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PEN PICTURES 
 of the PLAINS 
 
 BY 
 
 / 
 
 SARAH ELIZABETH HOWARD 
 
 DENVER 
 
 THE REED PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 1902 
 

 THE Library of 
 
 CONGRESS, 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 FEB "'3 1903 
 
 CcivQ^ril Entry • 
 CUSSCX^ XXc. Ho. 
 COPY B. 
 
 COPYRIGHTED 1 902 
 BY SARAH ELIZABETH HOWARD 
 
 «* ce c c 
 
'O 
 
 vi^ 
 
 C 
 
 
 TO THOSE WHO LEFT LOVED HOMES AND 
 FRIENDS IN SETTLED PORTIONS OF OUR 
 LAND^ TO WIN NEW HOMES AND FRIENDS 
 UPON ''the GREAT AMERICAN DESERT/' 
 THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED BY 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
THANKS ARE DUE TO GOOD HOUSEKEEPING 
 AND "sunshine" FOR COURTESIES EXTEND- 
 ED; ALSO FOR DATA GATHERED FROM "tHE 
 UTE WAR." 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prairie Idyl 
 
 Introduction 1 1 
 
 The River 12 
 
 The Movers 13 
 
 Dreams 14 
 
 The New House 18 
 
 A Prairie Scene 20 
 
 The Home Making 21 
 
 The Wind Storm 24 
 
 A Visitor 25 
 
 The Dry, Dry Earth 36 
 
 Rattlesnakes Z7 
 
 Irrigation 38 
 
 The Colony Fence 42 
 
 The Colony 42 
 
 Mid-Summer 46 
 
 Lost 49 
 
 The Fearful Night 52 
 
 Grief's Load 54 
 
 The Agency 57 
 
 The Indians 60 
 
 The Massacre 64 
 
 The Captives 66 
 
 Prairie Rovers 78 
 
 The Bronco Breakers 79 
 
 Wild Horses 82 
 
 Wild Horse lerry's Story 84 
 
 The Blizzard 87 
 
 The Round-Up 99 
 
 In Later Times 103 
 
The Yucca 109 
 
 Prairie Dog Town no 
 
 The Mountain Stream 112 
 
 A May-Time Picture 113 
 
 Songs for the Months 117 
 
 Long's Peak 123 
 
 A Sunset Scene 124 
 
 A Winter Morning 125 
 
 Victory 126 
 
 The Mountains Speak to Me 127 
 
 Twilight 128 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 On the Cache La Poudre Frontispiece "^ 
 
 Photo by Mrs. M. A. Bunker, Greeley 
 
 Crystal Spray i6 
 
 Among the Farms 24 
 
 Photo by F. E. Baker, Greeley 
 
 The Snowy Range 32 
 
 Photo by F. E. Baker 
 
 The Meeker Home 40 
 
 Photo by Mrs. M. A. Bunker 
 
 Prairie Rovers 48 
 
 Photo by Mrs. M. A. Bunker 
 
 Nathan C. Meeker 56 
 
 Miss Josephine Meeker 64 
 
 Ouray and Chipeta 72 
 
 A Bucking Bronco 80 
 
 Photo by W. G. Walker, Cheyenne 
 
 Public School Buildings 88 
 
 Photo by F. E. Baker 
 
 Chasing a Steer 96 
 
 Photo by W. G. Walker 
 
 Mrs. Arvilla D. Meeker 104 
 
 Photo by E. S. Nettleton 
 
Diverting the Water from the North Poudre'. ... 112 
 Snow Scene in May 120 
 
 Photo hy F. E. Baker 
 
 Deep in the Heart of Rocky Mountain Wilds. . . 126 
 
 Photo by Smith-Hassell Co., Denver 
 
PEN PICTURES 
 OF THE PLAINS 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 A simple story of the plains ; 
 Writ long ago in hearts that lightly beat 
 With love and joy, and hope ; or dumbly ached 
 With anguish and despair. A simple tale 
 That has no call to be, except, that it 
 Was lived, and may be lived a thousand times 
 Again. Small reason, one may say, to pen 
 The lines. And yet all lives flow not in strong 
 Deep currents; many rivulets must feed 
 The powerful stream; with countless little 
 
 deeds 
 The work of one short day is filled ; and lives 
 Grow sweet and strong by faithful following 
 
12 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Of dull, hard lines that never rise above 
 The commonplace. 
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 A still bright day in March. 
 The tiresome, noisy wind forgets to blow. 
 The sun, from out a sky of cloudless blue. 
 Pours Summer's warmth upon the prairies, 
 
 bare. 
 And brown, and dusty. Hushed and lifeless, 
 
 all 
 The scene. Gnarled trees outline the river's 
 
 course, 
 And stretch their naked branches high, as 
 
 though 
 Appealing to the smiling Heavens, for gift 
 Of verdure's grace, to hide their rugged forms. 
 
 The Cache la Poudre, now a shrunken stream. 
 Glides peacefully along, and murmurs low. 
 As placidly it winds through banks deep cut 
 By torrents rushing over sandy soil, 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL I3 
 
 Or broadens out, to lave a pebbly shore. 
 The wild impetuosity is gone, 
 That freed it from its mountain home, and sent 
 It plunging, foaming down, exultant, wild, 
 Down, down, past boulders broad, that block 
 
 and fret, 
 But cannot hold; down, down, the sides of hills 
 Rock- faced, through wooded vales, and on, and 
 
 on. 
 To gain the restful quiet of the plains. 
 Where it may almost pause at times, to note 
 The beauty of the azure sky, the sun's 
 Glad light, the fleeting clouds, the moon's mild 
 
 beams. 
 The stars that gem the midnight sky, and in 
 Its placid waters mirror them, in grand 
 And lovely pictures, framed by shadowy trees. 
 
 THE MOVERS 
 
 Along the road, that follows near the course 
 The river takes, or climbs the bluff to find 
 A shorter path, appears a wagon, wide 
 
14 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 And long, and loaded well with household 
 
 goods ; 
 Two horses, broad of back and heavy limbed. 
 The wagon draw. A nest, of mattresses 
 And pillows piled, well planned for when the 
 
 load 
 Was built, make safe and full of ease the ride 
 For those who snuggle there, — a laughing babe, 
 A prattling girl, a manly boy, and one 
 Who watches o'er, as mothers do, the three 
 To her so dear ; and he, who holds above 
 The horses guiding lines, and cheers them on 
 In tones they understand, — his look of proud 
 Content, his interest in all, proclaim 
 His ownership — love-granted — of the group. 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 The driver and his team, have traveled oft, 
 The road so long and wearisome ; but all 
 The way is new to her, who thinks to see 
 At every turn, or from each hill top gained. 
 The lone, new house, that is to be her home. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 15 
 
 She backward looks. There Hes the little town 
 Whose buildings, in the distance seem like toys 
 Upon a mammoth table spread ; and there 
 She fancies that she still can see the one 
 That was her home, the while the house upon 
 The plains was being built. 
 
 Again she looks 
 Around. Upon the right, the left, above, 
 Below, there meets her unaccustomed sight, 
 The same monotony of earth and sky. 
 The cradled motion, and the drowsy air, 
 Have caused the little ones to sleep. 
 The weary mother veils her eyes to shield 
 Them from the glaring light, and gently, sleep 
 From her too, wins all consciousness of things 
 At hand. The prairie sights and sounds, no 
 
 more 
 She sees, or hears. And yet the active brain 
 Sleeps not; for dreaming, she beholds again 
 What in her waking hours she scarce dares trust 
 Herself to think about ;— a spot most loved. 
 Most dear, — her childhood's home— unmindful 
 
 that 
 
l6 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The half of one vast continent is stretched 
 Between herself and it. She sees the low, 
 Wide spreading house, whose massive beams, 
 
 a hand, — 
 Her father's hand — hewed long ago from oaks 
 He felled to clear a spot where it might stand. 
 She plays again, beneath the giant trees 
 That like loved sentinels, were left to guard 
 The door ; whose sheltering branches interlaced. 
 And made a royal canopy above 
 The play-ground of her youth; and whose 
 
 broad leaves 
 The sunlight and the moonlight made to dance 
 In shadows on her chamber floor. She sees 
 The windows, over which the roses climb ; 
 The garden walk, the flowers her mother loved 
 And tended. Then she sees that other home, — 
 The one she entered when a bride, and where 
 Her little children came to her, and made 
 A happy life more blest and brighter still. 
 More plainly than aught else she sees, or seems 
 To see, the growing things; the grass that 
 
 clothes 
 With richest green, the little eminence 
 
CRYSTAL SPRAY. 
 "Shall coax his treasures down the rocky sides 
 In dancing rivulets." ^Fage 23. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL IJ 
 
 Where stands the low, old-fashioned house, — 
 
 the old 
 Red house. The daisies nod, as if to say, 
 ''Come, let us tell your fortune, as of yore." 
 The red, round blossoms of the clover, load 
 The air with fragrance, well remembered; and 
 The rich deep-colored buttercups sway back 
 And forth upon their slender stems, and tempt 
 Her once again to pluck their yellow blooms, 
 And try the old-time test, that tells "Who loves 
 The butter." More than all the rest, the trees 
 A welcome lend. The pines that shade the 
 
 drive 
 Upon the east, a gentle murmur, soft 
 And low, send forth. The elms and maples 
 
 from 
 The western side, their branches wave, until 
 Each blithesome leaf is dancing in the air. 
 The spire-like firs, that guard on either hand 
 The door, in sighing whispers, welcome her, 
 Whose gentle word forbade the cruel axe 
 To lay their beauty low. Above the door, 
 The jessamine hangs drooping, as of old. 
 Around the windows twine — a living frame — 
 
l8 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The woodbine, free to thrust its tendrils in 
 Each weather-beaten crack, and hold its place 
 With sturdy will. With joy, surprise, she 
 
 notes 
 The trumpet vine, her hand had planted ; what 
 A growth ! It spreads its glossy leaves upon 
 The roof, and clustered blossoms crown it 
 
 there ; 
 Her hand she stretches forth to pluck one 
 
 flower, — 
 So little mindful are we in our dreams 
 Of time and space — and speedily, the scene 
 Is changed. The horses by the driver stopped, 
 Upon the summit stand of rising ground. 
 There halted that the better she may view 
 What lies before. The ceasing motion wakes 
 The sleeper, speeds the dream. 
 
 THE NEW HOUSE 
 
 "Look, Margaret!" 
 Her husband's voice she hears ; across her eyes 
 She lightly draws a hand to hide the tears, — 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL IQ 
 
 The smarting, blinding tears, that sprang unbid 
 When she awoke, and knew that she had 
 
 dreamed. 
 For Roland must not know,— he must not guess 
 How much she misses trees, and flowers, and 
 
 grass,— 
 For seldom does the prairie wear a robe 
 Of green, as bright, as lovely, as the fields 
 She used to roam, — nor must he know how 
 
 much 
 She misses and desires to see the dear. 
 Familiar faces. Now he speaks again : 
 *Took, Margaret! There stands the house— 
 
 the house 
 Where my dear wife shall make for me, a 
 
 home." 
 Across the prairie, scarce a mile away, 
 The new, unfinished house stood, all alone. 
 Much taller than it really was, it looked. 
 Because no other objects clustered near,— 
 No trees, no buildings, only, half the way 
 Between the wagon and the house, there stood 
 A ranchman's settlement. A little house. 
 
20 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 A barn and sheds, corrals, and ditches plowed, 
 Told that it must have been a home, a year 
 At least. Here lived a German family, — 
 Newcomers there — but still old settlers in 
 The West, since first the prairie schooners 
 
 trailed 
 At snail-like pace — ^by goaded oxen drawn — 
 Across the dreary, desert sea of sand. 
 
 A PRAIRIE SCENE 
 
 A pretty portion of the scene lay just 
 Below. A basin broad and deep, worn in 
 The prairie's undulating levelness 
 By rushing waters in the ages past ; 
 Down through its center, sang a silvery stream. 
 Meandering from right to left ; the grass 
 Sprang up on either side, and by its bright, 
 Delightful green, declared the distance that 
 Its searching roots had quenched their burning 
 
 thirst 
 As the cool waters rippled by. Adown 
 A steep decline, across the basin's floor, 
 
PRAIRIE IDYL 21 
 
 Now hiding at the Uttle ford, its path 
 As winding as the streamlet's way, the road 
 Gleamed white, until it disappeared upon 
 The farther bluff. 
 
 The beauty of the scene 
 A glance took in,— its loneliness as well. 
 The western sun now flooded all with rays 
 Whose softened yellow light, betokened that 
 The day was nearly spent, and urged the need 
 Of haste. Again they journeyed on ; and all 
 The way was filled with plans, that when ma- 
 tured, 
 Should make the prairie home a lovely place,— 
 A spot to rest the eye upon,— a real 
 Oasis in the desert. 
 
