\ 
 
 V 
 
 ^oems 
 
 Bi) ORLANDO PHIKEAS BISHOP 
 
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 DEDICATION. 
 
 This second Booklet of Rocky 
 Mountain Poems goes forth to the 
 friends who love God's out of doors 
 and who have traveled and refreshed 
 themselves in the great Rockies. 
 
 The volume is especially dedicated 
 to those who have visited the scenes of 
 my boyhood in my native mountain 
 home. 
 
 ORLANDO PHINEAS BISHOP. 
 
 ClAGy4Ul2 
 
 
 \ 
 
MY FIRST recollection of my father is in the mar- 
 ket garden. Father and mother were pioneers in 
 Colorado. They homesteaded twenty miles 
 north-west of Colorado Springs and near Pring 
 Station. I was born there. Glenn Park, Palmer Lake and 
 Monument, were thriving little villages filled with tour- 
 ists from the east. My father ran a market garden and 
 carried the vegetables, together with the butter and eggs 
 and cottage cheese, to those towns for our livelihood. 
 It is stated by my mother that when I was four years old 
 I took my place in the garden by my father's side, pulling 
 the weeds out of one row of lettuce or radishes or onions 
 or peas; while father would take two or three or four rows. 
 This must be accurate because my first memories of my 
 father are in the rows of lettuce and onions in that 
 beautiful garden in the twenty acre valley just at the foot 
 of Green Mountain. 
 
 Years passed by. I had moved out on the Divide in 
 the great potato and wheat country, and was running 
 our farm and living with my grandparents. Father and 
 mother lived in Colorado Springs, and were educating 
 the younger children. Usually when I went home I 
 found my father in his beautiful garden. 
 
 Again the years sped by. I had graduated from 
 college, and was pastor of the First Baptist Church in 
 Bozeman, Montana. I was crossing the continent; and 
 went through Colorado to see my people. Father lived in 
 another part of the city then; and I was directed to his 
 house. As I came down off the brow of a little hill, I 
 saw my father standing in the middle of his beautiful 
 garden — a wonderful garden — talking to my Uncle Samuel. 
 Very earnestly I said, "Is that so?" And my father looked 
 up and said, "Well Sam, there's Finnic." 
 
 From my Kansas City home. I made one of my last 
 visits to Colorado Springs to find my father in the garden 
 of flowers in the front yard. He took me by the hand 
 and led me around into one of the most exquisite gardens 
 I have ever seen in my life. Many of my sweetest mem- 
 ories of my father are of him in his gardens, which he 
 kept very, very beautifully. 
 
 Hence this poem, "To the Market Gardener." 
 
TO THE MARKET GARDENER 
 
 I 
 
 N a garden in the mountains. 
 
 Where the breezes from the pine 
 Whisper to the murmuring fountains, 
 I recall you, father mine. 
 
 'Twas a garden not of roses ; 
 
 But of beans and peas and corn ; 
 There my daddy worked 'till evening 
 
 From the very early morn. 
 
 We were small and helpless kiddies. 
 And were in a country wild ; 
 
 But my dadd}^ ran that garden 
 
 For the good of every child. 
 
 To the little towns and hamlets, 
 
 Twice a week our father went, 
 
 With the products of our garden ; 
 He was on a mission bent. 
 
 In the twilight and the dawning, 
 In the sunshine of the day. 
 
 Father worked and toiled and whistled. 
 And he had no time to play. 
 
 Years had passed and I, returning 
 
 To the Colorado pines 
 Found my daddy in the garden 
 
 Toiling, hoeing, 'mid the vines: 
 
Looking up with eyes of meaning, 
 
 That no words could quite explain, 
 
 Said he to my dear old Uncle, 
 
 "Here's my boy come home again," 
 
 Then he led me thru his garden, 
 
 Thru the lettuce, beans and peas, 
 
 Thru the winding vines of pumpkin. 
 
