THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 
 
 BY 
 
 NELS PEARSON 
 
 KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI 
 BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT 1920, BY 
 
 HANNAH PEARSON 
 
 McPHERSON, KANSAS
 
 TS 
 353 
 
 Remember me in the distance yonder, 
 I hear the surging of the restless sea ; 
 When every earthly tie must break asunder 
 Amid the shadows of Eternity. 
 
 Oh, Thou who suffered, 
 
 Thou who died for us, 
 
 Who heard the penitent upon the cross, 
 
 Give me the childlike faith to trust in Thee, 
 
 Remember me, remember me.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 The Old Sante Fe Trail 9 
 
 The Return 12 
 
 A Tale of Early Days 15 
 
 Threshing on the Prairies 22 
 
 The Prairie Fire ..25 
 
 Queen of Dreams 28 
 
 Zingerlee 31 
 
 The Singer 32 
 
 The^ Prairies of Kansas 33 
 
 The Maple Tree 35 
 
 The Tramp 37 
 
 The Kansas Song 39 
 
 The Sister 40 
 
 A Prayer 43 
 
 Love and Poetry 44 
 
 Old Monitor School House 46 
 
 Bellman ; 49 
 
 Daisy 50 
 
 Rest 52 
 
 The Shepherd 53 
 
 The Fishing Trip . . 54 
 
 The Doctor's Christmas Storr 56 
 
 Curly 59 
 
 A Reverie 61 
 
 Outcast 63 
 
 The Mirage 64 
 
 Finland's National Song 66 
 
 The City of Suffering 69 
 
 The Police Judge 72 
 
 Neckans Polka 74 
 
 The Kansas Girl 76 
 
 The Mother 77 
 
 The Desert 79 
 
 The Prairie Songster 81
 
 Dreaming of Home 84 
 
 Dr. C. A. Swenson 85 
 
 The Travelers 88 
 
 Only a Dream 90 
 
 To the Boys of Company D, McPherson, Kansas 92 
 
 A Morning Picture 94 
 
 Kansas 97 
 
 The Ideal 99 
 
 The Aviator 101 
 
 The Fairy Dance 102 
 
 The Peasant Girl 105 
 
 The Heroes of the Spanish-American War 109 
 
 Rose Marie Ill 
 
 Comrades 113 
 
 The City 115 
 
 The Flag 117 
 
 Playmates 120 
 
 The Red Cross Nurse 122 
 
 The Indian Fountain 125 
 
 A Soldier's Love 128 
 
 The Soldier's Farewell 130 
 
 Oh! Lord Forgive Them All 134 
 
 To the Rescue . ..135
 
 THE OLD SANTA FB TRAIL. 
 
 The trail is nearly lost, alas! 
 Amid the wheat and corn and grass 
 The fields by hedge divided, 
 The hand of greed across it runs, 
 And sweeps away the mark that once 
 The settler's wagon guided. 
 
 It plowed a furrow wide and deep 
 In Little river's winding steep, 
 Down where the stream was forded. 
 Not far away is Stone Corral 
 Whose ruins many a tale can tell 
 Of history unrecorded. 
 
 It passed before our cabin door, 
 Then onward to the west it bore 
 O'er plain and hill and mesa 
 Around the bare and rocky steep, 
 Into the canyon dark and deep 
 By lonely Camp Theresa. 
 
 O'er cactus field and withered sage, 
 Where fiercer yet the blizzards rage, 
 Its course is rougher, bleaker; 
 The whitened bones around it gleam, 
 It tells of many a shattered dream 
 And dying fortune-seeker.
 
 10 THE OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 To us, poor exiles on the plain, 
 It was the one connecting chain 
 With Eastern friends and kindred. 
 With longing eyes we saw the track 
 And gladly would have wandered back 
 But stern-faced duty hindered. 
 
 The oxen bound for Santa Fe 
 Came patiently upon their way 
 With wagon heavy freighted ; 
 They passed the cabin poor and lone 
 And broke the dreary monotone 
 Of those who toiled and waited. 
 
 The Indian swept upon his raid 
 And yonder where the bison strayed 
 We saw the buzzards hover. 
 Sometime a schooner hurried by 
 With little children gathered shy 
 Beneath the wagon cover. 
 