 THE HOME MAKING 
 
 Days have passed ; 
 The making of the home goes slowly on; 
 From chaos, order steadily evolves; 
 And yet, so incomplete the state of things. 
 Within, without, that strength and patience 
 scarce 
 
22 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Can bear the call incessant, for the work 
 Of hands, that falls upon so few. How great 
 The task to make a home, when every brick 
 And stick, and stone, that goes to build a house, 
 Must be transported miles and miles, by man 
 And beast. Where deep are hid the springs that 
 
 must 
 Be found, and forced to yield their sparkling 
 
 gift 
 Of water, clear and cool. Where not a grain 
 Of wheat bestows its bearded wealth, till from 
 The river to the spot where it must grow 
 A channel has been made to carry there 
 The snow and ice that Winter stored within 
 The mountain fastnesses, when the warm 
 
 breath 
 Of May and June, unloosing his cold clasp. 
 Shall coax his treasures down the rocky sides 
 In dancing rivulets. Where e'en the soil, — 
 The cacti-guarded soil, — sun-baked and hard, 
 Forbids the sharpened plow to turn its sod. 
 Until its surface has received a flood, — 
 Descended from the clouds, or lacking that, 
 A flood drawn from the river's tide. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 2$ 
 
 But Still, 
 
 Each day some comfort adds. Each day be- 
 holds 
 Some task begun, or carried forward. Time 
 And thought, and strength are given. In re- 
 turn 
 There comes a welcome sense of homelikeness ; 
 Homelike, and yet not home. What wonder 
 
 that 
 With eyes tear-blinded, Margaret should ask 
 Herself, "Can this bare country ever make 
 A home for me? For me, who loved so well 
 The stately oaks about my childhood's home, 
 The stretch of pines where I might wander 
 
 hours. 
 And hours, delighted with their fragrance, and 
 Their gentle murmurings, and find enough 
 To hold me spellbound, in the tiny leaves 
 That trailed across the dim aisles at their feet, — 
 A tracery of green, against the soft. 
 Brown carpet, made of fallen needles ? There, 
 Low hills and vales o'ergrown with trees that 
 
 held 
 Aloft, in Spring, their tasseled, petaled flowers, 
 And waved in Summer, dainty robes of green; 
 Where in the Autumn, choicest tints of gold 
 
24 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 And scarlet, hid the bounteous harvest spread, 
 Of nuts and fruits, and made the landscape 
 
 rich 
 With pictures, words may not portray. And 
 
 here. 
 No tree in sight, save where the cottonwoods 
 Upon the river's bank — a mile away, — 
 Find water so that they can thrive and grow ; 
 No sheltered nooks where hide surprises rich 
 With Flora's gifts. Naught, but the sun- 
 browned plains. 
 Wind-swept and desolate. Can this be home ?" 
 
 THE WIND STORM 
 
 The moisture of early spring has made 
 It possible to plow the ground and seed 
 It ; but for weeks no rain has fallen on 
 The thirsty, sun-dried land. The stubborn soil 
 Resists the plow. The seeds refuse to grow. 
 For lack of Nature's tears, their hearts will not 
 With sympathy enlarge, and opening, send 
 Their tender sprouts to bless the land. 
 
 For days 
 The clouds have floated from the mountain 
 tops 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 25 
 
 And Spread upon the sky, their folds, so full 
 Of promise; then retaining all their wealth 
 Of rain-drops, coveted and needed, furled 
 Their banners dark, and sailed from sight. 
 
 The wind 
 Now boisterous and rioting, lifts from 
 The earth, a cloud of dust, and whirling sticks. 
 And straws ; it pelts with gravel stones that cut 
 Like sleet, the luckless one, unsheltered from 
 Its wrath. From out the sandy soil it tears 
 The wheat, that early rains have sprouted ; veils 
 The nearer objects with its stolen cloud. 
 And shrieks and howls, like some mad spirit, 
 
 free 
 To do its worst. 
 
 A VISITOR 
 
 Now Margaret, on such 
 A morn, half terrified, alone, except 
 The fellowship of her own little ones. 
 Heard open wide, as if wind flung, a door, 
 And hastening there to close it 'gainst the blast. 
 Upon her threshold met, all scant of breath. 
 And panting from her battle with the storm. 
 Her German neighbor woman, knitting work 
 
26 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 In hand, and joyed to see her there, — her words 
 Of welcome feebly told how much. 
 
 "I saw," 
 The neighbor said, — her accent scarce betrayed 
 Her foreign birth, — ''your husband on his way 
 To town ; and when the wind began to blow, 
 I knew right well how dreary it must seem 
 To you; and so I came to help you keep 
 Your courage up; if you are not afraid. 
 You're braver far, than I, when first I saw 
 The air so filled with sweepings of the earth." 
 *'Have you then lost all fear?" 
 
 "The noisy wind 
 It wearies me ; it wears my patience out ; 
 It sifts the dust through every crevice in 
 The house ; and yet, it seldom gives much cause 
 For fear; the mountains are so near to us. 
 We think they break its force." 
 
 "Is this dry spring 
 Unusual, or have you seen the like 
 Before?" 
 
 "Aye, many times ; if you had had 
 Your ditches made and turned the water on 
 The sod before 't was plowed, then would your 
 
 seeds 
 Have started. One cannot do all things in 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 27 
 
 A minute. Well it was for you, the soil 
 Was wet enough to plozv. Now, your good 
 
 man 
 Will furrow out the corn, and irrigate 
 Between the rows, spread gentle floods upon 
 Alfalfa sown, and wheat, and you shall see 
 How water makes the green oases in 
 The desert." 
 
 ''How long has this bare country been 
 Your home?" 
 
 ''Why, long enough to make a home 
 And lose it. Long enough to start anew 
 With younger people, like yourself. I left 
 My childhood's home, where high the Alps up- 
 lift 
 Their snow-crowned heads, a bride; and now 
 
 I count 
 My children's children, kiss their rosy cheeks 
 And feel their clinging arms around my neck." 
 "Please tell me, friend, what made you choose 
 
 this land 
 To be your own? I question, for I love 
 To hear another's voice; 'tis music in 
 My loneliness. And then I fain would know 
 How other women lived, who knew in truth 
 The hardships of the pioneer." 
 
28 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 "Because 
 We speak that language, people say that we 
 Are Germans; just as truly might they call 
 Us French. We came from Switzerland. The 
 
 love 
 Of liberty is in our veins, and that 
 Is why we made America our choice. 
 We thought to seek the western coast and make 
 Our fortune in its mines of gold ; lut when 
 The train of emigrants was formed, and well 
 Upon the way, we heard that dread disease 
 Was raging there. Our oxen crippled with 
 The constant travel. Fertile lands around 
 Us, tempted us to stay. We dropped behind. 
 Our fellow travelers journeyed on, and we 
 Were left alone, to make as best we could 
 A living in Missouri's wilds. Four walls 
 Of logs, without a floor or roof, was all 
 The shelter that I had for months. 'Twas there 
 My first born saw the light. We gathered 
 
 'round 
 Us, in the years we settled there, a few 
 Of life's necessities, but little of 
 Its comforts. Sickness laid its hold upon 
 My husband. Strength for work, no longer did 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 29 
 
 He have. There seemed but one thing left for 
 
 us, — 
 To seek for health amid new scenes. We then 
 Had heard a little of the healing power 
 Of Colorado's air, so light and dry; 
 And so we rounded up our little herd, 
 And once again a prairie schooner was 
 Our home, — our home on wheels. We traveled 
 
 weeks 
 And months, until we saw, far in the west. 
 The mountain tops, snow white, against the 
 
 sky; 
 And still, another day ; and then at night 
 We camped beside the Platte; and there with 
 
 grass 
 And water for our stock, again we tried 
 To make a home." 
 
 "Were you so fortunate 
 As I ? Had you a neighbor ?" 
 
 "On the creek 
 Were ranches where white settlers lived, too far 
 Away to be much help or company. 
 I had some visitors you might not care 
 To know. The Indians often passed our way 
 And seldom failed to call." 
 
30 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 ''And were you not 
 Afraid of them?" 
 
 "Sometimes ; but then, I knew 
 Too much to let them find it out ; I learned 
 To raise my voice and scold until they thought 
 I was the bravest woman on the creek. 
 You know we had no railroads then; we 
 
 bought 
 Supplies in Denver ; sold our produce there ; 
 It took a week to make the trip; the men 
 From all the ranches went together. Once, 
 When they were gone, a band of red men passed 
 Our way, and knowing that the women were 
 Alone, they frightened and annoyed us much. 
 They were Arapahoes, returning to 
 Their camp upon Crow Creek. I knew their 
 
 tribe 
 Because they told me — pointed at themselves 
 And proudly said, "Me Rapho!" Groups of 
 
 two 
 And three my callers were ; I dared 
 Not feed them ; if I did, I knew they would 
 Return, not once, but many times. Outside 
 The house I hid all eatables, except 
 A loaf of bread, to give my children should 
 The red men stay too long ; and that I placed 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 3I 
 
 Among our clothing- in a trunk. When they 
 Insisted on a search for food, — then wide 
 I opened empty closets, boxes, jars. 
 With hands not gentle, saying with a voice 
 Made loud and scolding, '^See! there's nothing 
 
 here, 
 Or here! or here! So brave and unconcerned 
 Was I, they little guessed how much with fear 
 I trembled : this was not what the}'' wished 
 
 to hear. 
 And one old dirty brave held up his hands, — 
 With fingers spreading wide, — the way they 
 
 count 
 By tens, and tens, and said, "Heap Injun, come 
 And kill white squaw ;" and then I showed no 
 
 sign 
 Of fear; in truth I was not much afraid: 
 I knew that when they meant to kill, they came 
 At just before the break of day, and then 
 They did not parley. Once, three red men 
 
 came. 
 And shouted, ''Sleepee wigwam!" "No!" I 
 
 said, 
 "You can't sleep here! Your wigwam is on 
 
 Crow — 
 Go there !" I held the door fast shut, and was 
 
2i2, PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 So firm, they laughed and went away. I had 
 Less trouble than the other women did 
 With them. That proved 'twas wiser not to 
 
 yield 
 To their demands." 
 
 ''How were they dressed?" 
 "They wore 
 In winter, robes of buffalo; and in 
 The summer, blankets; not much else; but if 
 A brave should wear a hat, he usually 
 Wore two, placed one above the other. One, 
 He must have been a chief, wore feathers in 
 His hair, and crossed his breast and wound his 
 
 waist 
 With strings of silver dollars, flattened out. 
 And lapped upon each other, till they must 
 Have been a heavy weight to bear. We feared 
 Them really, when the civil war broke out ; 
 Bad men— deserters and the like, — then put 
 Them up to doing harm. 'Twas then the Plum 
 Creek massacre occurred, and no one knew 
 But what an Indian was behind each knoll 
 To shoot him down. It made my blood run 
 
 cold 
 The danger we were in ; and when we had 
 To stay alone, — the children and myself, — 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 33 
 
 We dared not sleep beneath our roof, for fear 
 It might be burned above our heads. I stole 
 Out after dark and made a place for them 
 To sleep among the weeds and willows by 
 The river ; often dared not leave them there 
 One night, but took them up and carried them 
 Asleep, to other places,— sometimes moved 
 Them more than once before the night was 
 
 gone. 
 I early taught them all to know and write 
 
 Their names, that it might help us find them, 
 should 
 
 The red men steal them from us." 
 
 "Trials that 
 
 I thought were mine, fade into nothingness 
 
 Beside the hardships it has been your lot 
 
 To bear," said Margaret. 
 
 "In every life 
 
 Hard places come, and mine has had its share. 
 
 You have not told me yet, how well you like 
 
 Your house, and if it seems like home to you." 
 
 "Since living here the sun has risen in 
 The east," said Margaret; ''in that it seems 
 Like home ; before, I was so lost and turned 
 About, it seemed to me as if the sun rose in 
 
34 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The north; but when the house was being 
 
 built,— 
 The house I had not seen until 'twas fit 
 To shelter us, my husband said such words 
 As these, 'The kitchen faces to the east. 
 And there you'll have the morning sun.' Or 
 
 these, 
 'The view is lovely from the sitting-room; 
 The southern windows look upon Pike's 
 
 Peak— 
 You'll see it when the sun is low, — and all 
 The western sky is cut in scallops by 
 The snow-crowned mountain peaks against its 
 
 blue.' 
 So was I righted as to compass points. 
 And then, I have my loved ones here; for me, 
 Not Heaven itself, could be a home, were they 
 Not there. If one who had authority. 
 Should say to me, 'To-day go back and live 
 Among the scenes you love so well,' I would 
 Not heed the words, because I am so glad 
 To see my husband gaining health. To have 
 Him know the joy of breathing full, free 
 
 breaths — 
 The gift that Colorado's wondrous air 
 Bestows upon those sufferers who seek 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 35 
 
 Her plains and mountains, while there yet is 
 
 hope 
 For them. And yet, in spite of all, there comes 
 At times, a longing for the dear old home, 
 The dear, dear faces, till it makes me sad, 
 And easily the tears would come, but that 
 I hold them back. 
 
 My husband ? Yes, he liked 
 Here from the first; he says there's something 
 
 in 
 The novelty and freedom of this life. 
 That suits him well. But I imagine that 
 Its hardships wear upon the women more 
 Than on the men. The loneliness, and lack 
 Of comforts that the settler must endure, — 
 They feel more deeply. Care of children and 
 Of home, so often shuts them in from change 
 They need and would enjoy.'' 
 
 With now and then 
 A pause to listen to the howling wind, 
 The neighbors chatted on ; and in the skilled 
 Accustomed hands the knitting grew apace ; 
 While Margaret found work to busy her 
 In caring for her house and little ones. 
 With wonder eyes, young Earl had listened to 
 The tales of frontier life ; but longing for 
 
2>6 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The wind to cease that he might ride upon 
 His pony's back, he took his seat where he 
 Could watch the storm, and was the first to see 
 The dust clouds lessen, note the welcome lulls. 
 And know the storm would soon be o'er. The 
 
 veil 
 Of dust laid low, the sun shines forth upon 
 The wind-swept land. The piles of rubbish 
 
 found 
 In sheltered corners, tell how thoroughly 
 The sweeping has been done. The absent one, 
 Wind-tossed and weary, now returns. The kind 
 And thoughtful neighbor seeks her home. 
 
 Night falls 
 Upon a restful quiet, sweet as sleep. 
 
 THE DRY, DRY EARTH 
 
 The days are warm, excepting when the sun. 
 Veiled by the passing clouds, is lost to sight; 
 Or when it sinks behind the mountain tops 
 To gladden other lands, and leaves the night 
 To reign. Oft, then a sudden coolness 
 
 comes, — 
 The breath from snow-bemantled, frigid peaks. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 37 
 
 Spring, slowly wakes to life, scant plants and 
 
 seeds 
 That slumbered in the dry, dry earth. And 
 
 still 
 No rain. 
 
 Each day the work with plow and spade 
 Goes on, and greater length is added to 
 The channels that shall draw the water from 
 The mountain stream, to quench the dry Earth's 
 
 thirst, 
 And resurrect the seeds entombed, and burst 
 Their bonds, and bid them spring to larger life 
 In God's glad sunshine. 
 