 Thru the corn almost like trees, 
 
 Smiled so fondly in his garden ; 
 
 Gathered flowers with deepest joy ; 
 Beamed upon me in his laughter 
 
 Glad again to see his boy. 
 
 Now the garden path is lonely ; 
 
 Father's step is heard no more ; 
 For him, life on earth is finished, 
 
 And his earthly gardening's o'er. 
 
 But he's gardening up in Heaven — 
 
 There the flowers blossom fair — 
 
 And he's watching in his garden, 
 
 For he longs to greet me there. 
 
 Written, midnight June 1, 1922, at the close of my first 
 day in my sixth year's pastorate in Bales. 
 
DREAMING OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS 
 
 FAR up in the Rocky Mountains, 
 When the air is pure and fine ; 
 And the odors of the Sruce trees 
 Blend with fragrance of the Pine ; 
 
 Where the mighty, awful mountain 
 
 Peaks stand high and line on line, 
 
 And its hillside crests are covered 
 
 With the beauteous Columbine ; 
 
 Where the breezes whisper sweetly, 
 
 And the stars so brightly shine ; 
 
 Where the tie camp and the sawmill 
 Are but relics of old time ; 
 
 There I gathered many a wild flower, 
 
 When my youth was in its prime ; 
 
 And the luscious wild raspberries. 
 In the blessed summer time. 
 
 I'm a busy man and burdened 
 
 With the glorious tasks sublime. 
 In the heart of a great city. 
 
 Where the lights do brightly shine. 
 
 But I'm dreaming of my mountains. 
 
 Of the moss and flower and vine, 
 
 In the grand and glorious Rockies 
 Where I loved so to recline. 
 
 You may climb the Alps and others ; 
 
 You may travel on the Rhine ; 
 But for me it's Colorado, 
 
 For the Rockies they are mine. 
 
 Written June 3, 1922. in the office of my' printer friend, 
 Mr. Lewi.s H. Everett. 
 
THE SCENERY AROUND PIKES PEAK 
 
 A 
 
 S I climb up the trail towards old Pikes Peak, 
 There's a mountain named Eagle Crest, 
 
 There, with sunburned cheeks on a summer 
 day. 
 
 Do travelers stop to rest. 
 
 There's a deep blue lake that they call Moraine, 
 'Mid the trees of spruce and pine ; 
 
 There are mountain craigs so high and so grand, 
 Covered o'er with Columbine. 
 
 There's a burro trail and the great Cogroad ; 
 
 And the winding auto way. 
 There are canyons so deep and so mighty 
 
 One might look and dream all day. 
 
 There are rocks, world old, which are huge and 
 rough ; 
 
 They seem to reach to the sky ; 
 There are silent trees of most every kind — 
 
 The pine, two hundred feet high. 
 
 On dear old Pikes Peak in an awful storm 
 
 Of snow and of hail and sleet, 
 We sat beside the winding auto road 
 
 And the travelers did we greet. 
 
 On the summit we stood at close of day 
 
 And looked on the scenes sublime ; 
 
 The wide plains reached out over many states, 
 We saw thcni from time to time. 
 
 Having seen the world, both the new and the old. 
 There is nothing quite so grand, 
 
 As the sights you behold from old Pikes Peak 
 When on the summit you stand. 
 
 Written Friday, August 25th, 1922. On the trail of Eagle 
 Crest, on the way to Pike'.s Peak. 
 
THE BURRO TRAIL UP PIKES PEAK 
 
 u 
 
 P the rugged side of old Pikes Peak, 
 Where the trees are dwarf and frail. 
 
 Where the cold wind fans the traveler's cheek 
 Is a winding Burro Trail. 
 
 In early dawn of a summer day 
 
 With our pace much like a snail. 
 
 We were off with the sun's first gleaming ray ; 
 For the summit we would hail ! 
 
 As we climbed thru trees so tall and fine, 
 
 We heard the coyote's scream ; 
 Thru the balsam fir, the spruce and pine, 
 
 Ah, now it seems like a dream. 
 