 The sunburnt man who held the reins 
 
 Looked eagerly upon the plains 
 
 A mystery round them clinging ; 
 
 They stretched around him parched and hot 
 
 Without a single garden spot 
 
 Wherein a bird was singing.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 11 
 
 THat land of buffalo grass and sage 
 Unconquered lay for many an age 
 And now refused surrender, 
 But O! the men upon the field 
 They won see how the prairies yield ! 
 The crops of riches' splendor. 
 
 O! deep-worn trail of Santa Fe; 
 You speak of those who passed away 
 Without this glorious vision; 
 Who shared the suffering and the toil, 
 The noon-day heat, the ceaseless moil 
 But never the fruition. 
 
 Tell of the victories they won, 
 The heroes who are dead or gone, 
 Tell of the hard privations. 
 As soft and low as vesper chimes 
 Tell of the early Kansas times 
 To coming generations.
 
 12 
 
 THE; OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 FT-TOE 
 
 run RETURN. 
 
 Hail and farewell! the western winds are blowing! 
 
 Our ship is speeding toward the ocean deep. 
 
 In sunset-fire the city spires are glowing, 
 
 The waves are glittering where the seagulls sweep. 
 
 O Queen of Liberty, who, like a warden, 
 Still keeps the harbor, holding high your light ; 
 O Ellis isle and old-time Castle Garden, 
 You call to mind a memory gleaming bright.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 13 
 
 Long years ago we stood in wide-eyed wonder 
 Upon that shore, a shy and wistful group. 
 We saw the buildings high, the towers yonder, 
 We saw the trolleys rounding curve and loop. 
 
 There was our mother, youthful still, and slender, 
 With little children clinging round her knee, 
 And there was Father, always brave and tender, 
 And full of hope, though poor as poor could be. 
 
 The crowds were passing with confusing noises, 
 We heard a speech we could not understand, 
 But we were glad; like music fell the voices, 
 This was our dream, this was the promised land. 
 
 O land of ours, you gave us higher visions, 
 Not only bread, but schools for high and low, 
 You gave us freedom from the old traditions ; 
 You gave us land and power and room to grow. 
 
 Today we're outward bound, but father, mother 
 Live on their homestead on the prairie wide, 
 We have no land but this, we want no other ; 
 This is our land, our glory and our pride.
 
 14 
 
 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Ring out these words above the coward's prattle, 
 Ring out and drown the traitor's craven cry. 
 We're speeding onward to the field of battle 
 To win for you, America, or die.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 15 
 
 A TALH OF EARLY DAYS. 
 
 Yes, that's the Smoky river, there 
 Where yonder branches wave, 
 And that, where flowers are blooming fair 
 A settler's lowly grave. 
 
 Thus spoke the man I chanced to meet 
 When I had lost my way, 
 Beguiled by waving fields of wheat 
 And flowers fresh and gay. 
 
 Far in the distance rose the hills 
 In smoky vapor dressed, 
 The birthplace of the creeks and rills 
 That to the river pressed. 
 
 In front the grass waved like a sea, 
 Fanned by a gentle breeze ; 
 And o'er us spread a canopy 
 Formed by the giant trees. 
 
 Around the trees the grapevine swung 
 With berries that were green 
 And vines with brilliant flowers clung 
 And laced their leaves between.
 
 16 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 There at our feet a lowly mound 
 Hid from the sun that glowed, 
 And there deep channeled in the ground 
 The winding river flqwed. 
 
 I stood and wondered who had died 
 And found that peaceful bed, 
 I had forgotten all beside 
 Until the stranger said, 
 
 "Come, friend, the afternoon is hot 
 And here's a shady place, 
 There lingers round this lovely spot 
 A tale of early days." 
 
 We walked in silence side by side 
 Up to a fallen tree 
 Where we could view the river glide 
 Swift onward to the sea. 
 
 I marvelled at the fields of gold, 
 The change of hill and dell 
 And long I listened while he told 
 Of those who wrought so well. 
 
 "Among the old-time pioneers 
 
 That memory still retains, 
 
 There's one who lived here many years 
 
 While these were desert plains.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 17 
 
 He used to walk behind the plow 
 With slightly bended back 
 And features stern and wrinkled brow, 
 They called him Settler Jack. 
 
 The lonely cabin where he stayed 
 Was silent as could be; 
 No children round the corners played 
 In glorious jubilee. 
 