 RATTLESN AKES 
 
 Longer days and warmth, 
 Awaken slumberers less welcome than 
 Unfolding leaves. Half dormant, from the sod, 
 Plow-turned, they crawl. In sunny spots they 
 
 coil 
 And sleep. Where thorns and color hide them 
 
 well. 
 Through cactus beds they glide. Across the 
 
 paths 
 Oft trod by human feet, they slowly drag 
 
38 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Their mottled length. Disturbed; — defiant, 
 
 clear, 
 And shrill, their whirring rattle warns ; 
 And quickly coiled, they spring their length to 
 
 strike 
 With poison fangs, the angry, fatal blow. 
 
 The enmity declared in Eden, still 
 
 Exists ; and man shall bruise the serpent's head, 
 
 Till, overcome at last, the hidden foe 
 
 No more, with evil threatens childhood's play. 
 
 Or him, who walks upon, or tills the soil. 
 
 IRRIGATION 
 
 At last the channels have been made that shall 
 Convey the thirsty land, the cooling draft. 
 That rippling, dimpling, on its busy way. 
 Bids hidden seed and fainting plant, take heart 
 And grow. The stream that foamed and fret- 
 ted down 
 The mountain side, a rushing torrent made 
 By melting snows too strong and turbulent 
 To keep within the river's banks, full well 
 May spare the portion of its flood, required 
 To make the sun-baked prairie green and glad. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 39 
 
 Barred from the river's swollen tide, it turns 
 
 No longer where it wayward will, but on 
 
 It speeds through channels skillfully devised; 
 
 And smaller streams, by its free bounty fed. 
 
 Divide and sub-divide, till o'er the land 
 
 The sparkling water sings through banks, 
 
 flower-fringed. 
 And verdant. 
 
 Oh! the joy! the joy! when first 
 The long-expected, welcome water, came ; 
 Came creeping, rippling, dancing, singing. 
 
 through 
 The earth-brown, dusty ways. 
 
 All things grew glad. 
 The tiny seeds that long had dormant lain,— - 
 Awoke to life, and joyous, sent their green 
 Leaves forth; fair heralds of the fragrant 
 
 flowers 
 They soon would wave in air. 
 
 On pliant stem, 
 The dainty primrose nods and smiles at its 
 Reflected image. Balls of snow-white bloom, 
 Amid the leafage green, are trailed along 
 The banks, till all the air is heavy with 
 The odor sweet, abronia delights 
 
40 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 To yield. The scarlet mallows gleams and 
 
 glows, 
 And countless unnamed blossoms scent the air. 
 The cactus, from its guarded citadel, 
 Defiant, throws its banners out, and seems 
 Exultant that, unlike its rivals gay. 
 It thrives if water be withheld. In long. 
 Straight rows of green, distinct and bright, 
 
 against 
 The brown, brown earth, its peaceful blades, 
 
 the corn 
 Upholds. The water that the thirsty earth 
 Absorbed on either side the buried seed. 
 Has done its silent work. The acres to 
 Alfalfa sown, grow green, enlivened by 
 The gentle floods ; and all take heart again. 
 The garden plants upspring, and seem to vie, 
 One with the other, in attempts to add 
 The inches to their length or height ; so well 
 The foot baths and the sun baths suit them all. 
 
 Thus water works its wonders in a land 
 Where scorching days, and dewless nights 
 
 dry to 
 A crisp, the native grass upon the plains ; 
 And as the standing grass is turned to hay. 
 

 s -^ 
 
 s^ 
 
 H H 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 4I 
 
 Imprison in each part, — each leaf and stem, — 
 The juices sweet, that have collected there; 
 And when the wintry storms, and bitter winds 
 Prevail, the quadrupeds that roam the vast 
 Expanse, — forlorn and shelterless, — find there, 
 The food that makes it possible -for them 
 To live without the care of man. 
 
 So lived 
 The shaggy, bellowing herds of buffalo 
 That vanished from their old-time grazing 
 
 ground 
 Before the tide of empire's onward march. 
 And left no trace that they had ever lived, 
 Except the hollows in the ground, worn by 
 Their clumsy wallowing in the mire ; or by 
 The bleaching bones of their old patriarchs. 
 That dropped from out the moving mass, near 
 
 some 
 Well-trodden path, and fell to rise no more. 
 So water works its wonders in a land — 
 A dreary, desert land, — till homes upspring, 
 And verdure clothes the plains, — the barren 
 
 plains — 
 And Nature's face grows bright and glad with 
 
 smiles ; 
 And bounty blesses all. 
 
42 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 THE COLONY FENCE 
 
 A stone's throw from 
 The house there stood a fence that stretched 
 
 long arms 
 Around the Httle town and scattered homes, 
 For fifty miles or more, protecting them 
 As best it might, from animals turned loose 
 By man, to roam the plains and live there as 
 They could ; — vast herds of cattle all untamed. 
 And bands of horses that had never known 
 The breaker's bit. 
 
 THE COLONY 
 
 Within its boundaries 
 Brave men and women sought to make their 
 
 homes. 
 And found a city that should stand in years 
 To come, a monument to Temperance; — 
 A place uncursed by rum. For this, they left 
 Dear homes, kind friends, the opportunities 
 And comforts of the east, and here, beyond 
 The haunts of men, found room to work their 
 
 will. 
 A Moses, full of faith and courage led 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 43 
 
 Them on. He chose the spot that was to be 
 
 A land of promise unto all who came. 
 
 Their household goods they gathered up and 
 
 far 
 They followed him. When first the desert 
 
 plains 
 They saw, some cursed aloud, and straightway 
 
 turned 
 Them back to Egypt's flesh-pots. Others said, 
 "We saw the cost and counted it; we came 
 To stay, and see this project through ; it holds 
 A world of happy chances in it." Some 
 Bewailed their lot, and moaned, that they had 
 
 lost 
 Their all in coming here, and so were forced 
 To stay. 
 
 With naught between them and the stars 
 They set to work. A common shelter had 
 Been made, and many gathered there until 
 Their little houses could be built. With no 
 Foundation — lacking brick and stone — they 
 
 grew 
 Like mushrooms from the soil — the little homes 
 That meant so much to desert-stranded men 
 And women. Far, their sight outreached the 
 
 bonds 
 
44 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Of present insufficiencies. With faith 
 So strong, it knew no letting down, despite 
 The grumbler's curse, the scoffer's jeer, the 
 
 taunts, 
 And prophecies of ill, — the little band 
 Of earnest people held their own. They laid 
 The coming city out with generous width 
 Of streets; reserved in central blocks the land 
 For parks; gave bonds, and built a house for 
 
 schools 
 That far exceeded present needs, — yet told 
 In language unmistakable, what way 
 Their aspirations turned. 
 
 Already, men 
 Had drawn a little water from the creek. 
 And tilled small gardens with its aid, upon 
 The bottoms, near the river's banks ; but these 
 Brave comers were the first to tap the stream 
 Well toward its mountain source, and bid it 
 
 spread 
 Enlivening waters on the upland plains. 
 Far from the river-bed; — the desert land, — 
 That needed only this to aid the toil 
 Of sturdy yeomen, ere a harvest rich 
 And bountiful, should crown their labors and 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 45 
 
 Their hopes. Beneath all this they made a 
 
 law, — 
 Inserted clause of forfeiture in each 
 And every deed of land they gave, — that he 
 Who dared to sell fermented drinks, should lose 
 His title to his land; and so they strove 
 To make it sure the town should never know 
 The curse that liquor traffic brings. Thus they 
 Foundation laid for future good. Amid 
 Discouragements both great and small, they 
 
 worked 
 And struggled on. Some came and went away ; 
 And some remained; till from the restless tide 
 Of human life, the colony began 
 To grow in numbers, and in strength. The 
 
 cures, — 
 So wonderful — the healing air had wrought. 
 Were noised abroad, and many came to test 
 Its virtues ; far too many came too late, 
 Who earlier coming, might have gained the 
 
 boon 
 Of health. But many came to know the joy 
 Of growing well and strong again; among 
 Them, Roland, with his little family. 
 
46 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 MID-SUMMER 
 
 Midsummer's scorching heat is on the land, 
 And parched and brown becomes the earth, save 
 
 where 
 The irrigating waters lend their cool 
 And life-sustaining current. 
 
 Fields that once 
 Were barren as the land surrounding them, — 
 Ere man had turned the virgin soil, and poured 
 The river's flood upon it, — hold aloft 
 Their varied shades of green, and seem more 
 
 bright 
 And beautiful by contrast. 
 
 Forth the sun 
 In early morning peers from curtain clouds 
 With gold and crimson richly tinted; but. 
 Awakes no answering sparkle from the grass 
 The silent, passing night has left still dry 
 And dewless. Lined against the western sky, 
 Like faithful sentinels, the mountains stand. 
 And touched by morning's rays, their snow- 
 crowned peaks, 
 Agleam with rainbow-tinted beauty, send 
 Responses to Aurora's benison. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 47 
 
 Far north, as noonday heat approaches, where 
 No water, tree, or house the dull plains bear, 
 Appears what seems to be a limpid lake; 
 Or else, perchance, a little town is seen, 
 With trees and houses all presented there ; — 
 A picture which the heated air projects, — 
 Delusive picture,— desert-born mirage. 
 The glowing heat would drain the energy 
 From man and beast, save that the whitened 
 
 peaks 
 With coolness freight the breeze that wanders 
 
 by, 
 And bears its grateful burden to the plams. 
 Outside the fence, the cattle wild, that see 
 A foe in man and never knew him as 
 A friend, and horses equally untamed. 
 Pass slowly down to where the low-drained 
 
 creek 
 But barely flows, to quench their thirst. They 
 
 file,— 
 In little groups along the crooked paths 
 Their feet have worn in sod so tough and 
 
 dry,— 
 Between the cactus beds, and through the towns 
 The prairie dogs have made. From out their 
 
 holes — 
 
48 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Mound-guarded — cheery settlers come, and in 
 The sunshine sit and bark, or run from mound 
 To mound, as if on social calls intent. 
 Small owls — intrusive tenants, or perhaps, — 
 The marmots' guests, with dull and sleepy look. 
 Upon the mounds like images are set. 
 
 Adown the long dividing fence, a band 
 
 Of pretty, graceful antelope appear. 
 
 And pausing where the curving ditch upon 
 
 Their side its rippling waters offer, slake 
 
 Their thirst without a fear, nor question how 
 
 The chance should meet them there. With 
 
 eager heads 
 Uplifted high, and plaintive eyes, so brown 
 And beautiful, — as curious as Eve — 
 Still down the line they hold their way, as if 
 They seek to know what change has come to 
 
 pass 
 Upon their plains, where Roland's little home 
 Is reared. Then warned by slightest move- 
 ment, or 
 By sound, that peril may ensue, they fly 
 Across the prairies wide, with length'ning 
 
 bounds. 
 And feet that almost spurn to touch the earth : 
 

 jHH 
 
 
 <^ 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 49 
 
 Then turning- — curiosity-impelled, 
 Draw near once more, as if they cannot bear 
 To leave the mystery unsolved ; and then 
 With startled scent, as fleet as wind, behind 
 A rising point of ground they disappear. 
 
 From out the shelter of her little home 
 All this, does Margaret behold, and thinks 
 How like a lighthouse on an ocean rock 
 Her place of refuge is. As lies the tide 
 Around the reef, so lies the boundless plains 
 Around her door, and which is more alone ? 
 Within her home, her children's voices fill 
 With happy shouts, her ear and heart. If those 
 They love, are well, and working on, and up. 
 How much of wearing burdens women learn 
 To bear with faith and patience, ever strong. 
 
 LOST 
 
 "The house is done, and death is at the door ;" 
 How oft has time the proverb proven true. 
 Within the prairie home again events 
 Its aptness verifies. A shadow falls 
 And lifts not. Summer's fervid heat has 
 wrought 
 
50 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 A change upon the youngest, frailest, there. 
 And baby Esther droops and fades away. 
 With anxious, aching hearts they seek the aid 
 The town can give, and hope increases when 
 At set of sun she falls into a sleep, — 
 A quiet sleep that seems to augur well. 
 
 With heart so glad and thankful, of its load 
 Relieved, about her household duties, light 
 Of step, and deft of hand, goes Margaret; 
 For, so she thinks, the morn will surely bless 
 Her with her babe's returning health. Alas, 
 For mother love! Ere strikes the hour of 
 
 nine 
 The little one awakes so ill that hope 
 Within her dies. In that dread hour they seek 
 For human aid, the aid they cannot find, 
 Except within the little town, an hour's 
 Long ride away. The only neighbor left 
 Her prairie home long since, to minister 
 To one beloved, by sickness helpless made. 
 Scarce twenty rods away, the horses graze. 
 With hobbled feet, so chained together that 
 They cannot stray. Assuring Margaret 
 That he will soon return, and begging her 
 To bravely keep her courage up, into 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 5^ 
 
 The darkness Roland hastens for the steeds 
 That must be had to make a hurried trip 
 To town. That not a moment may be lost, 
 His workman with him goes. He glances at 
 The dipper's seven stars, and notes the place 
 They hold above the house ; for here and there 
 Are clouds, and once outside the fence, no sign, 
 No landmark, will they meet to show the way. 
 Upon the horses' heads they think at once 
 To lay their hands, or else to hear them bite 
 The grass, or cHnk their chains; but all goes 
 
 wrong, — 
 As if all things conspired against the life 
 So prized, so dear ; for after searching long 
 In vain, at last they realize that they, 
 Themselves, are lost; are lost as wholly as 
 Two men can be. 
 
 The clouds have thickened in 
 The sky, and not a star sheds guiding light ; 
 The wind that strongly blew from out the west. 
 Ere they had lost their compass points, may 
 
 guide 
 Them now ; as men in sorest strait will catch 
 At straws, they think by walking facing it. 
 To find the fence, or else to see the lights 
 
52 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Of home. But all in vain. The wind has 
 
 changed, 
 Perhaps. One thing is certain; they are lost. 
 With dire forebodings filled of what this new 
 Misfortune means to him, and those so dear. 
 The anxious father strives in everv way 
 To find again the doubly shrouded home. 
 To cover larger space of ground, they now 
 Take varying paths, and listening for a sound 
 To guide them, calling to each other, that 
 They may not separate beyond their range 
 Of voice, they seek to find their way from out 
 The labyrinth by darkness forced upon 
 Them. Lost ! with neither compass, polar star, 
 Or light ; for e'en the lighthouse home has failed 
 Them in this time of sorest need. 
 