 'Mid the mighty rocks the trail was plain, 
 But the day was cold and bleak ; 
 
 First came fog and clouds and then the rain ; 
 So deafening that none could speak. 
 
 When the storm had passed ; and the sun came out. 
 We were cold as cold could be ; 
 
 Below it looked like a water spout ; 
 
 And the lightning struck a tree. 
 
 We had climbed up thru the stormy clouds, 
 
 We looked dowu on all below ; 
 The mountains were dressed in perfect shrouds ; 
 
 And still higher did we go. 
 
 Our breath came quick ; and we gasped for more ; 
 
 With bodies trembling and cold ; 
 The clouds below like the ocean shore ; 
 
 And still the thunder rolled. 
 
Weary and tired and sore of feet, 
 
 With their strength now almost gone, 
 Many straggHng travelers did we meet, 
 
 And they all looked sad and worn. 
 
 We climbed all day long 'till 4 o'clock, 
 Up the mountain side so steep, 
 
 Passed worn out trees in the solid rock; 
 
 Though we now could scarcely creep : 
 
 Saw the timber line stretched far below; 
 
 But there in a sacred spot. 
 Where the sun had melted world old snow, 
 
 I found a forget-me-not. 
 
 But when we had climbed so very high. 
 In the air so pure and sweet, 
 
 We stood in the blue and azure sky 
 On the summit of Pikes Peak. 
 
 As we stood on that majestic height. 
 
 And looked on the world far down, 
 The setting sun made a golden light 
 
 On the distant mountain crown. 
 
 The sights we saw from that lofty peak, 
 So beauteous and sublime, 
 
 Are far beyond human words to speak, 
 Of that grand and glorious climb. 
 
 Written Bales Study. Kansas City. Missouri, July 3, 
 1922. 
 
THE BISHOP CAMP 
 
 (Elevation 9,100 feet in the Rockies.) 
 
 WHEN the birds begin to sing 
 In the mountains in the spring. 
 And the sun begins to creep, 
 O'er the lofty mountain peak; 
 
 When the mighty canyons ring 
 With the music wild birds bring, 
 Then my heart is at its best 
 For I'm longing for the West. 
 
 When the trees and everything 
 All leaf out around our spring. 
 With its water, cold as ice, 
 I tell you, it's mighty nice. 
 
 Yonder on the old pine stump 
 Is a tiny, wee, chipmunk ; 
 And he's sitting on his legs 
 As for food from us he begs. 
 
 Ah, he sees we're from afar, 
 And he wonders who we are ; 
 But he finds we are his friend 
 As our goodies him we lend. 
 
 At the falling of the night 
 When our campfire's burning bright. 
 With the beds made in the tent 
 There we laugh and play, content. 
 
 In the early morn I rise 
 Take a look o'er earth and skies ; 
 I cook breakfast, 'tis no joke. 
 And I 'waken all the folk. 
 
We have bacon, ham and eggs, 
 Apple jell and chicken legs, 
 We have coffee, steaming hot — 
 Always make a great big pot. 
 
 Then I fry some more hot cakes 
 For the hungry peoples' sakes ; 
 And I cook and work and puff 
 'Till they cry, "We have enough." 
 
 Then we fix a fine big lunch. 
 Get together our whole bunch ; 
 Then we up the old trail strike 
 Off to take an all day hike. 
 
 Back again at set of sun 
 With one more day's hiking done ; 
 Eat our supper ; pop some corn ; 
 Go to bed and sleep 'till morn. 
 
 When our camping's at an end 
 And our hearts do homeward bend, 
 For engagements we must keep, 
 I'm so sad I almost weep. 
 
 And my heart it always thrills 
 When it's time to climfb the hills ; 
 To our Peaks I'm bound to go 
 Out in old Col-or-a-do. 
 
 Written in Ontario, Canada, June 13, 1922. Dedicated 
 to my distinguished friend. Mr. Lewis W. Downie. 
 
