought I felt it kickin', As I swallowed at my first piece of bear; Then I braced against the table, With a look the ancient fable Said the Trojans in a battle used to wear. And I just shut my eyes And pounced upon my prize, Like I didn't have a minute for to spare ; And I guess it holds to reason That you needn't stop to season, When you get a fellow hungry as a bear. And oftentimes you'll find That your taste is in your mind When you're turnin' up your nose in the air; If you didn't know its name, You could eat it and be game, And not struggle with your first piece of bear. ^ ^ ^ A HUSTLE FOE THE EAIE Come, hurry up. Sonny, And rustle your money ! No time to chase chipmunks if you're to be there ! And you, Mollie and Bess, Be a makin' that dress. For this is the summer we go to the Fair ! They'll have all o' them shows And nobody knows How big it will be till a fellow gets there ! THE WESTERN SPIRIT loi There's all the concessions From foreign possessions — And your quality cousins will be at the Fair ! The world's comin' our way, But sharpers they say Keep you watchin' your wallet and loaded for bear- But we'll camp on the "Trail" If it takes the last nail, For we've dug mighty hard to help fix for the Fair. Then hurry up, Johnny, And rustle your money. And get your new jacket and slick up your hair ! Turn the calf with the cow, And arrange it somehow So the last little Webfoot can go to the Fair. ^ ^ ^ GLACIEE PARK At last we've reached the famous place Where panthers pant and glaciers glace; Where clouds float low and fish jump high, And icy summits pierce the sky; Where icebergs in a lakelet float. Where a boy's a boy, and a kid's a goat ; Where deer and "dears" play on the rocks. And the latter wear bisected frocks; Where the bighorn plays his sheepish tricks. And moose are not in politics; H Q M H M P >^ O THE WESTERN SPIRIT 103 Where avalanches crack and creak, And Satan slides on "Heaven's Peak"; Where hell and heaven both are near, Where grub and greenbacks disappear; Where the tipsy tip the bottle, And the ladies tip the guide; And the packload tips the pony, Till he tumbles down the slide. Where a hotel is a "chalet," And a tourist is a "dude"; Where the porcupine pines When the tenderfeet intrude. eg. eg- jg. UNCLE ABE'S ADVICE You great, big loafin' darky ! A- whin in' like a whelp. While yo' neighbor's hay's a-spilin' 'Case he can't git any help ! I want to tell yo', honey, De worl' won't treat you white If yo' wait to load yo' musket Till de possum is in sight. When yo' was a youngster, Isaac, Yo' wouldn't go to school, But played aroun' de barnyard Like a triflin', yearlin' mule. 104 THE WESTERN SPIRIT Yo' wouldn't work nor learn a trade, Now, when de day's half done, Yo'se a-huntin' for life's possum Wid a little empty gun. Quit yo' grumblin' 'bout yo' chances ! Shed dat coat and grab dat fork ! Even white folks should go hungry When dey git too good to work. Stuff a little amernishun In dat woolly head to-night — Bettah always do yo' loadin' 'Fore de possum is in sight. ^ ^ ^ TO AN EDITOR (On the Return of a Manuscript.) So my '^'lines are too heavy" — you "want something light"— "With less of humanity's battle for right" — "With more of the jingle, and less of the march" — You want it like linen without any starch ! "Just touches of fancy," "without any fun" — That wilts like an onion leaf out in the sun ! Just gushes of "sentiment" — mushy and thin. That won't provoke thinking, or even a grin. Your "popular writers" apparently think That poetry's nothing but rhyming and ink. With no sweep of the fancy, no food for the brain, They drizzle on smoothly like Oregon rain. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 105 They must rise and strike fire with their rhythmical lyre, Or their tame little ditties are born to expire. Why if rhymiiig, not climbing, is all there is to it, I can write it myself — I've a notion to do it. I'm inclosing a sample — an ample example — Of somid without sense, not worth a sixpence. I hope it will suit, for it scarce could be worse Than reams of the stuff you are printing for verse. 