 But he had faced the withering blast 
 Through summers hot and dry, 
 Perhaps the future "West had passed 
 In dreams before his eyes. 
 
 I see the place he used to till, 
 The newly broken sod, 
 The pathway winding from the hill 
 By herds of buffalo trod. 
 
 Down to the river-side it led, 
 
 A buffalo retreat, 
 
 Where high banks jutting overhead 
 
 Shut out the noon-day heat. 
 
 Our school was of the humble kind, 
 The window panes were cracked, 
 But children with a happy mind 
 Made up whate'er it lacked.
 
 18 
 
 Around if rolled a sea of grass 
 For many and many a mile, 
 A tall and heavy waving mass 
 That told of fertile soil. 
 
 It was an Indian Summer day 
 So beautiful and still, 
 A hazy mist of autumn gray 
 Hung o'er the distant hill, 
 
 The sumac glowed in red attire 
 Down by the river's brim 
 And faintly shone the prairie fire 
 By the horizon dim. 
 
 Then all at once rose in the West 
 A cloud of flashing thunder 
 With snowy fleece upon its crest 
 And deepest black in under. 
 
 We heard the hollow, moaning songs, 
 Sung as the storm wind came 
 And then we saw the leaping tongues 
 That painted heaven in flame. 
 
 "The prairie fire" whose voice was that? 
 It echoed through the school. 
 "Out, out upon the buffalo path, 
 Strike for the river cool.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 19 
 
 We crowded out into the storm 
 And through the smoke and wrack 
 We saw the weather-beaten form 
 Of lonely Settler Jack. 
 
 He bore us onward in the blast 
 Through grasses tall and rank 
 And down the river side at last 
 We rushed behind the bank. 
 
 The .coyotes and the buffaloes 
 Came rushing o'er the ground 
 In wild confusion, friends and foes, 
 For the same haven bound. 
 
 We listened but we could not hear 
 The sound of human voice, 
 The fire was roaring far and near, 
 It deadened every noise. 
 
 And like a hungry beast of prey 
 Upon the river broke, 
 Where shielded by the bank we lay 
 Amid the blinding smoke. 
 
 It gathered strength and tried to leap 
 
 Upon the other side, 
 
 But hissing fell upon the deep, 
 
 And there in madness died."
 
 20 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Oh, could they speak, these prairies here, 
 What stories they could tell 
 Of many a hardy pioneer 
 Who slumbers where he fell. 
 
 The callous hand, the sunburned face, 
 Are half forgotten now, 
 The sod house and the camping place, 
 Are leveled by the plow. 
 
 But sometimes still my memory turns 
 Back to the long ago, 
 Again the desert round me burns 
 Beneath the noon-day's glow. 
 
 Again the tented wagon train 
 Is filled with pioneers, 
 The conquest of the mighty plain 
 Is ringing in my ears. 
 
 Our blankets at the close of day 
 Upon the plains are spread, 
 Around us prairie-fires at play 
 Gleam in a garland red. 
 
 Again behind the breaking plows 
 We turn the prairie soil, 
 The giant of the desert bows 
 Before the sons of toil.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 21 
 
 I'm with them through the years of drought 
 When they have toiled in vain, 
 I feel the hot winds of the South 
 Upon my cheeks again. 
 
 And memories of the settlers grand 
 My heart shall ever keep, 
 They labored with unselfish hand, 
 They sowed that we might reap.
 
 22 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THRESHING ON THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 Cloudless is the morning sky 
 
 Stars are growing dimmer, 
 
 On the stubble brown and dry 
 
 Not a dew-drop's glimmer. 
 
 Willows down beside the creek 
 
 Rise above the sedges ; 
 
 Quails and thrushes gather thick 
 
 In the sheltering hedges. 
 
 Goldenrods and sunflowers sweet 
 
 By the road side dimple; 
 
 Flowers that stand the burning heat, 
 
 Hardy, plain and simple. 
 
 On the road behind the corn 
 
 Conies a wagon's rattle r 
 
 Breaks the stillness of the morn, 
 
 Rouses up the cattle 
 
 And the jolly threshing crew 
 
 With their talk and laughter 
 
 Swing into the open view 
 
 Just a minute after. 
 