THE LITTLE WHITE SCHOOL-HOUSE 
 
 N 
 
 EAR the foot hills of the Rockies, 
 
 A white school-house stands in the pines ; 
 Though years have sped by so swiftly 
 My heart still those memories entwines. 
 
 I was a lad of six years old 
 
 When my father came home one day 
 And said, "In two weeks more, my boy, 
 
 Your school begins, now run and play." 
 
 It seemed the time would never pass. 
 
 But at last came that happy morn : 
 
 And with the breaking of the day 
 
 I was up and with chores all done. 
 
 To school soon was on the long way ; 
 
 To that little house in the hills, 
 O'er mountain roads in the valley. 
 
 By murmuring, rippling rills. 
 
 Mister Van E. Rouse was teacher: 
 
 As he rang that first school bell 
 
 We all ran in to the school-house, 
 How T recall it all so well. 
 
 Van Rouse, a man who walked with God, 
 
 Said, "Now let us sing some good hymns'' 
 
 And we sang, "Yield Not to Temptation" — 
 And "Ring the Bells of Heaven. Ring," 
 
 Then he read to us from the Book ; 
 
 Now it seems it was from the Psalms 
 And we bent in prayer as he prayed, 
 
 With faces bowed low in our palms. 
 
 Years have sped by: I'm getting gray; 
 
 And life seems shorter to me now 
 Than those days when father told me 
 
 Of school ; ah, to time we all bow. 
 
N>ow returned after forty years, 
 
 I am sitting among the pines 
 
 Looking down at the school whose 
 
 Fond memories my heart entwines. 
 
 When Van Rouse prayed on that first day 
 He won me to God and his love ; 
 
 Now this tribute I gladly pay 
 
 Looking down from these heights above. 
 
 Daddy's gone to his home above; 
 
 And my mother stoops with the years ; 
 My school mates live I know not where ; 
 
 And my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 But I sit on the mountain top and dream 
 As I look down on all below 
 
 Of the great school Master with the bell 
 
 Who will call us to Heaven, I know. 
 
 Will the school-house be white up there, 
 As the Savior stands at the door, 
 
 And rings His bell to us below 
 
 As He rang as in days of yore? 
 
 Van Rouse will be there to greet me 
 
 And my daddy will be there too. 
 
 I want to be there when He rings. 
 
 And I'm hoping that I'll meet you. 
 
 Little white school-house far below ; 
 
 That dear day will live in my soul ; 
 When to you I first went to school 
 
 And I'll love you as ages roll. 
 
 Written August 11th, 1922, at the Summit of Green Mt., 
 Colo., as I sat looking- at the little white school-house at 
 Pring- Station, where I first went to school. Dedicated to 
 my distinguished friend, and first school teacher, Mr. Van 
 E. Rouse. 
 
A CAMPING TRIP IN THE ROCKY 
 MOUNTAINS 
 
 UP in the mountains so lofty and high ; 
 Way up where the hill-tops near touch 
 the sky; 
 There we sat talking by camp-fire bright, 
 Watching the stars in the darkness of night : 
 
 Sat by our camp-fire popping some corn, 
 Helping the time to pass until the morn ; 
 Tired we were from the climb of the day ; 
 Started had we at the sun's first bright ray. 
 
 Children were there in our camp in the hills, 
 Romping and playing in meadow and rills, 
 Women, well bred, from the cities had come 
 To seek for the rest of our quiet home. 
 
 Men, who were sick of the strenuous grind. 
 Leaving their cares in the cities behind, 
 Seemed to return to the child life again, 
 Played in the sunshine and laughed in the rain. 
 
 Up in our mountains where we go to rest 
 
 Are all of the things I seem to love best. 
 
 Up where the butter-cups grow by the streams, 
 
 That's where my heart returns now in its dreams. 
 
 So every summer I long for the rest. 
 Far from the cares of life — ^out in the west ; 
 In those wild places I long now to roam, 
 Back in the scenes of my old mountain home. 
 
 Back in the Rockies steep, covered with pines, 
 Up in the canyons where groweth the vines ; 
 Up where the bhie-bells grow close to the ferns 
 'Tis for those beauties that my heart now yearns. 
 