1^ «■ * THE EMPTY GUN (Suggested by the numerous accidents from guns that were supposed to be empty.) You may loop the loop, and leap the gap, You may bump the bumps, and trap the trap, You may shoot the chutes, and scoot the scoot^ And dive the dive in a parachute; You may run an auto through a train, And skim the sea in an aeroplane. You may mount a buffalo on the run. And then get killed b}^ an empty gun. You may rob the rattler of his skin, And pull the beard on a lion's chin. You may wade through blood, and swallow fire, And brave an Irish woman's ire; You may crook the crooks at the 'Frisco fair. And sell your gizzard to a millionaire And live it through and think it's fun, But you can't get by the empty gun. io6 THE WESTERN SPIRIT EUEAL PEOGEBSS; OR, WE'EE LIVIN' 'MOST IN TOWN So you're sorry for us fellows With the hayseed in our hair, As you see tlie world's procession Leave us hangin' in the air ! And you think I'd trade this homestead For a little '^fifty feet" Down among the dingy buildin's At the foot of Market Street? Now I want to tell you, stranger, While my dinner settles down. That us farmers in the country Are a-livin' 'most in town. Why the horses used to caper When they saw a little bike. Like they thought "Old Nick" himself Was a-ridin' up the pike. Now, when they meet an auto, As it's puttin' on the style On our gilt-edged granite highway, They seem to kind o' smile. Like they think it must he winded. As its breathin' is so loud. And they wonder if it's rattled From the racket o' the crowd. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 107 And we get your city daily By the handy R. F. D., While the Mexicans are chasin' One another up a tree. And John is in the college — How it stirs a father's pride ! For he's captain of the football, And takes learnin' on the side. And Mary's takin' music — (Kow she calls herself Marie), And has all the variations As far as I can see. And we have the very preacher That last year preached for you, For he's restin' in the country. Just as others ought to do. We are phonin' to the neighbors. And a motor line's projected. And they'll fire a "wireless" at us If we are not soon protected. And we're raisin' coreless apples To take with us to the fair, And we'll harness up our trotters And will beat the motor there. But when we're tired of tumult And a-campin' on "The Trail," We will strike for clover blossoms And the pipin' of the quail. io8 THE WESTERN SPIRIT And while eatin' Jersey butter And a-layin^ in the shade We will pity that poor fellow That was anxious for a trade. I want to tell you, stranger, While my dinner settles down. That us farmers up the valley Are a-livin' 'most in town. > H-l W h-1 % 1 <1 K ^ w f^ M <1 m P no THE WESTERN SPIRIT MEMORY^S DREAM I dreamed a dream — but who can tell If breathed from heaven or born in hell ! There glided from the wings of night An angel fair — a shrouded sprite. These mismatched ghosts of joy and jDain Danced hand in hand across my brain — Together sang a sad sweet song Of bliss divine and speechless wrong. They both upon my heart-strings played, O'er tender scars and wounds new made. Their mystic music filled the air Like lover's laugh and martyr's prayer — Both blent in one, for evermore They sobbed against the silent shore. When I awoke my cheeks were wet — The old-time pain was ling'ring yet, But, as the tread on flow'ret fair Distills the fragrance hidden there. Those grief-born shadows of the past Were with a halo overcast. And thus I clung to weal and woe — They both were mine and must not go ! THE WESTERN SPIRIT in MEDITATION My life is such a dream as this ; A blighted hope — a honeyed kiss ; A somber cloud — a radiant ray ; A spectral night — a gilded day. As wayward children break the heart But still within it hold their part ; As pearls are born with price of pain, But i^recious grow as they remain. So wounds that tortured once the soul Now helj) complete the perfect whole. Anon we view the fitful years And find the rainbow in the tears. The sting of sorrow now is gone, The night of gloom has burst in dawn. The blighted hopes have taken wings To lift my soul to higher things. ^ ^ ^ TRANSITION With girlish dress And fond caress She sat upon her father's knee. And whispered oft In accent soft, "You're the only man in the world for me." 112 THE WESTERN SPIRIT Two twelvemonths passed — He hastened fast To meet his little girl once more. But breathed a sigh And wiped his eye To find a woman at the door. But on his knee As tenderly As e'er of old she made her plea, And whispered sweet, "Just you — and — Pete Are the only men in the world for me." ^ ^ ^ LOVE'S INTERPEETATION A maiden sat beside the sea And turned the pages wearily Of a booklet in her hand, Then threw it on the sand And sighed, " ^Tis dry as dry can be !'' Again she sat upon the sand — The selfsame book was in her hand. But she feasted on the line As if it were divine. And cried, " ^Tis charming ! simply grand !" What can the wondrous secret be — This metamorphic mystery? For 'twas on her finger ends. And she wrote it to her friends And even san^ it to the sea. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 113 SOLUTION The lense of love had caught her eye Transforming all the pages dry To rainbow glory, for you see, The slighted author proved to be Her lover — that was why and why. MEDITATION The Book of books is in my hand, Its fame has flown to every land, And above the vengeful roar Of the storm along life's shore Eings an anthem rich and grand. Would you find a treasure when you look, A hidden flower in every nook. Till it blooms from lid to cover. While a halo hovers over ? Fall in love with the Author of the Book ! ^ 5^ ^ MY BABY SISTER HAS A BEAU Of all the changes back at home. One thought keeps surging to and fro — It seems so very, very strange That baby sister has a beau. Although the w^orld is like a dream. And years like shadows come and go. It does seem hardly possible That little Mabe can have a beau. CO < w m O O o THE WESTERN SPIRIT 115 It makes me think I'm getting old. For I was grown you know When I was teaching her to spell — And now they say she has a bean 1 I hear a lisping toddler say, "Where yon goes I w^ants to go" — With l)ib and blocks and fuzzy head, She didn't know the name of "beau, yy But while the days have slipped away The child's had time enough to grow — She's seventeen, and tall and fair — Why yes, of course, she has a beau ! But while I smile to think of it, 'Tis serious too, because I know That heartaches often follow on, When girls begin to have a beau. ^ ^ ^ THE SUMMERTIME OF LOVE Sweep gently o'er the chords dear. Until I get the key For a little summer love song Just meant for you and me. The dove still sings his love note E'en with their nestlings three, And this night-wind woos the cedar, Then why should I not thee ? > o w THE WESTERN SPIRIT 117 If plaintive little Philomel Can serenade alone, How could I keep from singing ^Mid treasures all my own The May of love was ravishing With bud and promise rife, But fruit and flowers mingle In the summertime of life. 'Twas sweet in nuptial springtime To watch your soulful eyes Send back their lovelit flashes Like heralds from the skies. But as now they gently linger On a little upturned face, I can read a deeper luster And a heavenlier grace. And while you hold another hand, And a fairer brow caress, The little lullaby you sing Is part for me I guess ! ^Ye're a little nest of love birds. For notes almost divine, From your downy-headed thrushes, Are chiming in with mine. And our home's a little corner Of the paradise above. For our love is growing warmer In the summertime of love. ii8 THE WESTERN SPIRIT FOESAKEN (A rejected lover sits writing by the seashore.) My heart is far too sad to sing, And yet the mnse would take its wing For one short flight, As if to bear my thoughts away From burning brain and trend )ling clay, And Love's long night. But comrades call me in their glee : "Come listen to the happy sea, It laughs and plays." I hark and only hear the moan Of dying Love, as on a stone She sobs and prays. "But look ! Across the liquid arch Old Day's battalions gayly march With banners bright." I strain my eyes and look in vain. But only see a somber train Sink into night. 'Tis vanquished Hope, upon her bier And yet alive to feel and fear And bleed and sigh. And trailing in her fading beam, I see ambition's fondest dream Droop down and die. And drifting on that sobbing tide With broken love is all beside — Perhaps my mind. THE WESTERN SPIRIT iig My sun sinks low but will not set, The darkness deepens fast, and yet Love still is blind. It must not be ! It cannot ])e ! My soul itself is one wild sea. No shore in sight. Hark ! E'en the sea gulls seem to cry : "Your love must die ! Your love must die !" — Then cease their flight. The diamond dewdrops are but tears From yesterday, the ghost of years. O'er blisses brief. And this is all she left for me — Despondency ! despondency ! A galling grief. £' «&' £' ION Come hark to the story of Ion, Of Ion, the Grecian of old — Whether fiction or fact will not trouble Since a legend the story has told. His mother was Creusa the princess. His father the handsome Apollo — jSTo wonder from fountain so noble A streamlet of genius should follow. And he captured the i^eople of Athens, By his song like a magical spell, And he captured the prizes they offered By his tragic creations as well. 120 THE WESTERN SPIRIT But one of his hearers romantic Was a maiden as fair as an elf. Who soon became subject and object, And he was a captive himself. But while in his youth and his laurels His face became furrowed with