 Now the pitchers climb the stack, 
 
 See the smoke is rising black 
 
 From the engine farther back, 
 
 And the separator-man 
 
 Climbs around with oiling-can.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 23 
 
 In his whistle, loud and clear, 
 Blows the grimy engineer, 
 Wheels and belts begin to whirr, 
 Screens and hinges shake and stir, 
 Winds are still and over all 
 Straw and chaff like showers fall 
 From the giant blower, 
 Lower still, and lower. 
 Blinding is the dust and chaff 
 But the threshers only laugh ; 
 Lift the bundles, golden-brown, 
 Pitch them on the carrier down ; 
 Like a stream, 
 Rolling on, 
 Flash and gleam, 
 They are gone. 
 How the separator rocks, 
 Trembling like a living thing, 
 Like a racer in the ring, 
 As it fills the wagon-box, 
 All it can hold, 
 Gleaming like gold, 
 Product of toil 
 Fresh from the soil. 
 We are hungry, we are black, 
 When we reach the cooking-shack 
 And we wash our hands and face 
 Marshal in and take our place 
 On the benches hard and bare,
 
 24 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Plain, but plentiful our fare, 
 Such as prairie countries yield 
 From the garden and the field. 
 When at last our day is done, 
 It is late, the evening gone, 
 And we stretch our weary limbs 
 Where the crickets sing their hymns, 
 Hay and blankets are our bed 
 And our lights are overhead. 
 Peace and toil our senses steep 
 In forgetfulness and sleep.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 25 
 
 THE PRAIRIE FIRE. 
 
 Though long ago, that summer day 
 
 In memory lingers still. 
 
 A hazy mist of autumn gray 
 
 Hung o'er the distant hill. 
 
 The sumac glowed in red attire 
 
 Down by the river's brim 
 
 And faintly shone the prairie fire 
 
 By the horizon dim. 
 
 Then all at once rose in the west 
 
 A cloud of storm and thunder 
 
 With snowy fleece upon its crest 
 
 And deepest black in under. 
 
 We heard the hollow moaning songs, 
 
 Around us, over head, 
 
 We saw the maddened, leaping tongues 
 
 That painted heaven in red. 
 
 The coyote and the buffalo 
 Came rushing o'er the ground 
 In wild confusion, friend and foe, 
 All for the river bound. 
 Quick to the door the teacher came 
 To save her frightened flock. 
 Our homeward road was all aflame, 
 The buffalo path we took.
 
 26 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Down to the river-side it led, 
 
 A buffalo retreat, 
 
 Where high banks jutting overhead 
 
 Shut out the noonday heat. 
 
 We raced through grasses tall and rank 
 
 A race with fire and death, 
 
 At last beside the stream we sank, 
 
 Exhausted, out of breath. 
 
 We listened but we could not hear 
 
 The sound of human voice, 
 
 The fire was roaring far and near, 
 
 It deadened every noise, 
 
 And like a hungry beast of prey 
 
 Upon the river broke 
 
 Where shielded by the bank we lay 
 
 Amid the blinding smoke. 
 
 It gathered strength and tried to leap 
 
 Upon the other side 
 
 But hissing fell upon the deep 
 
 And there in madness died. 
 
 Our home was gone, the cabin lay 
 
 In embers glowing red. 
 
 We wandered till the end of day 
 
 Like those whose hopes have fled.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 27 
 
 But father came and labored hard 
 
 And built a shelter rude, 
 
 And paced, a sentinel on guard, 
 
 In that vast solitude. 
 
 Tucked in the bed by mother made, 
 
 Our little prayers were said. 
 
 The prairie fires that round us played 
 
 Gleamed in a garland red.
 
 28 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 QUEEN OF DREAMS. 
 
 surely, though a stranger, 
 The freedom and the glow 
 Of pioneer and ranger 
 Must follow where I go, 
 For I was born 'mid splendor 
 Of prairies rolling free 
 And loving hands and tender 
 Were those that sheltered me. 
 
 The dancing prairie fire, 
 The grass by dew impearled, 
 The buds on tree and brier 
 Made beautiful my world. 
 The dreamer's necromancy 
 Was then within my reach. 
 
 1 sailed the ship of fancy 
 To many a tropic beach. 
 