 THE FEARFUL NIGHT 
 
 How fares ' 
 The lonely watcher in the lonely house. 
 So helpless in her dire necessity ? 
 The suffering child becomes more ill each hour, 
 And from the tortured little body rings 
 The awful piercing cry that tells of brain 
 Affected ; cry, that tears the mother's heart, 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL S3 
 
 And fills her with the numbness of despair. 
 Earl's childish hands assist as best they can, 
 And all the simple means to give relief 
 The house affords, are tried. Awaking from 
 Her rosy, healthful sleep, in pitying tone. 
 And lisping accent, little Ruthie asks, 
 "What makes the darhng baby cry so hard?" 
 "So sick ! so sick !" the mother moans ; "and he. 
 Who might have brought us help, is lost upon 
 The cruel plains ; he must be lost, or else 
 Would he return." And so the fearful night 
 Drags slowly by, and morn is drawing near. 
 When Roland, pale and weary, comes. 
 
 "If I 
 Had only walked to town," he said ; "I might 
 Have better walked there thrice, than walk 
 As we have walked this night. We went too far 
 To north, when first we started out, and then 
 We could not see your light, I later learned. 
 Because the shed that corners on this room, 
 And rising ground, between ourselves and it, 
 Completely hid it from us. Not until 
 We traveled miles, did we behold it; then. 
 We found the fence and near it kept until 
 We reached the house. We found the horses 
 where 
 
54 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 They always are, — just east of here, and John 
 Has gone to bring the doctor out." 
 
 Two hours, — 
 Two precious hours must pass before a chance 
 Of help is theirs; before is overcome 
 In least degree, the night's relentless foe, — 
 The settler's dreaded obstacle — great space. 
 With morning's light, — the doctor there — their 
 
 hope 
 Revives ; but as the sunset's golden gleam 
 Falls softly on the earth below, the pure 
 Child-spirit takes its flight, as gently as 
 The flower that sleeps, its lovely petals folds 
 Together. 
 
 GRIEF'S LOAD 
 
 Hard, how hard, the mourner knows. 
 To lay the loved away, and turn again 
 To take life's daily burden up ; to do 
 Again the work, whose kindly offices 
 No more can reach to them ; to leave undone 
 What once was Love's fond offering ; to live 
 O'er weighted with the sense of loneliness 
 And loss. Yet all must sometime bear Grief's 
 
 load; 
 The only choice allowed is, how. 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 55 
 
 Now, work 
 That must be done, the greatest blessing is ; 
 The faculties employed in kindly deeds 
 For others, gently draw the thoughts from self, 
 And teaches less to brood, with sighs and tears, 
 On sorrows past. 
 
 The days pass slowly by ; 
 The morning breaks ; the noon pours down its 
 
 heat; 
 The night, its gath'ring shadows brightens with 
 Its train of countless stars ; alike on all 
 Day's changing aspect throws a light or shade ; 
 And hearts respond to Nature's moods, as they 
 Attuned to joy or sorrow are. The day 
 Arrives, that marks a year since first upon 
 Her angel child the sorrowing mother looked ; 
 What might have been, but is not, fills her 
 
 heart ; 
 Thoughts come demanding utterance ; her pen. 
 The medium between, she takes, and writes. 
 
 "A year ago to-day I held thee first 
 
 Within my loving arms. Where art thou, 
 
 sweet ? 
 I see thee not. Thy cradle empty stands. 
 And thou art gone. Thy earthly home knows 
 
 thee 
 
56 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 No more. I cannot cause this human heart 
 To cease to long for thee. Was mother love 
 Created changeless, deathless, but to have 
 Its tendrils rudely snapped, no more to be 
 United ? This is thy birthday, and I, 
 Thy mother, cannot take thee in my arms ; 
 Upon thy lips no birthday kiss can press ; 
 For thou, a little while ago, didst have 
 Another birthday; through thine own suffer- 
 ings 
 Thou wast born into the realms immortal. 
 Why do I weep ? What cause have I to mourn ? 
 Thy little life has left no stain upon 
 Thy pure sweet soul; a snow-white bud thou 
 
 canst 
 Unfold in heaven's light, in loveliness 
 More lovely still, for this, thine early call. 
 Hadst thou staid here, my child, thou wouldst 
 
 have been 
 Another tie to bind me to the earth. 
 But now, thy little hands reach out to me 
 From that fair land, and still, a little child, — 
 An angel child, — shall lead me on. Hast thou, 
 My babe, no need of me ? Canst thou at once 
 Become content to live apart from thine 
 Own mother? At every step I miss thy smile, 
 
NATHAN C. MEEKER. 
 
 'The Moses of the colony again 
 The eager leader was — the Agent of 
 The government." — Page 59- 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 57 
 
 Thy merry shout, thy nestHng- head ; then in 
 My grief I pray that thou knowst not the pangs 
 Of parting; that to thee my place be filled. 
 One moment, thou wast here, my baby, mine. 
 The next, thou wast an angel babe, and yet, 
 My baby still. And who shall say but what 
 To thee my loving, tender thoughts shall reach, 
 And make thee glad, as did my fond caresses ? 
 There is a pleasure in the thought, though none 
 May say that it is truth. The grief I know, 
 Can never come to thee. My sorrow o'er 
 Thy grave has spared thy sorrow over mine. 
 My thoughts are full of thee, and thy new life." 
 
 THE AGENCY 
 
 The summer passed. September's glowing 
 
 days. 
 And frost-touched nights were vanishing, when 
 
 clouds 
 Of smoke appeared, and draped their murkiness 
 Upon the land. The rays of sun and moon 
 Were dimmed. The mountains, town, and river 
 
 trees 
 Were veiled from sight, and nearer objects 
 
 scarce 
 
S8 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Could be descried. Men said, "Fierce forest 
 
 fires 
 Are raging in the hills." But none told why. 
 Not one of all the little town divined 
 What dreadful deeds that dismal cloud fore- 
 told. 
 For days and weeks, it shrouded like a pall 
 The land. Then came a rumor of the truth, — 
 The fearful, startling tales of massacre, — 
 Of peril and captivity, more hard 
 To bear than death. 
 
 Two years before, a band 
 Of earnest workers left their pleasant homes, 
 Within the fenced-in prairie town, to live 
 Far in the rugged mountain wilds, where dwell 
 The red-skinned Utes. It was to be their task 
 To care for them ; to see that they received 
 The stores a government paternal, sent 
 Its savage wards ; to teach them careful ways 
 That lead to comfort, peace, and plenty. 
 
 Men 
 Went there, at various times to aid the work; 
 An engineer, to plan the water-ways 
 That he who irrigates, must have ; and men 
 To lay the native rock as masons do; 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 59 
 
 And other workmen went, to come again, 
 With no especial danger undergone. 
 
 The Moses of the colony, again 
 
 The eager leader was, — the Agent of 
 
 The government. With him he took his wife, — 
 
 Both now well past the three-score line of age — 
 
 His daughter fair, and young, and slight, — to 
 
 teach 
 Papooses, could they be induced to learn — 
 A blacksmith with his wife and infants two, 
 And farmers and mechanics; — men who went 
 To till the soil, build houses, ditches, barns, — ■ 
 And show the unskilled Indian how he might 
 Improve his comfortless condition, should he 
 
 learn 
 To work. Two brothers from one home went 
 
 forth; 
 Of all those noble, stalwart men, but two 
 E'er saw their prairie homes and friends again ; 
 One, by a train of circumstances, such 
 As oft occurs, was led to hasten home. 
 Without a thought of danger from the Utes, 
 When fatal would have been a week's delay; 
 And one, a messenger was sent from camp. 
 The leader, whom the colonists revered 
 
60 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 And loved as "Father Meeker/' took the work 
 In hand with zeal enthusiastic; chose 
 His helpers from the families that held 
 High rank for steadfastness, integrity, 
 And worth, and sought his duties to perform 
 With faithfulness and care. 
 
 THE INDIANS 
 
 The Indians loved 
 Not work ; it angered them to see the sod 
 Their horses grazed upon, turned under by 
 The plow, though grass abounded, farther on. 
 Their pride would not allow young Utes to go 
 To school. Their women ridiculed a brave 
 Who tried to work. The "noble red men" 
 
 wished 
 To hunt and fish, and roam the mountains, — 
 
 free — 
 Not work like squaws. They claimed the land 
 
 was theirs, — 
 The Agent and his men were there to work 
 For them. The more they heard about the need 
 Of work, about the good to come from it, 
 The angrier they grew. This state of things 
 In letters reached the little town. Alarmed, 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 6l 
 
 The friends and parents urg'ed the need of haste 
 In leaving dangers so pronounced, but failed 
 To make impression on the men who thought 
 Themselves as safe as they within the fence, — 
 So far deceived were they by treacherous Utes. 
 
 At last the Agent saw that coaxing" could 
 Not make the untrained savage work. 
 They grew more bold and insolent. Upon 
 The grounds, around the Agent's house, they 
 
 danced 
 Their wild, fantastic, fear-inspiring dance 
 The sign of war to come — and made the long 
 Night hideous with shouts and yells. At morn, 
 A messenger was sent to ask for troops 
 To give protection and enforce the rules 
 The government had made concerning its 
 Supplies. 
 
 For months before the bursting storm 
 Had shown a threat'ning cloud, and one who 
 
 knew 
 The Indian well, a warning would have read. 
 At times, the Denver papers published things 
 About the Utes that maddened them ; the one 
 Who wrote them, doubtless, never thought the 
 
 braves 
 
62 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Would hear, or understand ; but some one read 
 It all to them, — interpreted the words, 
 And cruelly, maliciously, it seems. 
 Made them believe the Agent wrote the tales. 
 Indignant, to the agency they went. 
 And angrily accused the gray-haired man 
 Of writing lies of them, and word for word 
 Repeated what the papers said. 
 
 One day, 
 A flaming headline came; "The Utes Must 
 
 Go!" 
 The Agent sadly laid his paper down. 
 And said, as if he felt presentiment 
 Of what awaited him, "The Utes must go; 
 But first, a sacrifice must be, and I, 
 Perhaps as well as any one, may fill 
 The place." The other men knew well the light 
 In which the good old man was placed, and 
 
 feared 
 For him at times, but little thought the Utes, 
 Who loved to be with them, and hear them 
 
 sing. 
 And play the violin, and talk, and laugh, 
 Could so forget their friendship as to wish 
 To harm the others at the agency. 
 The scattered settlers felt themselves unsafe, 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 63 
 
 And read their danger in such deeds as these, — 
 Their cattle driven off, or maybe killed ; 
 Large fires left to mark the homeward path 
 Of braves returning from some distant peak. 
 
 The Utes denied strange v^hite men any right 
 To step upon their soil. This fact was shown 
 With all its frightful possibilities 
 When men from Denver traveled there to view 
 The place and interview the men. The first 
 The Agent knew of threatened trouble, Utes 
 Came running to his house, exclaiming, wild 
 With great excitement, 'White men here!" 
 
 and in 
 An instant all the braves were armed and placed 
 In battle line, a horde against the few 
 Intruders who had risked their lives in this 
 Attempt. The Agent saw the danger, not 
 Alone to stranger whites ; for should the tribe 
 In deeds of lawlessness begin to act, — 
 Then all must suffer ; quick as thought he flung 
 The Stars and Stripes upon the breeze; the 
 
 Utes, 
 Beneath its folds, a certain safety felt, 
 And quietly dispersed, — so quickly, that 
 They seemed within the ground to disappear. 
 
64 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Still holding that the white man should not 
 
 come, — 
 The sending for the soldiers angered them, 
 And grass was burned to make it difficult 
 For cavalry to reach their rocky heights. 
 The Utes on every hand applied the torch. 
 And mountains glowed with fiercest flames, and 
 
 grand 
 Old trees, — whole forests — blackened by them 
 
 fell. 
 
 THE MASSACRE 
 
 The chiefs and their out-runners knew when 
 
 first 
 The soldiers stepped upon the mountain soil. 
 They met them and professed great friendship 
 
 for 
 The whites ; then went their way to meet again. 
 And disappear, mysteriously as they 
 Had come. Upon their slow and tiresome way. 
 O'er unbridged creeks, up mountain sides, and 
 
 down 
 The deep ravines, the troops and wagon trains 
 Proceeded ; keen-eyed scouts no farther sign 
 Of warriors saw, and all went well until 
 
MISS JOSEPHINE MEEKER. 
 
 'His daughter, fair and young and slight, — to teach 
 Papooses, could they be induced to learn." -Fa^^t? 59. 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 65 
 
 They reached a rapid creek, where rocky cliffs 
 On either side o'erhung the narrow trail, 
 And there the two-faced Utes rained bullets 
 
 from 
 The rocks above, and murdered Thornburg and 
 Eleven of his gallant men, and thrice 
 As many wounded fell. 
 
 For full three days 
 And nights, the suffering remnant held their 
 
 own 
 Against the Utes, then slightly reinforced, 
 Held out as long again, till Merritt and 
 His force came up, and then the sneaking 
 
 braves. 
 With many wounded, and with twenty dead, 
 All silently withdrew. 
 
 Advancing toward 
 The agency, a courier was met, — 
 By Father Meeker sent in search of aid — 
 A lucky errand, since it saved his life. 
 Though every step with danger was beset. 
 Still farther on, the soldiers found a note 
 Upon a bush, beside the trail,— placed there. 
 They later learned, by ranchmen fleeing from 
 
66 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The Utes ; and thu3 it read : '^Urge on the 
 
 troops ! 
 All murdered at the agency!" 
 