 Up where the ice lingers late in the spring. 
 Up where one findeth most every wild thing; 
 Up where but few human feet ever trod. 
 That's where a man comes the nearest to God. 
 
 Written Bales Study, Sept. 1, 1922. 
 
THE EVENING STAR 
 
 WHEN God hangs out the evening star 
 I do not know just what you are ; 
 1 know you're far up in the sky, 
 But cannot tell exactly why. 
 
 They say you are another world, 
 That into space you have been hurled. 
 That men of might inhabit you. 
 And women who are pure and true. 
 
 When I have left the world down here. 
 And climbed the heights to you up there, 
 Then shall I know why all the night 
 You shine so beautiful and bright. 
 
 One thing I know, O evening star, 
 That bright and glorious you are; 
 Through clouds and rain and storm you shine 
 To help these erring feet of mine. 
 
 I think sometimes that you've been given 
 A guide-post on my way to Heaven 
 Some day I'll tell you, evening star, 
 The consolation that you are. 
 
 Written on Wabash train, on tiie evening of June 17, 
 1022, approaching Kansas City, Mo. 
 
MOUNT HYALITE 
 
 T 
 
 HERE'S a place up in Montana, 
 
 Where the air is crisp and cold, 
 Where the country's wild and awful 
 And the mountains are world old. 
 
 There the days are short in winter, 
 And the frost is on the pine ; 
 
 But in summer by the glacier 
 
 Grow the moss and fern and vine. 
 
 And they call that grand place Hyalite ; 
 
 For 'tis surely mighty high ; 
 Peaks around that old volcano 
 
 Seem almost to reach the sky. 
 
 In the days gone by, but cherished, 
 John M. Peets, my closest friend. 
 
 Went with me to see that country 
 And a week up there to spend : 
 
 Took our guns and food and blankets, 
 
 Left the city far below ; 
 Climbed by day ; at night we rested 
 
 With no thought of harm or foe. 
 
 Day by day we traveled upward 
 
 Thru the mountains tall and steep, 
 
 While at night we slept and rested 
 In the canyons dark and deep : 
 
 'Till we reach the glorious Hyalite ; 
 
 Where the air is pure and fine ; 
 In the evening built a fire 
 
 By a great pitch stump of pine : 
 
 Cooked our supper ; then retired 
 
 When the stars were shining bright. 
 
 Wrapped ourselves up in our blankets, 
 Soundly slept thru all the night: 
 
Waked to see the sunshine beaming ; 
 
 Looked about us there, and lo — 
 In the night while we had slumbered 
 
 There had fallen lots of snow. 
 
 In that old volcano Greater 
 
 Where we rambled by the hours 
 Sweetest things on earth I've greeted 
 
 Were the dainty mountain flowers. 
 
 Daisies with their golden faces 
 All day following the sun, 
 
 Went to sleep in early evening 
 
 As if life for them were done. 
 
 But they opened in the morning, 
 Bound to bloom another day ; 
 
 Seemed to drink in all the sunshine, 
 Did not miss a single ray. 
 
 Then one night there came a wild-cat, 
 Walked around our blazing fire ; 
 
 We got wood of pine and ualsam, 
 
 Made the flames leap ever higher: 
 
 Saw his eyes like balls of fire, 
 
 Heard his hideous, awful scream ; 
 
 Glad we were when morning coming- 
 Sent the sun's first golden beam. 
 
 There's a spring up there in Hyalite 
 And it's water cold and clear, 
 
 Works its way across the crater 
 O'er the little valley there. 
 
 When it's gotten 'cross the valley 
 And has reached the outer wall 
 
 It leaps downward o'er the prec'pice. 
 In a mighty water-fall. 
 
 On a peak far up in Hyalite, 
 
 'Way up on the rugged crag 
 
 Lives a Rocky Mountain Eagle 
 And of him I love to brag: 
 
Saw him sitting on his granite, 
 On the high and rugged bars; 
 
 Then we saw him flying upward 
 
 'Till he almost reached the stars. 
 