 I drew from magic places 
 The queen of fairy-land 
 To tread with me the mazes 
 Of childhood, hand in hand. 
 
 now as I review, it, 
 How vivid grows the scene; 
 
 1 stood before I knew it, 
 A lad of seventeen.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 29 
 
 And sweet it was to listen 
 To woman free from guile 
 When love had broken prison 
 And beamed in look and smile. 
 The sky has lit her tapers 
 For reverie tonight; 
 Forgotten are my papers, 
 A figure glimmers white. 
 
 A form of beauty lingers 
 A moment where I stand, 
 And precious little fingers 
 Are pressed within my hand. 
 
 come and let us wander 
 Without a thought of care 
 Upon the prairies yonder; 
 My childhood beacons there. 
 
 And let me whisper slowly 
 Before you say farewell, 
 A secret sweet and holy, 
 
 1 never dared to tell; 
 You came so like a fairy ; 
 So like a queen you came ; 
 I met you on the prairie; 
 
 I heard them speak your name.
 
 30 THE OLD SANTA Fe TRAIL AND 
 
 r 
 
 The roses by the river 
 And by the laughing streams, 
 They bloomed more fair than ever 
 For you were Queen of Dreams. 
 You were the Love, the Fairy, 
 My Boyhood's fancy knew. 
 My vision on the prairie, 
 O Sweetheart, it was you.
 
 OTHER POEMS OE THE PLAINS 31 
 
 ZINGHRLHH. 
 
 It was I and Zingerlee, 
 On the Smoky river, we 
 Floated where the water rolled 
 And the sunflower dipped her gold. 
 Beautiful was Zingerlee, 
 Full of laughter, full of glee. 
 O the joy, the melody, 
 All alone with Zingerlee. 
 There was magic in the air, 
 Buds were bursting everywhere, 
 Round us cooed the turtle-dove, 
 Every flower spoke of love. 
 In the glamour and the shade 
 By the trees and willows made, 
 Darling hands were fondly pressed, 
 Treasured love at last confessed. 
 Oh the lips that half deny 
 Ecstacy of love's reply. 
 Sweeter lips were never kissed, 
 Lovelier eyes ne'er filled with mist. 
 Eyes of wonder, eyes of blue, 
 With the love-light shining through; 
 Cheeks as fair as morning-light, 
 Rosy red and lily white. 
 Days may come and days may go 
 When the roses bud and blow, 
 None can be as fair to me 
 As that one with Zingerlee.
 
 32 THS OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THE SINGER. 
 
 The wild applause rang loud and long 
 In the theatre filled by the jubilant throng 
 But the singer herself was cold somehow 
 And only replied with a chilly bow. 
 
 She stepped to her room with a heart of grief 
 And took from a casket a hidden leaf ; 
 Now she sits alone in the silent night 
 'Mid laurel wreaths and flowers bright. 
 
 But the laurel wreaths and the flowers gay 
 Awake in her heart a slumbering lay. 
 She bends her head and her tears fall hot 
 On the leaves of an old forget-me-not.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 33 
 
 THE PRAIRIES OF KANSAS. 
 
 I am south of the river, the Rio Grande, 
 
 Around me are men in sombreros, 
 
 And down on the plaza the monuments stand, 
 
 Erected for Mexican heroes. 
 
 I've camped in the mountains, there's many a gem, 
 
 I've listened to Spanish romances, 
 
 But today I am restless, I care not for them, 
 
 I long for the prairies of Kansas. 
 
 I'd like to be there in the sweet summer-night 
 
 When abloom are the locust and callas, 
 
 When the lovely catalpas are dressed all in white 
 
 And the fireflies are haunting the hollows. 
 
 I've heard the wild song of the birds on the wing, 
 
 Where the surge of the ocean advances ; 
 
 But Oh ! for the tune that the harvesters sing 
 
 On your wheat-covered prairies, O Kansas. 
 
 I know that your winters are often unkind; 
 
 Your seasons and elements vary, 
 
 Sometime in a fury, relentless and blind, 
 
 You wither the crops on the prairie, 
 
 But yet, from this valley, this fairyland wild, 
 
 Where near me the waterfall dances, 
 
 I long for the places I knew as a child, 
 
 I long for the prairies of Kansas.
 
 34 THE; OLD SANTA Fg TRAIL AND 
 
 And here, what a sunset ! aglow is the west 
 
 In colors of lingering beauty. 
 
 The sunlight is gleaming on helmet and crest 
 
 Where Mexican troops are on duty. 
 