 A few 
 Hours' march and they were standing on the 
 
 site 
 Where once the agency had been — for here, 
 The ready torch, again had done its work. 
 White river, hurrying down its rocky path. 
 And gliding through the meadows green, still 
 
 sang 
 Its gurgling song as merrily as if 
 No grief, or trouble ever was. All else 
 Was still. Death's quiet reigned. And there 
 
 they lay, — 
 The murdered, mutilated men. All slain 
 By painted fiends. The kind and good old 
 
 man. 
 His seven young assistants, — noble, brave. 
 The hope of parents and the joy of friends ; 
 All slain by those they labored for, — to whom 
 They wrought at all times naught but good. 
 
 THE CAPTIVES 
 
 Where now 
 The three frail women and the little ones. 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 67 
 
 Defenceless left? In sad captivity, 
 Deep in the heart of Rocky Mountain wilds, 
 They bravely live from day to day, and know 
 Not but each fateful hour may be their last. 
 Before the fearful massacre began, 
 They saw strange Indians around the place. 
 And wondered what their coming might por- 
 tend; 
 When soon, the fatal balls began to fly. 
 They hid in buildings ; driven thence by smoke 
 And flames, they sought to reach the cover of 
 The brush, but wounded by a rifle ball. 
 The elder woman fell. Then came the Utes, 
 And bade them mount and go with them. 
 
 The moon 
 Rose full and beautiful upon the scene. 
 The warriors decked with feathers and with 
 
 paint. 
 The pack mules laden with their stolen goods, 
 The doubly burdened ponies, filed along 
 The winding Indian trail, — a cavalcade, 
 Grotesque and weird, and somber as the night. 
 When several long and weary hours had 
 
 passed 
 A halt was made for rest, and then the chief 
 His noble qualities displayed by threats 
 
68 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 With dreadful anger filled. A loaded gun 
 He placed at one poor captive's head, to prove 
 If she would shrink, or run away. "I shall 
 Not run," she said : "I fear not you, nor death." 
 Another, treated like the first, said, "Shoot ! 
 I care not if I die." ''Brave squaw! Good 
 
 squaw ! 
 No scare!" the great Chief Douglass said; then 
 
 laughed 
 And jeered at, by his braves he slunk away. 
 
 Again, they took the rugged mountain trail. 
 The sorrow-stricken captives could but note 
 How awe-inspiring in the moon's pale light 
 The grandeur of the scenes through which they 
 
 filed, 
 Like moving shadows; 'neath the tall dark 
 
 pines. 
 By giant rocks, o'er dizzy heights they went, 
 Down deep ravines, beside the foaming stream 
 That thundered o'er its rocky bed, and on. 
 To where the Utes had lately moved their 
 
 camp. 
 To have their squaws and children safely 
 
 placed. 
 In preparation for the war they planned. 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 69 
 
 Again, when passed the noon of night, they left 
 The trail, and made a second halt beside 
 An ice-cold stream, that through a canon ran, — 
 A canon, deep and dark, by towering peaks 
 Hedged in on every side, and here they found 
 The squaws encamped. The wounded lady, 
 
 sore 
 And stiffened by her ride, could not dismount ; 
 Chief Douglass dragged her from her horse, 
 
 nor cared 
 That she should helpless fall. The squaws, 
 
 more kind 
 And gentle, made for her a blanket bed. 
 The women, placed in separate tents, that sad 
 And direful night, slept little. Morning 
 
 brought 
 A foaming pony in, whose rider told 
 Of Thornburg's battle in the pass. This news 
 Aroused the braves, and great excitement 
 
 reigned ; 
 The ponies hurriedly were saddled, and 
 Bedecked with gaudy, savage hideousness. 
 The yelling warriors hastened to the front. 
 The captives with the squaws remained. Some 
 
 felt 
 A pity for the whites, and wept with them ; 
 
70 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 They petted, in their way, the Httle ones. 
 Who bravely bore the hardships as they came. 
 And learned to sing- the weird and mournful 
 
 songs 
 The squaws sung 'round the captives' beds at 
 
 night. 
 The red men liked the "white papooses" much, 
 And when they learned they could not steal 
 
 them from 
 The mother's clinging arms, they tried to buy. 
 And offered ponies in exchange for them. 
 Squaw Susan made them moccasins to wear. 
 And over them she wept, because the Utes 
 Had made them fatherless; with kindly deeds 
 She often eased the captives' dreary lot. 
 Squaw Susan was the sister of Ouray, — 
 "The white man's friend," — the head of all the 
 
 Utes; 
 And both, the captives learned, were "friends 
 
 indeed." 
 In intellect and heart, they seemed above 
 The others of their tribe. Ouray had lived 
 With whites, and spoke the Spanish language 
 
 well; 
 And Susan owed her life to them, and still, 
 The debt of gratitude, desired to pay. 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 71 
 
 Long years before, when she was young, be- 
 fore 
 The colonists had thought to settle on 
 The arid plains and found the busy town 
 For Horace Greeley named, white soldiers 
 
 saved 
 Her life. 'Twas then, Arapahoes, the red 
 Men of the plains, at war with mountain Utes, 
 Had bound a captured squaw, to burn her at 
 A tree, just north of where that town now 
 
 stands. 
 Not far from where the winding Poudre flows ; 
 The brush was piled, the torch applied, — 
 
 when lo! 
 A band of soldiers from the Collins fort, 
 Scarce thirty miles away, appeared, and saved 
 The dusky Indian maiden from her foes, 
 And sent her safely to her tribe, — the Utes 
 Beyond the snowy range. They gave her then 
 The name she bore, and Susan never did 
 Forget. 
 
 While yet the warriors were away. 
 The squaws broke camp and moved still farther 
 
 on 
 To where the mountains framed a valley rich 
 In grass, that covered it luxuriantly. 
 
y2 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 And through which ran a pure and sparkling 
 
 stream. 
 The red men now returned by twos and threes, 
 And wore with pride the clothing taken from 
 The soldiers they had slain. They piled the 
 
 sage 
 Brush high, spread over it the stolen clothes. 
 And danced around the pile, with fearful yells, 
 And actions frightfully suggestive of 
 The ghastly deeds the hideous men might do. 
 At night, the Indians held a council long. 
 And plainly fraught with grave intent. Ouray 
 Had sent a messenger commanding Utes 
 To let the pale-faced captives go ; he liked 
 Not that a portion of his tribe had gone 
 To war. He bade them cease the bloody work ; 
 And, on the other hand, a great white chief 
 With many warriors, hastened towards their 
 
 camp. 
 A day of indecision passed, and then 
 The tents were taken down, the ponies packed 
 With camp utensils, and at fearful pace 
 All hastened over mountains steep, that one 
 Who walked could scarcely pass. With neither 
 
 food, 
 Or rest, or water, dragged the dreadful day, 
 
OURAY AND CHIPETA. 
 
 "Released at last they traveled to the home 
 Of Chief Ouray. His wife, Chipeta, wept 
 For them because their lot had been so hard." - Page 77. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 73 
 
 While blew the wind so terribly, that dust 
 Enveloped them as might a cloud. 
 
 The dame, 
 So frail at best, but wounded now, and weak, 
 No saddle and no bridle had, and much 
 She suffered on that cold and cruel ride. 
 Her captors little cared if she should die ; 
 They dared not murder her, as helpless as 
 She was ; they thought that their "Great Spirit'* 
 
 loved 
 The "Heap good doctor woman" much, and 
 
 feared 
 His anger should they take her life ; and yet, 
 They would have lost her in those wilds, to 
 
 starve. 
 Or fall a prey to beasts, without regret ; 
 And knowing this, the other captives watched 
 Her well. At night a camping place was 
 
 reached ; 
 The women gladly parted from their steeds, 
 And sank exhausted on the ground. 
 
 Beside 
 Grand River they were camped for several 
 
 days. 
 The Indians from the mountains high, each 
 
 day 
 
74 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The soldiers watched with glasses looking far. 
 With foaming steeds the runners often came, 
 At last, with news that troops were drawing 
 
 near. 
 This word in camp a fearful panic made ; — 
 A riot wild; the warriors ran this way 
 And that; Chief Johnson, maddened at the 
 
 sense 
 Of danger near, his anger vent upon 
 His youngest squaw, who screamed with fright 
 
 and pain, 
 As fell the brutal lash. The ponies felt 
 The tumult in the air, and snorted, reared, 
 And ran, until it seemed as if they could 
 Not be subdued ; but caught at last, the tents 
 Were taken down, the burden-bearing beasts 
 Were loaded once again ; the camp was moved 
 Still farther south, and on, and on, and on, 
 For. three days more. 
 
 The rain began to fall, 
 And every day the women and the babes 
 Were drenched with it. The Utes could not 
 
 retreat 
 Much farther ; they were near the limit of 
 Their reservation, — near the snowy range. 
 Again they camped, and here remained until 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 75 
 
 The soldiers came, — till General Adams came 
 To take the captives home. The red men spent 
 The time in camp hilariously ; they danced 
 And sang. The "white papooses" joined with 
 
 them 
 Right gleefully. The little ones soon learned 
 To imitate their dances and to sing 
 Their droning songs. Their savage captors 
 
 watched 
 Them with delight, and more than ever, wished 
 To purchase them. 
 
 At times the fleeing Utes — 
 Made homeless by their own misdeeds, — de- 
 clared 
 The blame was all the Agent's, who they said. 
 Would make them work, and would not do 
 
 as he 
 Was told by them. Chief Douglass sadly 
 
 shook his head. 
 And said, ''Me heap poor man !" 
 
 A conference 
 Had been agreed upon, at last, between 
 The soldiers and the warring tribe. The sky 
 Was tinted with the sunset's brilliant glow 
 When braves appeared and told their prisoners, 
 
^(i PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 "To-morrow, five white men will come, and 
 
 one, 
 A heap big man of peace." The captives 
 
 heard 
 The news with joy. The morning brought the 
 
 friends 
 They could not greet with words, so great was 
 
 their 
 Emotion. Hardship, insult, ridicule 
 And peril, they had borne without a tear, 
 But kindly faces looking into theirs. 
 The clasp of friendly hands, could not be seen 
 And felt, unmoved. 
 
 Ouray gave orders that 
 The captives should be treated well and be 
 Allowed to go. A stormy council then 
 Ensued. A portion of the Utes desired 
 To hold the prisoners between themselves 
 And justice until peace should be declared — 
 And others wished them freed. 
 
 The speeches grew 
 In length and violence, when Susan burst 
 Into the council lodge, in gorgeous wrap 
 Arrayed, — a robe of finest skin of deer, — 
 With beads and fringes trimmed, — demanding 
 
 that 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL ^^ 
 
 The captives should be freed; she told their 
 
 tale 
 Of suffering and woe, and pled their cause 
 So well, that speedily she won it. Three 
 And twenty days the Utes their captives held. 
 Released at last, they traveled to the home 
 Of Chief Ouray. His wife, Chipeta, wept 
 For them, because their lot had been so hard, 
 And shared with them the comforts of her 
 
 home. 
 The fleet, sure-footed horses, — mountain 
 
 reared — 
 Between them and their captors, day by day, 
 A long and welcome space stretched out, until 
 Tall ranges loomed between them and the land 
 Of their captivity and woe, — until 
 The swifter horse of steam was reached that 
 
 sped 
 Them to their friends. 
 
 Words fail to paint the joy, 
 The grief of that home-coming. Welcomes 
 
 filled 
 The air, the tears and smiles all faces showed. 
 The flags at half-mast hung; in mourning 
 
 draped 
 
78 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Was all the town. The people like one great 
 And loving family bereaved, did mourn. 
 
 PRAIRIE ROVERS 
 
 As v^inter days drav^ near, the dwellers in 
 
 The lonely prairie home see phases of 
 
 The life upon the plains, still new to them. 
 
 Upon the unclaimed land, that stretches far, 
 
 A herder, with his dog and pony, comes 
 
 To watch his white-fleeced flock the while they 
 
 graze 
 Upon the prairie's dried nutritious grass, 
 Named for the buffalo it nourished in 
 The years gone by, when they, — the monarchs 
 
 of 
 The plains, — in countless numbers roamed 
 
 these wastes. 
 The coyote skulks from knoll to knoll in search 
 Of prey, his hunger to appease, and with 
 His many-keyed, blood-curdling howls and 
 
 yelps. 
 Awakes uncanny echoes in the night. 
 His larger, but less noisy relative — 
 The wolf — comes not so near the haunts of 
 men. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 79 
 
 But out Upon the plains, in greedy packs, 
 Surround the smaller herds, and animals 
 Are harassed, till they can endure no more, 
 And fall, their victims. Rabbits bound away 
 With startling swiftness, when a passer-by 
 Draws near their sheltering tuft of grass. Wild 
 
 geese 
 And ducks between the river and the fields 
 Where grain has grown, make frequent jour- 
 ney ings. 
 The buzzard, and the hawk, dark birds of 
 
 prey- 
 Oft circle 'round; but no sweet song birds 
 
 come ; 
 The treeless, vineless prairie offers them 
 No sheltered and alluring nesting place. 
 
 THE BRONCO BREAKERS 
 
 Across the country, cowboys with a band 
 Of cattle come, with outfit all complete 
 For them to live upon the plains for weeks. 
 To keep the riders well supplied with steeds, 
 Both fresh and active, extra horses with 
 Them travel. Passing through the settlement, 
 Where many objects block their way, they ride 
 The horses broken to the work. But once 
 
80 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Outside the fence, where no obstructions are, 
 The untamed broncos are compelled to yield 
 Subjection to the master's bit and spur. 
 
 With piercing shouts from riders, ponies crowd 
 The weary cattle through the open gate. 
 And reach a point where all may take a rest. 
 The men and beasts seek comfort, each in his 
 Own way. The hungry herd spread out to 
 
 crop 
 The sweet dry grass, or lie them down to sleep. 
 The cook, his prairie schooner, filled with food 
 Supplies and blankets, draws aside, and lights 
 A fire and soon prepares a smoking meal. 
 