care, And seeking the shrine of his father He inquired of the oracle there. And pale with premonitive omens. While a message of love he was sending, He heard the unchangeable verdict That a violent death was impending. And thinking Patara and Aba Could never a falsehood tell. He rushed to the maiden beloved To bid her a fond farewell. She listened in silence and trembled As trembles a wounded fawn. Then lifted her face all pallid Like Pity awaiting the dawn. And hushing her sobs of anguish She gazed across the wave. And asked that race-old question, "Can we meet beyond the grave?" He replied : I have asked the questions Of the birds and flowers vernal — Of the streams that flow forever And the hills that look eternal. I have asked it again of the heavens x\s I walked in fancy there. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 121 And out of its azure stillness ^^ Came no answer to my prayer. £ -Ifc.^ But now your face 1)eholding Which is fairer than gem-lit skies, As I read the immortal longings In the depth of your tear-dimmed eyes, I am conscious within of a kinship With the gods in their heme on high, For our love has transcended the mortal And never, no never, can die. And the heart of my heart is crying Of a region heyond our ken — I must die if the Fates decree it. But / Icnow we shall meet again. And thus with a faith triumphant, Outfiying the laggard years. Stood Ion the fated lover Till the maiden dried her tears. We hope that the witch was a liar. That the two were made happy in time, But the height of their love was holy. And the leap of their faith sublime. And methinks all ancient sages Who walked in their highest light Will some day stand immortal With us who walk by sight. I challenge the heresy hunters ! Let them make of it what they may, But the God I worship is Just, And Justice will find a wav. 122 THE WESTERN SPIRIT THE EPIC OF THE AGE " (I used to write poetry, and prefer that mode of expres- sion; but it won't sell, and romance will. — An Oregon Authoress.) I. The Unpopularity of Poetry Must modern harps be hung upon the tree Of arts forgotten in a sordid age, Too gross to feel the nobler passions of the soul? Will fair Columbia's children always bow To sensual altars and the golden calf? Must blind commercialism force the pen To cast her genius in the coins of trade? 11. The Theme of the Unwritten Poem "Xo theme, no poet, and no audience" Seems echoing from a thousand critic throats ! And yet methinks the muses are not dead, And theme sublime as ever stirred the soul Awaits the master touch of genius. Has beauty faded or has love grown cold ? Were "Isles of Greece" more fair than Nippon Land That smiles like child awakened from its sleep ? Or Homer's horde more brave than Saxon blood ? Ulysses than the hero of Manila Bay? Are there not "Holy Grails" of truth to seek, And "Troys" of wTong full worthy of thy steel? Eor ample action of heroic type Could grander stage be built across the dome Of heaven itself than Lick reveals to us? Has't all been told? The earth a threadbare tale? Did e'er the wond'ring eyes of Yirgil see, E'en in his wdldest dream, such fleets superb Of floating palaces as we behold? THE WESTERN SPIRIT 123 What more adventurous land than that which sleeps White-robed beneath Boreas^ shimmering light Where unknown Yukons roll o'er beds of gold ? Is this not food for poets or for gods ? Is one purblind, and ignorant of what Comprises art, who calls it rich romance? Is there no rhythm in the iron horse That gallops o'er the continents, and trails His meteoric splendor through the night, While wireless wizards bear on ether wings The pulsing passions of a list'ning world ? III. The Coming Poet Is there no Homer for the age of gold ? No Pilgrim pen to trace the tragedy Of social "Paradises Lost" and gained, And marshal nations in a grand review ? Not mine the golden pen immersed in light To trace fair Truth ui3on the umbral sky — Not mine the Atlas shoulders that shall bear The pregnant century's living load — Not e'en the melic voices that adorn The rich neglected pages of our day, But somewhere now methinks there dreams a youth At times convulsed with energies divine, "That with no middle flight intends to soar" Above the common peaks that now appear — The faithful harp, on which the age can play Her regnant passions and her fitful moods — The mouthpiece of our matchless century ! — 124 THE WESTERN SPIRIT SIXG OUT IIS^ THE SUNLIGHT (A protest against what the author regards as a com- mon overuse of the gruesome, occult, and erotic elements in literature.) Sing out in the sunlight, ye poets of men ! Too oft ye have groped in the cloister and den. The sunny "Lucile" you have driven between The walls of a convent, a sad ^'Seraphine." Too long ye have chosen the subject uncanny And shrunken a heroine into a granny. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 125 Why that "ebony veil and mysterious face" ? Did not nature intend that freedom should grace The fair form of woman ? When a model God made, It was not a pale spinster who wept in the shade, But a flesh-and-blood woman in God's out-of-doors, Who eats when she's hungry (and probably snores). "Not poetic," you say, but I pen it with pride — She's a buxom young matron, with ba])ies beside. This only was wrong with Eden's fair type — She picked apples of pleasure before they were ripe. The real is poetic, red blood has a charm. Soft cheeks are abnormal unless they are warm. Must romance e'er be darkened by Clandestine's veil ?- Each boat on life's sea have a sin-tainted sail? 'Tis sin that is prosy — dead consciences jar. But Virtue chords sweetly, and shines like a star. Come out of your dungeons, ye bards of "Chillon" ! Ye "nocturnal orgies," arise and be gone ! Xo "oracles" need we, our omens to read, But the brain and the Book and the Spirit to lead. Instead of a robin, ye coax to your door Some nondescript "raven with weird nevermore." Too oft have ye haunted the cavern of Doubt — That modern Avernus — and never came out. 126 THE WESTERN SPIRIT And more dallied near some C'harybdian verge, Till they only could cliant a knell and a dirge. The air is a-throb with shafts for yonr pen, Tlien out of the shadows, ye leaders of men ! Less of selfish Chorazin in story and song, More of Bethany beauty to cheer us along ! Why dig up the mummies and rattle their bones? Why seek the seance and the Cabala stones ? Why dazzle with limelight the fancy of youth, While millions are dying for sunlight and truth ? that Byron and Shelley and Kipling and Poe Had fed on the sunlight till hearts were aglow ! What chaplets of glory could not they have won ! What mortal could measure the good they had done ! Give us more of the health of your heart and your brain ! Give us more of the wealth of a woodland refrain! Hail Carleton and Eiley ! a rollicking team, Who have skimmed the creation to feed us the cream ! Hail Miller, McFarland, Sam Foss, and Van Dyke, And lengthen the list as long as you like. Tlieir wings may not soar with the masters of old. But their voice is not chilled by aerial cold. Sweet voices, let none of their banners be furled Till they waken some Homer to sing for the world. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 127 Then out in the sunlight ye singers of men, Let Faith and her sisters have freedom again! Give us less of the gruesome, and more of the gold Filtered out of the fireside, with flocks in the fold. ^ ip- ^ THE ARABIAX HOESE You ask, "Whence came the Aral) horse, That pride of every land, Which Davenport has sought anew, From the Sultan's royal hand T] Then list, a tale of old Tahah, Which they tell the children there. As around the mosque they linger For the Moslem's call to prayer. A legend wild of Islam's land Of desert heat and death. It comes with scent of mint and myrrh, And warm Sirocco's breath. Mohammed and a hundred sheiks By Bedouin bandits pressed. Were mounted on the noblest steeds That maidens e'er caressed. From early morn, till morn again Came shimmering o'er the sand. Not e'en a drop of dew refreshed The swiftly flying band. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 129 On, on the second day they sped Beneath the hrassy sky, Their spreading nostrils seared with dust, With swollen, bloodshot eye. And reeled they now beneath their load. And slower grew their pace. And low the lordly heads were hung. And low the necks of grace. But see ! They halt and sniff the air From a wady down below; "Dismount !^^ the swarthy chieftain cries, "And let the horses go !" And fired to frenzy by their thirst. And the rippling song of hope, They dash away wdth snort and neigli Adown the rocky slope. But ere the tethers scarce were loosed. There came the sickening cr}^ — "Come back ! The foe appears again ; Mount ! Mount again and fly V But they flung defiance on their heels, Nor heeded curse nor call — Save six alone, who sadlv turned And climbed the glistering wall. And each obeyed his master's voice. But strove to speak his pain With stifled neigh and nodding head And salt-incrusted mane. 130 THE WESTERN SPIRIT ^'Mark each one well and let him go !" The admiring j)rophet cries; "Such loyalty must be