 It gleams on the saddle, on bridle and stripe, 
 
 Where the mustang defiantly prances. 
 
 It gleams like the glory when wheatfields are ripe 
 
 On the billowy prairies of Kansas. 
 
 The soldiers are marching in front for review, 
 
 The peons, the mountaineers, wiry. 
 
 It is war ; it is Mexico passing thru 
 
 The trials, the furnaces fiery. 
 
 The people in bondage, in ignorance chained, 
 
 The scattered tribes of Caranzas, 
 
 They grope for the blessings that you have attained, 
 
 fortunate people of Kansas. 
 
 1 watch them go marching by plaza and lake, 
 On their way to the barracks proceeding, 
 
 And my spirit grows heavy; I see their mistakes, 
 
 I know it's an army they're needing, 
 
 But not of the pattern that conquers and rules 
 
 By the power of bayonets and lances, 
 
 But an army of teachers and statesmen, with schools 
 
 Like those on the prairies of Kansas.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 35 
 
 THB MAPLE TRHH. 
 
 Sometimes when idle hours are mine 
 
 I pass the grove of elm and pine; 
 
 The reddening peach and apricot 
 
 And garden trees are all forgot. 
 
 I seek the lonely maple tree 
 
 Where once I played in thoughtless glee; 
 
 There comes the meadow lark again 
 
 And sings its old familiar strain; 
 
 There comes to me from early days 
 
 So many a kind and friendly face ; 
 
 Let fashion call her worshipper 
 
 To ball room or to theatre, 
 
 I love the labor and the stress, 
 
 The settler of the wilderness. 
 
 The farmer, unaffected, free, 
 
 The home in its simplicity. 
 
 Are you a friend of honest worth, 
 
 Of strong but humble thing of earth ? 
 
 Then listen, you will understand 
 
 The settler of a barren land. 
 
 Our prairie schooners were headed West, 
 We came afar and we needed rest, 
 All day we looked o'er that barren plain 
 For sheltering tree, but we looked in vain, 
 Then all at once in the distance rose 
 As fair a tree as the forest grows;
 
 36 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 It raised to Heaven its giant form 
 And bade defiance to fire and storm. 
 The wind had wakened its vibrant keys, 
 It sang victorious melodies. 
 
 Not many flowers around it grew 
 
 For winds were hot and the rains were few ; 
 
 But every summer with matchless grace 
 
 Its beauty hallowed that desert place. 
 
 When August came with the sultry skies 
 
 That shady spot was a paradise. 
 
 There came the farmer to cool his brow, 
 
 The oxen weary with load and plow, 
 
 The traveler faint from the burning sun. 
 
 It gave its shelter to every one, 
 
 That day we knew what the soil could do, 
 
 And courage sprang in our hearts anew. 
 
 Oh endless prairie ! Oh giant tree ! 
 More beautiful than you used to be, 
 Today you show us the wondrous change 
 The settler wrought over field and range. 
 I too have changed, but the change in me, 
 Is not of Summer, Oh ! giant tree, 
 I am no longer the man who faced 
 The wilderness where the bison grazed, 
 I bear the marks of the blizzard's rage 
 The labor hard and the hand of age, 
 But yet, again to the bugle call, 
 My soul would answer and face it all, 
 To break the way and to toil and bless 
 The barren plain and the wilderness.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 37 
 
 THE TRAMP. 
 
 I beg and I wander, 
 
 The money I squander 
 For whiskey I buy on the road, 
 
 Then onward I stumble 
 
 And drink till I tumble 
 Asleep in the ditch with my load. 
 
 My senses awaken, 
 
 The odor of bacon 
 Is sweet to a poor hungry wretch. 
 
 I wander unsteady 
 
 Where dinner is ready 
 And children come home on the stretch. 
 
 I dream of a woman, 
 
 For still I am human, 
 A cottage, a dinner for me, 
 
 With maple and cherry 
 
 And children so merry 
 And baby to climb on my knee. 
 
 And meekly I enter 
 
 The garden and venture 
 To the porch by the ivy hung o'er; 
 
 For the prayer I utter 
 
 The bread and the butter 
 They pass through the half open door.
 
 38 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 The children have hidden, 
 
 The house is forbidden, 
 I turn to the highway again, 
 
 All withered and wizen 
 
 I long for the prison, 
 The rock pile, the ball and the chain. 
 