 We saw deer and bear and squirrels ; 
 
 Saw the elk and mountain lion ; 
 Killed small game and roamed and hunted ; 
 
 Killed a huge old porcupine. 
 
 How we rested in the mountains ; 
 
 Drank from all the springs and rills ; 
 Roamed o'er lofty peaks so lonesome ; 
 
 Thru the canyons, o'er the hills ! 
 
 We had rest and recreation, 
 
 From the toil and cares of life; 
 
 Not a sorrow, not a burden ; 
 
 In our hearts we felt no strife. 
 
 Now the years are swiftly passing 
 
 Time is flying, so they say, 
 But I'd love to roam those mountains 
 
 As we did that other day. 
 
 Travel all the wide world over, 
 I am sure that no man meets 
 
 Better comrades for the mountains. 
 
 Than my good friend, John M. Peets. 
 
 Climb the Alps and all the others. 
 Trail the peaks of lofty height 
 But the wildest of the mountains 
 Is our rugged old Hyalite. 
 
 Written July 7. 1922. Bales Study. Dedicated to my 
 disting-uished friend of other years, Mr. John M. Peets, 
 Bozeman, Montana. 
 
BECAUSE OUR LITTLE BOY HAS GONE 
 
 IT'S awful quiet at our house, 
 As still as any little mouse: 
 We sit and read and stretch and yawn 
 Because our little boy has gone. 
 
 When'er I go to take a nap 
 I see his funny little cap ; 
 It lies above me on a shelf; 
 He left it there— the little elf. 
 
 He'd wake me up most every day, 
 For with his "Bampa" he would play; 
 At meals before the grace was said. 
 He almost always raised his head, 
 
 And shouted, "I want bread or cake. 
 For I ain't got no tummy ache, 
 Give me some corn, and I do hope 
 That I can have some cantaloupe." 
 
 And then throughout that livelong day 
 That boy of ours would laugh and play ; 
 And when my arms from play were sore 
 He'd say, 'Bampa' "Please do it more." 
 
 Last Sunday was a lonely day, 
 Because our boy had gone away. 
 No more such kids shall we e'er meet 
 Until we hear his tiny feet 
 
 Outside our door upon the walk ; 
 And once more hear his baby talk ; 
 "Here is his cap,' he calls his lid, 
 That blessed, romping little kid. 
 
 Written at Colorado Spring-s, Colo., August 22, 1922. 
 After Buddy Jr. had gone to hi.s home, in Kan.sas City. Mo. 
 
WHEN VACATION TIME IS OVER 
 
 T 
 
 HE sun went down in the western sky- 
 To rest for another night ; 
 The mountains began to disappear 
 From the happy traveler's sight. 
 
 Like lightning sped we forward and 
 Far out on the sweeping plain 
 
 We came from our west with deep regret 
 On a fast Rock Island train. 
 
 The plains were dry and dreary and bare 
 
 For they seldom .see a rain ; 
 There were cattle feeding everywhere, 
 
 Though we saw but little grain. 
 
 The night fell fast and we went to sleep 
 To rest 'till the gleam of light 
 
 Should wake us to a country new 
 
 And should guide our steps aright. 
 
 When we awoke again the plains had gone, 
 And the fields were rich and fine, 
 
 And the tall red barns and houses, white. 
 O'er the country, made a shrine. 
 
 The cattle were on the fields and the hills, 
 And tall and green was the corn ; 
 
 And the grass and trees were all about us 
 As we op't our eyes that morn. 
 
 We knew by the fertile valleys 
 
 And by the clouds and mist and rain 
 
 That our journey had led us secure 
 To the fields of Kansas again. 
 
The towns seemed to be closer together 
 
 As we had sped far that day; 
 A great city loomed in the distance 
 
 We saw it from far away. 
 
 The train sped on and the whistle blew 
 And we found ourselves in town ; 
 
 'Mid the steeples high and the business blocks 
 And things of great renown. 
 