 Refreshed and rested, all are ready for 
 The start. A theater the boundless plains 
 Become at once, where reckless riders show 
 Their daring skill. The cowboys, mounted on 
 Their well-trained steeds, each singles from 
 
 the herd 
 The bronco he intends to break. A dash, 
 A leap, away, across the plains they go, — 
 Pursuer and pursued. Above his head 
 The rider swings his lariat, as on 
 They fly. His knowing pony understands 
 
< 5 " 
 
 m H 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 8l 
 
 The part that it must act, as fully as 
 
 The horseman knows his own. The fleeing 
 
 horse, 
 Unburdened, makes a picture full of strength 
 And spirit, and of beauty, as it speeds 
 Courageously, with nervous, reckless haste. 
 The other, in reserve his fleetness holds, 
 And heads the fleer off at every turn. 
 The moment that the rider nears his prize. 
 The circling, buzzing rope, with angry hiss 
 And whir, cuts swiftly through the air, and 
 
 lands 
 Its choking slip-noose 'round the bronco's neck. 
 The pony, at that instant turns, and plants 
 His four feet firmly on the ground, and holds 
 Them there, with rope attached to saddle horn. 
 Until the frightened, well nigh strangled beast,' 
 Decides to quit its rearing, plunging fight. 
 And go wherever it is led. And now. 
 The troubles of the untamed horse have but 
 Begun. The rider's weight upon its back, 
 The bit, the saddle, it must learn to know. 
 The trembling bronco stands with blinded eyes, 
 And fettered feet, or throws itself upon 
 The ground, while men adjust the binding 
 
 straps. 
 
82 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The rider springs into the saddle seat ; 
 The bhnds and fetters off, across the plains 
 The frantic bronco tears and plunges, rears 
 And jumps, with legs held straight and stiff, 
 
 in vain 
 Attempts to throw the fearless man, who sits 
 As firm and easily as if he were 
 A portion of the animal. Each man 
 Subdues his horse with little difference 
 Of skill and strength. The captor ponies now 
 Enjoy a well-earned rest, to travel with 
 The band turned loose. The broncos, yield- 
 ing to 
 Their riders' will, at last, are made to urge 
 The quadrupeds upon their way, and soon, 
 A cloud of dust declares the exit of 
 The various actors from the mammoth stage. 
 
 WILD HORSES 
 
 Large bands of horses no one owns, run wild 
 Upon the plains, and men inured to toil 
 And danger, often try to capture them. 
 The horse is not a native of this land. 
 The Spaniards knew his worth and brought 
 him here. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 83 
 
 These unclaimed herds must be the progeny 
 Of animals that one day knew the care 
 Of man, perhaps escaped, when savages 
 Their owners massacred, or from them strayed, 
 When they defied the perils of the plains 
 In seeking California's new-found gold. 
 
 Along the dusty trail, a little band 
 
 Of men and horses come, and slowly near 
 
 The gate. The riders pause to quench their 
 
 thirst 
 Where Roland's well a cooling draft supplies. 
 The horses that the watchful men surround, 
 Are captives, — weary and dispirited, — 
 That but a few short days ago, arched their 
 Proud necks, and fleet of foot, with flowing 
 
 manes 
 And tails, as swiftly as the wind across 
 The prairies sped, untrammeled by the will 
 Of man. One hardy, skillful horseman, broad 
 Of chest, and bronzed by wind and sun, who 
 
 knows 
 So thoroughly the almost trackless plains. 
 And reads so well the guidance of the stars 
 He has no fear of being lost by day 
 
84 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Or night, has hunted these wild creatures 
 
 years, 
 And studied them until he knows full well 
 Their habits and their haunts. The captor of 
 A thousand head and more, the settlers far 
 And near, know "Wild Horse Jerry." Resting 
 
 now, 
 With questions plied, he tells the story of 
 His novel work, in substance given here. 
 
 WILD HORSE JERRY'S STORY 
 
 All over this unsettled country, bands 
 Of wild and unowned horses roam, each band 
 Protected and controlled by one strong male. 
 This stallion will allow no rival near, 
 And weaker males are often found alone, 
 Upon the plains. Terrific fights sometimes 
 Ensue, when two aspire to leadership. 
 I followed once, for forty hours or more, 
 A band that was becoming very tired; 
 We chanced to pass upon the plains, one of 
 These lone and beaten males. He seemed at 
 
 once 
 To know his hated rival's strength was gone. 
 And saw his chance to take the band from him. 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 85 
 
 They fought for mastery for more than half 
 A day, and reared, and struck, and bit, and fell 
 Upon their knees and wrestled terribly, 
 Until the lonely horse the leadership 
 Assumed, — made victor by his greater 
 strength. 
 
 The man who captures these wild animals 
 Must test his patience and endurance well. 
 When I discover where they range, I make 
 My camp as near them as I can and still 
 Be near a good supply of water; then, 
 I place my men and extra horses there — 
 In camp — and ride out toward the wary band. 
 You know all horses cling to their old range. 
 And will not leave it unless driven off, 
 And then, when free, return. This instinct, — 
 
 when 
 I only follow them enough to keep 
 Them moving, — causes them to circle some, 
 And makes it quite an easy thing for me 
 To have a new fresh horse from camp when 
 
 mine 
 Is tired. Wild horses are intelligent. 
 And harder to surprise than antelope. 
 They see me when a mile away, and stand 
 
00 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 And watch me for awhile, and when they leam 
 That I am nearing them, they run to some 
 Far hill and watch again. When they decide 
 That they are followed, then, the work begins. 
 They then will start and run for twenty miles, 
 Or more. I do not try to follow near 
 To them, but ride the way they went until 
 They notice me, and run again, and so 
 Allow them little time to eat, or sleep. 
 
 1 always let them drink; they then become 
 
 More gentle and less active, too. I do 
 
 Not try to crowd them day and night, but try 
 
 To get them used to seeing me. A day 
 
 Or two, I work like this, and then ride near 
 
 To them, and in a measure can direct 
 
 Their course. The yearlings tire out first and 
 
 want 
 To stop. One time, a leader tried to drive 
 Me back ; as he came near to me I threw 
 Some rocks and hit him just behind the ear; 
 I felled him several times ; at last, he kept 
 Away, but still showed fight. Three days and 
 
 nights 
 Tve followed these wild creatures, without 
 
 sleep. 
 Excepting, that I dozed a little as 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 8? 
 
 I rode. The horses were so weary that 
 They could not travel fast, or far; I drove 
 Them very carefully into a strong 
 Corral, so made, that it did not betray 
 It was a trap for them. If I had urged 
 Them then, they would have scattered, and my 
 
 work 
 Would all have been in vain. The largest herd 
 I ever caught, was thirty. Men have stunned 
 And captured animals they coveted. 
 By "creasing" them ; they wound with rifle ball 
 A certain cord upon the horse's neck. 
 Which causes him to fall unconscious ; then. 
 They bind their prize, and hold him prisoner. 
 And while they cure the wound, they tame the 
 
 horse. 
 It often happens that the bullet strikes 
 A vital point, an inch below the mark, 
 And then the noble creature murdered falls, — 
 A victim of man's cruelty and greed. 
 
 THE BLIZZARD 
 
 Mid-winter's days, with skies of cloudless blue. 
 And sun of dazzling brightness, come and go, 
 With little hint of storm, or bitter cold. 
 
88 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 While Boreas allows the milder winds 
 To sweep the plains. Vast herds of cattle feed 
 Upon the prairie grass, and scattered far, 
 They crop the hay-like spears, that August's 
 
 heat, 
 And lack of moisture, cured to meet their 
 
 wants. 
 Some stagnant pool supplies the water they 
 Must drink, unless, they happily may range 
 In some fair valley, that a flowing stream 
 Makes glad. Unsheltered, and forlorn at best, 
 Who can portray the suffering of those poor 
 Dumb beasts when comes the cruel, numbing 
 
 cold, — 
 Fierce offspring of dark clouds that ride upon 
 The stinging blast, and cutting, blinding 
 
 sleet, — 
 The fearful blizzard, reigning in its wrath? 
 Before its terrors, man, unsheltered, soon 
 Would cease to fight for life. Not often, but 
 Unheralded and unexpected, come 
 These dreaded storms. The prairie dwellers 
 
 see 
 The warm, bright, spring-like morn, in one 
 
 short hour. 
 Give place to warring elements surcharged 
 
PUBLIC SCHOOL BUILDINGS. 
 
 'The prairie town, long since a city named, 
 Displays with pride its churches and its scliools."-/'«cr^ 103. 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL 89 
 
 With Arctic cold. With hurrying steps the 
 
 men 
 Protect the animals belonging to 
 The place, and snugly house and feed in barns, 
 That look like long, low stacks, so deeply are 
 Their frames with straw and hay o'er spread. 
 
 Despite 
 Their care, the weaklings of the herd succumb. 
 And morning finds them stiff and cold. The 
 
 gloom 
 Upon the world without, makes greater seem 
 The comforts of the lonely prairie home, 
 Where warmth and cheer await the wanderer. 
 The fires well piled with coal the prairie mines 
 Afford, send forth unwonted, welcome glow. 
 The stormy darkness early settles down. 
 And adds long hours to the bitter night. 
 The light of lanterns shining through the 
 
 gloom, 
 The footsteps creaking in the snow, announce 
 The coming of the busy men, whose work 
 Of being merciful to beasts is for 
 The moment o'er. Their beards, icicled, show 
 The rigors of the night. The shed-like room 
 Which held the ranchman's homestead claim, 
 
 before 
 
90 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 A house was joined to it, receives a shower 
 Of snow from stamping feet and shaken 
 
 coats, — 
 While joke and laughter show how sturdily 
 A man can buffet storms when waits for him 
 The joy and comfort of a home. Served hot 
 And steaming, is the evening meal. 
 Refreshed and rested, 'round the fire they sit 
 Comparing incidents of Western life. 
 
 The table cleared, with anxious thought of 
 
 one, — 
 A lonely horseman, whom at early morn 
 She saw pass through the gate, and out upon 
 The almost houseless plains, the mother puts 
 Her lamp upon the window seat, where it 
 May feebly show against the storm, that here 
 A habitation stands. The children nod 
 Their sleepy heads, and soon are tucked away 
 In slumber sweet. Her needle, Margaret 
 Employs, while listening to the stories new 
 And full of interest to one, who like 
 Herself must learn to live and make a home 
 Amid conditions never met before. 
 
 A stranger shares her hospitality 
 
 This night ; — a mountaineer, who luckily 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL gi 
 
 Arrived a little earlier than the storm, 
 With load of cedar poles he cut on some 
 Steep mountain side full forty miles away, 
 To fill her husband's order. Pleased to find 
 An interested audience, he tells 
 In quaint, terse terms, of times before the 
 
 plains 
 Were crossed by coaches drawn by steam, when 
 
 he, 
 A freighter, and a guide to emigrants. 
 Drove dull, slow oxen, weary days across 
 The barren wilds. But little questioning 
 It needs to start his oft-told tales. One asks 
 About the buffalo, that roamed the plains 
 In vast uncounted herds, a few short years 
 Before, ere they were slaughtered solely for 
 Their shaggy coats. 
 
 "Many's the time I've stopped 
 My team to let a herd of buffalo 
 Go past," the freighter said. 'They won't turn 
 
 off 
 Their path to trouble ye ; ye never saw 
 No better critters 'bout that thing, — ^but if 
 Ye' re in their way, they'll run right over ye. 
 They alius run with heads to ground, ye 
 
 know, — 
 
92 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Don't seem to see ye're there. One time when I 
 Was going with a train to 'Frisco, all 
 They did was jest to smash a feller's team; 
 I told the eejit that he'd better wait ; 
 No ! He was mad because we stopped the train 
 To let them pass ; so he turned off the trail 
 And started on, a grumblin' to hisself, 
 'Won't get nowhere, a stoppin' all the time !' 
 'Wall ! What's ten minutes when we've got a 
 
 road 
 A thousand miles to go,' sez I, 'and all 
 The summer time ahead of ye? Ye'd best 
 Jest wait a bit! Them buffalo has ben 
 Hard chased by Indjins ! Don't you see they're 
 
 cross ?' 
 It want no use to talk to sich a fool ; 
 He kept right on, and they ran over him ; 
 We saw him hoppin' 'round amongst the 
 
 herd, — 
 They hustled him about and carried him 
 A rod or more ; he lost all but one ox ; 
 The wonder was that he got out alive 
 Hisself. His blankets was stove full of holes ; 
 Two sacks of flour was tracked about the plains. 
 Suthin' to eat? He had a little cash, 
 And bought his grub of some ' the rest of us, 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 93 
 
 And one man took his ox, and carted him 
 The rest' the way for it. 
 
 Seen Indjins? 
 
 Piles 
 Of 'em. They'd beg and steal of us while we 
 Was going through their territory. Squaws 
 Would beg for biscuit; alius seemed to think 
 A sight o' biscuit; used to beg and say, 
 'Papoose heap sick.' One day we got cor- 
 ralled 
 By 'em ; them Indjins was as thick as weeds. 
 Their braves was on the warpath and they had 
 The guns with them. The women, children, 
 
 and old men 
 They left behind was most a starved to death ; 
 They begged us hard to kill a buffalo 
 For them to eat ; one feller took his gun, — 
 It was a long range rifle, — and he soon 
 Brought down a buffalo; you should have seen 
 Them Indjins eat; by morning 'twas all gone. 
 And they stood 'round a sucking at the bones. 
 
 Asthmy? I never seed a soul but what 
 Got help for that a comin' here ; but folks 
 That has consumption — is most gone — it kills 
 To come here in the cars ; I knowed they used 
 
94 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 To cure afore the cars was here, but now, 
 They gets into this altitude too quick. 
 One time I took a woman 'cross the plains 
 That was so nigh used up we had to lift 
 Her in and out the wagon, take her to 
 The houses nights, jest like a baby, long 
 As houses could be found, but 'fore we got 
 Half way to 'Frisco, she would make her brags 
 That she could walk as far as we could drive 
 Our oxen in a day, — and she could do 
 It, too. 
 