 I have not a penny 
 
 Nor friends have I any, 
 I have not a land of my own. 
 
 In a car full of lumber 
 
 Half frozen I slumber 
 With a wretch like myself, or alone.
 
 OTHER POEMS of THE PLAINS 39 
 
 THE KANSAS SONG. 
 To Kansas we came and we staked out our claim, 
 We lived through the heat and the drought, 
 We built of the sod and we learned how to plod 
 In the gales of the withering South. 
 For miles o'er the plains, o'er the hills up and down 
 We carted our wheat and our corn to the town. 
 But here's to Kansas, Hurrah! 
 A song to the golden West. 
 Oh! here's to Kansas, Hurrah! hurrah! 
 For Kansas we love the best. 
 But now you must know that we are not so slow, 
 We're building of brick and of steel, 
 On the prairie the song of the reaper is heard 
 And the hum of the automobile. 
 Our cities are thriving, our cities are fair 
 And towering high in the sunshine and air. 
 And here's to Kansas, Hurrah! 
 A song to the golden West, 
 Oh, here's to Kansas, hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 For Kansas we love the best. 
 The girl of the West by the breezes caressed, 
 Her cheeks with the roses aglow 
 Her smile like the sunshine to the pioneer homes, 
 Her voice like a melody low. 
 The girl of the city, the girl of the farm, 
 Who caught from the prairie its mystical charm, 
 To the Kansas girl, hurrah ! 
 A song to the girl of the West, 
 To the Kansas girl, hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 To the maiden we love the best.
 
 40 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THH SISTER. 
 
 Through the open window straying, 
 Gentle winds are softly playing 
 
 In the curtained room; 
 To the sick a message bringing 
 Of the birds in rapture singing 
 
 And the flowers in bloom. 
 
 But so slowly goes the minute 
 In a room with sickness in it, 
 
 Hark! a step is on the stair; 
 And all eyes now animated 
 Beam as if they long had waited 
 
 For a loved one there. 
 
 She is coming; see her enter 
 Fair as if an angel sent her 
 
 Down from Paradise; 
 Maiden with the radiant features 
 Lovliest of mortal creatures 
 
 In the sufferer's eyes. 
 
 Once she floated animated 
 In the dance, intoxicated 
 
 By life's selfish mirth. 
 Every wish from her was granted 
 In a land by wealth enchanted 
 
 And by noble birth.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 41 
 
 But she heard, that, far beneath her 
 Down where only grief would meet her 
 
 In the city's strife, 
 Human beings in misery wasted 
 And the pleasures never tasted 
 
 Of her joyous life. 
 
 And it touched with deepest feeling- 
 All her soul the love revealing 
 
 That so long was hid; 
 Now she labors on unceasing 
 Always pain and sorrow easing 
 
 As her Saviour did. 
 
 Eager eyes for her are gazing 
 Where the dazzling lights are blazing 
 
 In the festive halls ; 
 For they miss the queenly beauty 
 Now in humble paths of duty 
 
 Where her Master calls. 
 
 There her courage does not leave her 
 E'en though battling with the fever 
 
 In the poisonous air; 
 Tenderly her fellow mortals 
 Taking from death's open portals 
 
 With her skillful care.
 
 42 THE; OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 She beholds with rapture burning 
 Roses to the cheeks returning 
 
 Beauteous as before; 
 But sometime the soul is beating 
 'Gainst the bars and swiftly fleeting 
 
 To the mystic shore. 
 
 Then her voice so full of pity 
 Tells of the Eternal City 
 
 And the Saviour's power. 
 Oh, the thanks we can not measure 
 Speaks to her in farewell pressure 
 
 In the parting hour. 
 
 For her work of love untiring 
 For the works she spoke inspiring 
 
 Peace and heavenly trust, 
 When the star of hope was hidden 
 And the soul in paths forbidden 
 
 Sank into the dust. 
 
 What are all the earthly treasures 
 And the shallow fleeting pleasures 
 
 To the joy she feels? 
 For an angel bright and holy 
 Hovers o'er the maiden lowly 
 
 Where in prayer she kneels.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 43 
 
 A PRAYHR. 
 
 Let the waves of music roll 
 To the God of love, my soul, 
 Lift thy voice in song and prayer 
 For His love and tender care. 
 