 The tasks come fast and difficult 
 
 'Till they almost break us down ; 
 
 For the throngs we see and always meet, 
 In the heart of a great town. 
 
 We work by night and we toil by day 
 
 'Till we seem to find no rest ; 
 But we dream of vacation time when 
 
 We shall seek our home out west. 
 
 So we love our work in the city great 
 
 And we do our tasks alway 
 For we dream of mountains, great and high, 
 
 And old Pikes Peak highway. 
 
 We think of the hillsides rough and steep. 
 And the moss and flowers and vine, 
 
 Of the streams and springs, the rocks and trees- 
 Of the spruce and fir and pine. 
 
 So we'll wait until another year 
 
 Brings the summer back again 
 
 Then we'll turn our faces to the west 
 Far out o'er the Kansas plain. 
 
 Written on the Rock Island train, en route to Kansas 
 City, August .30th, 1922. 
 
GOD OF THE MOUNTAINS AND THE 
 CITIES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 I 
 
 HEARD as I climbed up the mountain so high 
 
 A mighty and awful roar ; 
 It came louder each blast than storm tossed sea 
 
 Upon the cold, rocky shore. 
 
 'Tis only the wind in the pine trees above — 
 
 Far up on the lofty hills ; 
 O'er the ice frozen deep on the brooklets 
 
 And murmuring mountain rills. 
 
 As I climbed up the rugged pathway so steep, 
 Where only the brave have trod, 
 
 It seemed I was being lifted that day 
 Into the presence of God. 
 
 Pikes Peak standing o'er me so lofty and proud, 
 
 ' His snowy cap in the sky ; 
 I knew I had come to a sacred spot. 
 
 And then came the question, "Why?" 
 
 I looked on the valleys below me out there — 
 Far out o'er the sweeping plain. 
 
 I know that God cami and stood by me there; 
 And His answer came again : 
 
 "The people live down in the valleys below 
 Where the fields are rich and fine. 
 
 There the streets are crowded with those in need ; 
 There many a heart doth pine. 
 
Oh, what will you do in the city for Me? 
 
 The people, so good and true, 
 Those people, for whom even I gave all, 
 
 Are calling today for you." 
 
 "I will strive to do better each day I live; 
 
 I'll follow your every plan. 
 In the city far down on the plains below, 
 
 I'll answer the call of man." 
 
 Then the lengthening of the shadows I saw ; 
 
 And the winter night fell cold ; 
 Then a million stars in the sky of blue 
 
 The universe story told. 
 
 Said I, "What is man thou art mindful of him? 
 
 And why dost thou care for me?" 
 God said, "I have made the world for mankind, 
 
 From the mountains to the sea. 
 
 Oh, go to my people and tell them of Me, 
 Go tell them my wondrous love ; 
 
 I send you down to the cities below 
 
 From these mighty Peaks above. 
 
 Yes, I send you down from the mountains so high 
 
 To cities where people live ; 
 I have met thee here and instructed thee 
 
 The message I'd have thee give." 
 
 Written at the Half Way House, Pikes Peak, Colorado. 
 January 25, 1922, ^-.00 p. m. 
 
TO THE TREES 
 
 OH, the trees, trees, trees, 
 See them swaying in the breeze ; 
 How they bend and wave and straighten. 
 How they lift their stately form 
 In the wind and in the storm. 
 
 Oh, the leaves, leaves, leaves, 
 See them hanging on the trees, 
 How they tremble, gleam and glitter ; 
 How they show their magic charm 
 In their world so free from harm. 
 
 Oh, the limb, limb, limb. 
 How it holds with strength so grim ; 
 See its arm of power and beauty ; 
 How it helps the tree to climb 
 To a majesty sublime. 
 
 Written at 1300 Benton Blvd., Kansas City. Missouri. 
 June 10, 1922. 
 
 (Copyright 1922, O. P. Bishop.) 
 
w 
 
LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 
 
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 I.