 What did we burn to cook our meals ? 
 Why! buffalo chips. I used to take a sack 
 And go way out along the trail, and fill 
 It 'gainst the time we'd camp ; I used to dig 
 A hole and make my fire in it and set 
 My kettles in the hole; I kivered 'em 
 With iron lids and made a fire on the lids 
 And heat 'em top and bottom too; and that's 
 The way I baked my bread, and meat and 
 
 beans. 
 Of course we baked, when we was camped o' 
 
 nights ; 
 We boiled and fried at any camping place. 
 Most creeks has wood a growin' on the banks, 
 And nat'rully we burned it when we camped 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 95 
 
 Near by, — but creeks want alius near our camp 
 To ^ve us wood nor water, so we took 
 A cask of water and some kindlin' right 
 Along with us. 
 
 Ye see, folks hadn't dug 
 No wells nor mines for us, tho' prairie dogs 
 Has alius ben prospectin' for the coal 
 And bringin' little chunks of it above 
 The ground sometimes, to scatter 'round their 
 
 holes 
 And show folks coal is there." 
 
 Around the house 
 The cold wind shrieks, as if in anger that 
 It cannot enter and control the warm 
 And cosy room, and drive its genial, but 
 Unconquered foe therefrom. The talkative 
 Old plainsman shakes the ashes from his 
 
 pipe,— 
 An act that breaks the circle 'round the fire. 
 A good-night journey to the snow-banked 
 
 barns 
 Assures their owner that his animals 
 Are snug as he can make them in the storm. 
 
 Unbroken sleep the household cannot know 
 This dismal night, for loud above the wind, 
 
96 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 As wears the night away, there comes the 
 
 sound 
 Of ceaseless footfalls, creaking in the snow, 
 As countless suffering cattle march in ranks, — 
 A bovine army, — lowing, bellowing. 
 With hunger, weariness and cold. 
 
 Before 
 The icy blast, that drives them on and on, 
 They come from their old feeding ground until 
 The straggling, scattered numbers grow into 
 A solid column, stretching far. The light 
 Of morning shows them marching, marching 
 
 still ; 
 Still lowing, bellowing, and tramping on 
 And on, with heads held low, and swaying 
 
 forms, — 
 A moving mass of horns and furry backs, — 
 A moving mass of misery and pain. 
 The river reached, in their despair, some plunge 
 Into its icy depths to die perhaps. 
 Perhaps to cross to isles, or farther bank ; 
 Some shrinking from its iciness, pursue 
 Its winding way a while, then turn to join 
 The multitude, — wind driven — and to swell 
 Their numbers as they pass again adown 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 97 
 
 The prairie fence and near the house where 
 
 they 
 Who see and know their wretchedness, cannot 
 Abate it in the least. And so they tramp, 
 And march, and bellow, till the storm winds 
 
 cease. 
 
 An hour or two before night's shadows fall,-— 
 The fury of the storm has lessened, — comes 
 A horse and rider to the door, — the two 
 Who passed the gate ere yet the storm began. 
 Rejoiced to see the stranger safe, both man 
 And beast are given food and shelter ; while 
 He breaks his long cold fast, the rider tells 
 How having placed two blankets underneath 
 His saddle it was possible for him 
 To wrap himself in one, or else he must 
 Have frozen ere he reached the empty shack 
 Upon the ''Seven Cross" cattle ranch, which 
 
 men 
 Inhabit now and then, and leave with door 
 Unlocked, and oftentimes with food supplies,— 
 A common custom on the Western plains,— 
 To make a stopping place for cattlemen. 
 Or cowboys hunting "mavericks" or ''strays," 
 Or else to meet the wants of men in straits 
 
98 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Like his. No food was there, but thankful for 
 A fire, he took his faithful steed inside 
 The shack, fed him the scanty provender 
 He found, and waited for the night to pass. 
 
 At last, the fury of the storm is spent; 
 The cheering sun dispels the bitter cold ; 
 Communication opens with the world ; 
 A messenger to town, returns with mail, — 
 With letters long delayed, and papers more 
 Than welcome since the storm imprisonment. 
 Word also comes of how the people fared; 
 Of men confused and blinded by the storm, 
 Who lost their way when near the homes they 
 
 sought ; 
 Of little children on their way from school, — 
 Who said their prayers and laid them down to 
 
 sleep 
 Till morning light should show their homes 
 
 to them, — 
 Found by the people seeking them, and saved 
 As by a miracle. 
 
 The sunlight falls 
 Upon the whitened surface of the plains 
 With blinding brightness. All around the poor 
 Dumb cattle starving stand. Unlike the horse, 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL 99 
 
 Who paws the snow aside to find the grass 
 Beneath, — they know no way to reach the food 
 They need. In many places through the fence 
 They break, and feed upon the farmers' stacks. 
 Or roam the village streets, — a menace to 
 Unmounted men, — until the cowboys come 
 And with their wiry ponies drive them back 
 Among the sheltering bluffs from whence they 
 came. 
 
 THE ROUND-UP 
 
 The lovely days of spring have clothed the 
 
 plains 
 With fresh, sweet grass, and spread a welcome 
 
 feast 
 Before the wandering herds. The cattlemen 
 Prepare to "round" their creatures "up," and 
 
 learn 
 The loss or profit of the year. For weeks. 
 The country to be traversed, and the place 
 To meet each day with gathered herds, has 
 
 been 
 Decided on, and advertised, that all 
 The owners with their men may gather where 
 
 LofC. 
 
100 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Their cattle range, and do their share of 
 
 work, — 
 And claim and brand their property. One 
 
 man, — 
 A chosen Captain, — plans and orders all. 
 From every side they come with ponies fleet 
 Of foot, and trained to hold the struggling 
 
 beasts 
 When rider's ropes have checked their utmost 
 
 flight; 
 With cowboys skilled in throwing lariats, 
 And reading brands obscure, or tampered with ; 
 With men to cook, and drive the wagons filled 
 With blankets and with food supplies to each 
 Day's camping place; with irons that shall 
 
 brand 
 The owner's undisputed claim upon 
 The luckless calf. Prepared to live upon 
 The plains for weeks, — to sleep upon the 
 
 ground 
 In blankets wrapped, these hardy plainsmen go 
 Far to the eastern limit of the range 
 Their cattle feed upon, and "round them up" 
 By sending riders on a circuit wide, 
 To gather every animal that shows 
 A brand belonging to the men for whom 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL lOI 
 
 They work. A camping place is chosen where 
 They wish to have the first day's round-up 
 
 brought, 
 And there the cook is found, prepared to feed 
 The hungry men. 
 
 The first red streak of dawn 
 Is signal for the start, and silently 
 The horsemen vanish on their tiring quest, 
 Each, with his ground to cover, pointed out. 
 The river flows upon the south, — some search 
 Its banks ; another party follow up 
 A tributary stream, and others scour 
 The distant bluffs, and all the land between. 
 Well past the hour of noon, the cowboys with 
 The herd appear, and men detailed for their 
 Relief, ride out to guard the band, while they 
 Who gathered them, refresh the inner man. 
 
 Again, a mammoth stage, and actors skilled. 
 Around a smouldering fire a group of men 
 Are heating irons, each of which shall sear 
 Upon the owner's living property. 
 Its quaint device. The mounted cowboys, 
 
 spurred. 
 With lariats in hand, dash in among 
 The herd, and singling out the animals 
 
102 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 They want, — give chase. The race is short. 
 
 The rope, 
 Well thrown, soon stops a creature's flight. 
 
 Half dragged. 
 Half running, it is quickly taken where 
 The branders wait to do their work. Each man 
 Keeps tally of the calves he brands, and so 
 The census of the bovine family 
 That roams the plains, is taken. Animals 
 No longer wanted, are turned back upon 
 The range from whence they came; those held 
 
 as beeves. 
 Or held to drive upon some other range. 
 Must be well guarded, day and night, and men 
 Take turns at that. With little change the 
 
 work 
 Goes on from day to day. Each camping 
 
 place 
 Is chosen for the chance it furnishes 
 Of water for the men and animals 
 And well for them if it may be a clear 
 And flowing stream. This hard exciting life 
 Is lived, until the prairies have been scoured 
 From Julesburg to the mountain towns, and 
 
 well 
 
A P R A I R I E I D X L IO3 
 
 Across Wyoming's line. Disbanded then, 
 The round-up waits another call. 
 
 IN LATER TIMES 
 
 The years, 
 Each coming with its joys and sorrows filled, 
 Each leaving evidence of human skill 
 And workmanship, have wrought vast changes 
 
 on 
 The desert land, since first the little band 
 Of pioneers essayed to colonize, 
 And rear upon a platform sacred to 
 High moral purposes and temperance, 
 The homes wherein their children might imbibe 
 The principles they most desired for them. 
 
 Adown a lovely valley, wonderful 
 
 For its fertility, and reclaimed from 
 
 Arid land by generous giving of its stream. 
 
 The weakened Poudre flows. The well-tilled 
 
 farms. 
 With cosy homes supplied with every need, 
 With fields upholding crops luxuriant 
 And promising, present a pleasing scene. 
 
 The prairie town, long since a city named, 
 Displays with pride its churches and its schools. 
 
104 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Its fair and happy homes, its well laid streets, 
 Its merchants blocks, unmarred by foul saloons. 
 
 From a slight eminence there smiles upon 
 The tree-embowered homes, those stately halls 
 Of learning, which receive the youth from far 
 And near, and send them forth to graft upon 
 The budding mind, their teaching and their 
 thought. 
 
 The house, commodious and well preserved. 
 That 'Tather Meeker" built in early days. 
 Still stands, a tribute to his confidence 
 In all the glowing prophecies he made 
 Concerning Greeley's future destiny. 
 The little trees he planted, shade it well ; 
 The mountain firs, now tall and stately, stand 
 Like sentinels around this home where dwells 
 The aged widow, who despite her wound 
 And weakness, has survived the horrors of 
 The massacre and dread captivity, — 
 Survived the daughter who with her endured 
 So bravely, hardship, agony and grief. 
 
 The wild rich country which the Utes had held, 
 Was taken from them when they massacred 
 So mercilessly friends, to them so true. 
 

 o 
 
 ^1 
 
 3 C 
 
 -G ."^ ^ 
 
 H hJ H 
 
APRAIRIEIDYL IO5 
 
 The sacrifice the Agent felt must be 
 
 Before the Utes would go, — would leave their 
 
 land 
 For whites to file upon, was not alone 
 For him; seven brave young lives with his, 
 
 went out ; 
 This was the cruel sacrifice which sent 
 The Utes still farther west, and opened up 
 The mountain country's vast and untold wealth 
 To Colorado. 
 
 Shimmering lakes now dot 
 The land ; the artificial lakes that man 
 Has made ; the needed reservoirs to aid 
 In irrigation schemes. 
 
 Across the plains, 
 Connecting house with house, are stretched the 
 
 wires 
 JE olus loves to play upon, the wires 
 Annihilating loneliness and space 
 By bringing spoken messages from far. 
 
 What once was ''range" the settlers cultivate, 
 And wild uncared-for herds are driven back 
 To ranges people have not limited. 
 
I06 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Beyond the "fence" which long ago gave up 
 Its proud distinction, — homes are reared, and 
 
 one 
 May read prosperity's ascending steps 
 On many a well tilled farm, by noting how 
 The habitations, primitive and small. 
 Gave place to dwellings more commodious; — 
 The dugout of the bachelor, the cot 
 To which he brought his bride, and the fine 
 
 house 
 Which marks their greater means and need of 
 
 room. 
 
 Around the home are trees, and flowers, and 
 
 vines, 
 And finding covert to their taste, the birds 
 Have come, — the dear sweet song birds that we 
 
 love. 
 The woodbine-covered porch, song sparrows 
 
 nest 
 Upon ; the robin and woodpecker feast 
 Where hang its purple berries, and the trees 
 Entice full many a welcome songster to 
 Their shade, that dearly loves to bathe and 
 
 preen 
 
A PRAIRIE IDYL , IO7 
 
 Where flows the sparkling, grass-edged cur- 
 rent at 
 Their roots. 
 
 The scene one looks upon to-day, 
 Is not the old monotony of land 
 And sky. The signs of labor and of thrift 
 Are everywhere, and stretching far beneath 
 The eye, the plains like one vast chessboard 
 
 seem, — 
 Its squares marked off by differing shades of 
 
 green. 
 Or golden blocks, where rank sunflowers tint 
 The view. 
 
 The pioneers who bore the toil 
 And hardships of those early days, know, — 
 
 more 
 Than he who later comes, — the worth of all 
 They now enjoy. They love to meet and talk 
 The old times o'er, while ringing laughter tells 
 How clearly now they see the comic side 
 To much that then occurred, — full thirty years 
 Ago. The grandeur of the mountains and 
 The plains g-rows on beholders day by day, — 
 The beauty of these "lifted lands." The joy 
 Of Colorado's health-reviving air. 
 
I08 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 Her azure skies, her cheerful days, her cool 
 And restful nights, the full and varied yield 
 She harvests from her irrigated lands, 
 Her merry children, and her firesides dear, 
 Cause many a glad and thankful heart to say 
 With pride and full contentment, "This is 
 Home." 
 
THE YUCCA 109 
 
 THE YUCCA. 
 
 Like armored sentinel the Yucca stands, 
 As if to guard its sun-burned, dreary lands. 
 
 Its leaves, like bayonets, unyielding- rise, 
 'Neath Winter's cold, and Summer's scorching 
 skies. 
 
 It falters not for lack of dew or rain. 
 But loves the rugged bluff, the wind-swept 
 plain. 
 
 Alone, or grouped, where e'er is cast its lot, 
 Unsocial, grim, and stern, it guards the spot. 
 
 Beneath its bristling armor hides away, — 
 Like noble warrior, ruled by Duty's sway, — 
 
 A heart of tender beauty. When comes June, 
 With youth, and love, and gladness all in tune, 
 
 The Yucca's bells, abundant, creamy, fair, 
 Unfold, and fling their fragrance on the air. 
 
no PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 PRAIRIE DOG TOWN. 
 
 Out on the prairies so boundless and wide, 
 This way, or that way, or which way we ride, 
 Come we to settlements lying around. 
 Where many settlers together are found 
 In their snug houses, deep under the ground. 
 Every house guarded about by a mound. 
 