repaid, E'en though Mohammed dies/' They slaked their thirst ; they lived and thrived, And bore Abdallah's name, And from this breed of grace and speed Our modern trotters came. But English pride and Yankee fire Refined the Arab gold. And breathed the winds and lightnings In these forms of classic mold. So Alcazar and Cresceus — Mambrinos, Pachens — all Eun through the famous Rysdyk line To the Sultan's royal stall. ^ ^ ^ OLD SQIJIEES Old Squiers weighed two hundred pounds x\nd thirty more to spare, But his boy was like his mother's folks, All peaked, pale, and fair. And he drove an aged buckskin mare, Hipshot and lame beside. But the road would never get too steep For Squiers himself to ride. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 131 And every time he passed our house They had a hill to climb, And Squiers would make the boy get out And walk up every time. "For 'tis a dirty shame/' he said, As he stopped to let her blow, "For us big fellows both to ride, And pull the critter so." The Squiers tribe are not all dead — They want the weak to climb, While their big hulks of thrice the weight Must ride up every time. J^ !& £" SUBUEBAN LIFE Across his field the farmer trudged In the hard old-fashioned way — Through Winter's mire And Summer's fire For thirteen hours a day. And his wife bore a heavier burden. And shortened life's little span As mother, and nurse. And cook, and worse. As a sort of a hired man. And the cry went up from the country : "0 City, give us your light. And your captive fire That speeds the wire AVith the news at morn and night. 132 THE WESTERN SPIRIT WHERE THE CITY AND COUNTRY MEET "And give us the spirit of Progress, For we covet the highest goal. With harnessed powers, Give respite hours To garnish the mind and soul." But the city itself was a Prison With its rush and din and strife — With the stifling air And the sordid glare Of an artificial life. And the City cried : "0 Country, Give us of your magic wealth — • The bells at dawn On the clover lawn And the riches of home and health — THE WESTERN SPIRIT 133 "And the russet robes of Autumn, Afar from the stress and strain, Where flocks of sheep Like billows creep Across the rolling plain." And the Angel of Life made answer : "Make the lot of both complete !" And he poured the cream Of each extreme AVhere the city and country meet. So the City and Country were wedded And none can put them apart, For the blush of health And the glow of wealth Is the blending of mead and mart. Now, life is a bridge of glory On which the angels stand. And heav'n bends down With a jeweled crown For the child of the City and Land. "life is a bridge or glory" 134 THE WESTERN SPIRIT A MAN OF FORTY I stood in childhood's narrow vale And viewed the steep and sinuous trail That like a serpent seemed to climb O'er hazy heights and peaks sublime Until the pinnacle it passed — The Mount of Middle Life at last— The age of forty. And with a halo o'er his head, A victor o'er the summit sped All glorious in life's noonday sun, Adorned with stars and medals won, While rainbow-tinted on a cloud This legend seemed to shout aloud: "A man of forty!" So far it seemed to boyhood's eye, That gilded summit in the sky ! Could I e'er live so long, and wait That outpost of the Golden Gate? 1 sighed and ran and longed to be x\s grand as father seemed to me — A man of forty. But I awake this morn to find I've passed that milepost of the mind, And stand amazed that I am still Much as I was below the hill — The long-tailed coat and bearded chin Do only hide the boy within The man of forty. THE WESTERN SPIRIT 135 Some childish things we put away, But more cling to us when we're gray. How much of wisdom yet ungained ! Like ant-hills are the heights attained ! Life's mountain peaks are still uncrowned — The rainbow tints are still beyond This man of forty. Though owlish Osiers view their slain, Ambition lives and tugs his chain ; Hope gathers up the broken stran' To weave the fabric of a man — Though seamed and soiled the garment be, God yet can work a mystery On one of forty. jg. jg- jg. A NEW SONG OF THE MILL In youth we sang "The Song of the Mill" As the pygmy power of a playful rill Was turning the rustic buhrs around. And slow as an hour-glass ran the wheat While a boy and horse — a team complete — Awaited their sack when the grist was ground. But to-day we sing of a rolling maze Of flying belts and bolts and stays — Of modern man's inventive power. While from a score of puffing throats We load the massive trains and boats With gilded sacks of "Gold Dust Flour," THE WESTERN SPIRIT 137 A