 Lively, and chirping, and frisky and brown, — 
 Come see the settlers of Prairie Dog Town ; 
 Dark are their homes where they hide, when 
 
 they may, — 
 Dearly they love the warm light of the day ; 
 Out in the sunshine they visit and play ; 
 Hither and thither to neighbors they stray. 
 
 Deep are their holes, "Down to water," 't is 
 
 said, — 
 Out from the nearest one pops a brown head ; 
 See him stand up like an image and wait, — 
 Maybe he listens for one who is late, 
 Maybe he lingers to welcome his mate, — 
 Some pretty Prairie Dog ''Down by the gate." 
 
PRAIRIE DOG TOWN HI 
 
 Living in colonies all of their days, 
 Social, and pretty, and cute are their ways,— 
 Out of his hole like a clumsy old clown. 
 Shaking his tail, with a chirp he is down ; 
 Lively and chirping, and frisky and brown,— 
 These are the settlers of Prairie Dog Town. 
 
112 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM 
 
 The stream down rocky canyons leaps, 
 And in its channel onward sweeps, 
 Till held and barred, it turns its way. 
 Where man's own power and skill may say, 
 And unto gardens, farms and fields. 
 The treasure of its own self yields. 
 
 And now it sings through countless ditches ; 
 Upspring bright flowers, like winsome witches, 
 And nod at their own mirrored ranks. 
 Reflected from the verdant banks; 
 Its busy way, where e'er it goes, 
 The gladdened face of nature shows. 
 
 Like hosts drawn up in war's array. 
 The cacti long had held the way; 
 Their thorns like bayonets pierced the air. 
 Till water came and conquered there, 
 And changed the desert, lone and drear, 
 To homes and gardens, full of cheer. 
 
A MAY-TIME PICTURE II3 
 
 A MAY-TIME PICTURE. 
 
 From cushions of crimson the sun arose, beam- 
 ing 
 With gladness and hght on the beautiful 
 earth ; 
 
 She waved her green banners all daintily 
 gleaming 
 With the buds and the flowers to which May- 
 time gives birth. 
 
 The snow-covered peaks of the mountains re- 
 flected 
 
 The rainbow-hued tints which the sunlight 
 found there, 
 
 And into the picture a beauty projected, 
 As bright and as grand as the morning was 
 fair. 
 
 Oh, beautiful May-time! Oh, crimson-hued 
 morning ! 
 What poet, or painter, can pencil thy 
 charms ? 
 The earth like a maiden for bridal adorning. 
 The sun like the lover who woes to his arms. 
 
114 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The flower-dotted prairie, the glimmering 
 river, 
 The deep azure sky and the sun's golden 
 light, 
 The lovely green trees with their leaves all 
 a-quiver, 
 And the glittering mountains, so stately and 
 white. 
 
 But over the brightness a shadow is stealing; 
 The tops of the mountains are hidden in haze 
 And soon o'er the valley, like chariots wheeling, 
 The wind-wafted storm-clouds obscure the 
 sun's rays. 
 We sigh that the beauty and gladness are fad- 
 ing; 
 We count not the blessings the shadows may 
 bear; 
 Forget that the Power directing the shading. 
 May hold for our winning the crown victors 
 wear. 
 
 Still dark grow the heavens, and low clouds 
 hang o'er us ; 
 When lo, what a happy unlooked-for sur- 
 prise ! 
 
A MAY-TIME PICTURE US 
 
 All, all of the beauties of May-time before us, 
 Receive new enchantment, direct from the 
 skies. 
 For out of the gloom and the somberness 
 sailing, 
 As hopes, pure and bright, from our sorrows 
 are born. 
 To drape the fair earth with a soft bridal 
 veiling, 
 The white, fleecy snow-flakes, the picture 
 adorn. 
 
 Upon the green branches, so gracefully cluster- 
 ing, 
 So lovingly kissed the velvety grass; 
 And now to the banks of the river-bed muster- 
 ing. 
 And throwing bright gleams to the waters 
 that pass; 
 As pure as the flowers whose leaves they are 
 hiding, 
 As fair as the loveliest blossoms of May, 
 So frail in their beauty, and never abiding, 
 How soon like the mists, they will vanish 
 away. 
 
Il6 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 The cloud passes by, and the sun's thrilUng 
 kisses, 
 Descend to the gladdened and jubilant earth, 
 And whispers of beauty, contentment and 
 blisses, 
 Are caught in the winged warbler's singing 
 and mirth. 
 Oh, beautiful May-time, and beautiful morn- 
 ing,— 
 The morn of the day, and the morn of the 
 year,— 
 How full and complete in their lovely adorn- 
 ing, 
 The lights and the shadows have made thee 
 appear. 
 
SONGS FOR THE MONTHS 1 17 
 
 SONGS FOR THE MONTHS. 
 
 JANUARY 
 
 January, cold and bright, 
 
 Comes with smiles to view us ; 
 As the old year fades from sight, 
 With a radiant, hopeful light. 
 
 Brings the new year to us. 
 
 Sigh we for the seasons gone? 
 
 Better ones may meet us ; 
 Hopes the brightest, lead us on. 
 And some blessed, happy morn. 
 
 Glad fruition greet us. 
 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 February, keen and cold; 
 
 Sun of dazzling brightness ; 
 Naked prairies, brown and old, 
 Towering mountain peaks that hold 
 
 High their frigid whiteness. 
 
 February's lovely skies. 
 
 Blue as those of summer; 
 Where the chatty blackbird flies. 
 And the jay's discordant cries. 
 
 Greet the strolling comer. 
 
Il8 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 MARCH 
 
 March, a merry, boisterous chap, 
 'Round the corners whistHng; 
 Tries the window with a rap, 
 Makes the schoolboy chase his cap. 
 Sets the straw stack bristHng ; 
 
 Fills the air with whirling snow, 
 
 Sends the sleet storm, stinging ; 
 Scatters clouds that hover low, 
 Wakes the meadow lark, and so 
 Fills the air with singing. 
 
 APRIL 
 
 April is a fickle maid, 
 
 Full of light coquetting; 
 O'er her face she draws a shade, 
 And with tears her part is played, 
 Merriment forgetting. 
 
 Now she casts her clouds aside, 
 Beaming bright with blisses ; 
 
 Smiles she has no wish to hide. 
 
 Waken lilies far and wide, 
 As their lips she kisses. 
 
SONGS FOR THE MONTHS Iig 
 
 MAY 
 
 May, a blithesome, bonnie lass, 
 
 With a rare completeness. 
 Dots with flowers the springing grass, 
 Bids the orchard's petaled mass, 
 
 Fill the air with sweetness. 
 
 Spreads a feast for lowing herds ; 
 
 Waves the green leaf banners ; 
 Till her morning choir of birds, 
 Sing their anthems without words, 
 
 With their gayest manners. 
 
 JUNE 
 
 June, a fairy maiden, sings 
 
 Over hill and valley ; 
 Wealth of flowers bright, she brings. 
 And the sweetest, dearest things, 
 
 All around her rally. 
 
 Yucca's creamy, drooping bells, 
 
 Deck the wand she carries; 
 Tinted fields, and honeyed cells, — 
 Rippling streams, and shaded dells, — 
 
 There, she laughing, tarries. 
 
I PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 JULY 
 
 Elder sister fair, of June; 
 
 More sedate, less charming; 
 Changing all her merry tune 
 To a droning, soothing croon, 
 
 Life and laughter calming. 
 
 Floral beauties, here and there, 
 Ragged grown, and seedy; 
 Brilliant new ones everywhere, — 
 Flowers that bloom in gardens fair, 
 Gracing acres weedy. 
 
 A UGUST 
 
 Burning skies and scorching sands, 
 Mountain peaks, snow-whitened ; 
 And the arid, desert lands, 
 By the faithful work of hands, 
 Marvelously brightened. 
 
 Wondrous prairies, bounty crowned, 
 
 By the generous river; 
 Purpling, whitening fields abound, — 
 Lights and shadows, all around, — 
 
 Colors all a-quiver. 
 
.s - 
 
 2 ^ 
 
 O J2 
 
SONGS FOR THE MONTHS 121 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 Roadside edged with purple bloom, 
 Brown-eyed sunflowers nod there, 
 And the weed-grown thicket's gloom, 
 Brightened by the feathery plume. 
 Of the golden rod there. 
 
 Curving to the breeze that steals, — 
 
 Like a purple ocean, — 
 Once again alfalfa yields 
 Wealth of honeyed fragrance, — fields 
 
 Full of billowy motion. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 Hamlet like, on every side. 
 
 Stacks immense, are clustered; 
 Stubble stretching far and wide, 
 Whence the beauty, wealth and pride, 
 Ruthlessly was mustered. 
 
 From the wintry peaks of snow, 
 
 Falls the frost breath freezing; 
 Early, summer's treasures go, 
 With their beauty and their glow, 
 And their power of pleasing. 
 
122 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 Foliage falling brown and sere, 
 
 Indian summer weather 
 Crowns the waning of the year ; 
 In the sunshine, warm and clear. 
 
 All things joy together. 
 
 Feathered gleaners homeward fly 
 To their winter quarters ; 
 
 Blue crows to the village hie; 
 
 Blackbirds flit, and chirp, and cry, 
 By the flowing waters. 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 O'er the prairies sparkling bright. 
 With their frost adornings. 
 
 Flashing from the mountains white. 
 
 Full of rainbow-tinted light. 
 Break December mornings. 
 
 Land of color! Sunny skies! 
 
 Depth of blue, unclouded; 
 Checkered plains, and rocks that rise. 
 Tinted bright with varied dyes. — 
 
 Sleeping, snow-enshrouded. 
 
LOSTG 5 PZaS 133 
 
 LOXG S F 
 
 17 J ^^ 
 
 GraiHL iiuglily 
 
 \\Tiere Xar 
 
 U-, 
 
 A land-mark is tfay glistenii^ head, soow- 
 crowned. 
 
 Held upward to the hhie. o'er -t . 5ky; 
 
 The swee:e5: ^ ers upon 3m Ke; 
 
 With :' 5:0: - ^t is 
 
 With i:re<: :rer<. thy waist 15 r :: : 
 
 Ari srre: :^ c" vtotorr : by. 
 
124 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 A SUNSET SCENE. 
 
 The mountains stretch along the western sky, 
 
 A scalloped cloud, a bank of darkest blue ; 
 
 Their peaks have hid the setting sun from 
 view; 
 Upon the earth, the lengthened shadows lie ; 
 The young moon sails her silvery crescent nigh. 
 
 And Venus comes, to tryst with twilight 
 true. 
 
 Above the summits, clouds of gorgeous hue. 
 Have draped their sunset-tinted canopy. 
 
 The King of Day withdraws his lingering 
 beams ; 
 From out the sky the dark'ning colors fade ; 
 A brooding quiet, soft and restful seems 
 To gently fall, as falls the evening shade ; 
 The heavens with twinkling, watching stars 
 are laid. 
 And Slumber leads the world to peaceful 
 dreams. 
 
A WINTER MORNING 12$ 
 
 A WINTER MORNING. 
 
 White gleams the earth, o'erlaid with Winter's 
 snows ; 
 Sharp stings the air, frost-crystalled, still 
 
 and clear ; 
 Far distant objects, not so far appear; 
 Athwart the East, Aurora crimson glows ; 
 Across the sky she lightly, deftly throws, 
 To western mountain peaks that proudly 
 
 rear. 
 Her bright ''Good Morning," till, her 
 beauty's peer 
 They stand, reflecting amethyst and rose. 
 
126 PEN PICTURESOF THE PLAINS 
 
 VICTORY. 
 
 Afar, above the vast, brown, rolling plains, 
 The mountains rear their heads, serene and 
 
 grand, 
 A tower of strength and beauty in the land. 
 
 There, crowned with snow so pure, all regal 
 reigns 
 
 The lofty peak which greatest height attains; 
 Fair sister peaks appear on every hand. 
 Like shrouded, ghostly sentinels they stand. 
 
 Defying him, who yon proud summit gains. 
 
 He who has striven, conquered, all Life's way. 
 Like him who looks on peaks and plains 
 below, — 
 Stands, touched by earliest beams of coming 
 day. 
 His features radiant with the welcome glow ; 
 And they who look upon, and love him, know 
 They see great Victor's resplendent ray. 
 
V 
 
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 ^ bo 
 
 73 
 
 
THE MOUNTAINS SPEAK TO ME 127 
 
 THE MOUNTAINS SPEAK TO ME, 
 
 The mountains speak to me ; at dawn of day 
 When tinted by the morning's rosy fire, 
 They seem to say, ''Dear child, come higher, 
 higher ! 
 
 Above the toil-worn, dusty, weary way, 
 
 Uplift thine eyes, thy thoughts, and catch a ray, 
 To waken thee, — to bid thy soul aspire; 
 Press on, and win each lofty, pure desire, — 
 
 Arise, and with the morning sing thy lay." 
 
 All through the day the mountains speak to 
 
 me; 
 Blue-based, white-peaked, against the azure 
 
 sky 
 They stand in calm, majestic purity, 
 
 Their beauty touched by lights that gleam 
 
 and die; 
 My longing soul, adoring, awed, must cry, 
 "From Thy grand mountains to Thyself, 
 
 more nigh." 
 
128 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 The day is fading. On a cloudless sky 
 The sun reflects a mellow, golden light, 
 That dims not Venus' beauty silvery bright. 
 First of the starry train, she hovers nigh. 
 To bid the dear, departing day, ''Good by." 
 As if to guard her exit from the land, 
 Sharply outlined, the purple mountains stand. 
 And rear with grace and strength, their heads 
 on high. 
 
 Night's gathering shadows, trooping from 
 afar. 
 
 Advance, and mark each movement with a star ; 
 
 Till, like the magic of a lovely dream, 
 
 She, with her myriad star-gems, reigns su- 
 preme ; 
 
 So Twilight, does thy wondrous, peaceful 
 hour. 
 
 Proclaim anew, God's miracle of power. 
 
 iia 
 
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