 Lord, we turn to Thee in praise 
 For Thy all abounding grace 
 'Twas Thy hand that bore us on 
 When our little strength was gone. 
 
 Twas Thy word that cheered and gave 
 Faith and hope beyond the grave. 
 Stay with us, oh tender Guide 
 Till the shades of eventide. 
 
 Praise Him for to earth He came 
 And His love is still the same, 
 E'en misfortune, we shall find 
 Comes in love, for He is kind. 
 
 When our earthly days are past 
 Let us come to Thee at last 
 Numbered with the angel throng 
 Praising Thee in joyful song.
 
 44 THE; OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 LOVH AND POETRY. 
 A Paraphrase from the Swedish of Braun. 
 
 I, too, have loved in my youthful prime 
 And written boldly love's silly rhyme. 
 I loved a beauty of modern times, 
 A little angel from fairy climes, 
 And flowery phrases from fancy's land 
 I gave to her with a liberal hand. 
 
 The art of pleasing she knew full well ; 
 
 My heart was touched and of course I fell. 
 
 There was a beauty within her eyes 
 
 That seemed to lovers a paradise. 
 
 That I was captured, now do not wonder 
 
 For wiser mortals have made this blunder, 
 
 And how it happened? I do not know it, 
 
 But this I know, I became a poet. 
 
 The burning deserts, the naked mountains 
 
 My fancy clothed with woods and fountains. 
 
 A brighter sun from the heaven shone, 
 
 The Queen of Night had much fairer grown, 
 
 The stars above possessed magic powers, 
 
 The earth was decked in the fairest flowers. 
 
 On every flower, on every briar, 
 
 I breathed forth my poetic fire. 
 
 My fancy pictured a cottage lonely 
 
 Where I should live with my darling only.
 
 OTHER POEMS of THE PLAINS 45 
 
 In every mortal I saw a friend. 
 
 To love's dominion there was no end. 
 
 I loved in Eden 'mid rarest flowers, 
 
 I courted muses in charming bowers ; 
 
 I felt the touch of the poet's ire 
 
 And rhyme I wrote to my heart's desire. 
 
 The happiest mortal myself I thought 
 
 When she my verses with kisses bought. 
 
 O, when that vision of earthly charm 
 
 Had fled to me with her open arms, 
 
 With tearful eyes, with a sigh and kiss 
 
 Thou youthful folly wert still my bliss ; 
 
 I ne'er can harbor regret of thee, 
 
 On earth a heaven thou gavest me; 
 
 But tender notes from my harp are straying 
 
 And I forgot I was only playing. 
 
 Well, her fond love died away with time 
 
 And I deserted in turn my rhyme. 
 
 All things the muses had but engrossed, 
 
 I saw how little that I had lost, 
 
 And yet I wept when my Eden fair 
 
 Dissolved away into empty air. 
 
 Her many promises still I knew, 
 
 Her beauty lingered in memory too ; 
 
 But I rejoice that erasing time 
 
 Has done away with my love and rhyme.
 
 46 THS OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 OLD MONITOR SCHOOL HOUSE. 
 
 George Osgood, take your fiddle 
 And play a mournful air. 
 My heart is full of care. 
 This world is like a riddle 
 And sometimes like a dirge; 
 Play, brother George. 
 This school house, you remember, 
 So oft with maidens full, 
 Is gloomy as December 
 And twice as dull. 
 
 Ah, once the old time benches 
 
 Were piled out of the way 
 
 Go on and play ; 
 
 There's nothing here that quenches 
 
 The thirst that made you stop. 
 
 No, not a drop. 
 
 Yes, here the youth assembled 
 
 And danced till break of day 
 
 And all the rafters trembled 
 
 So merry was the play. 
 
 Those chandeliers forsaken 
 Where now the swallows build 
 The room with splendor filled ; 
 O, how the scenes awaken 
 And crowd at memory's door 
 Play nothing more.
 
 OTHER POEMS OE THE PLAINS 47 
 
 George Osgood stopped his playing 
 And from the mossy stone 
 Arose in hurry, saying, 
 "I'll leave you here alone." 
 
 Alone I sat and pondered 
 Upon the dewy ground 
 When, lo ! I heard a sound ; 
 I started up and wondered, 
 For through the open door 
 I heard the music pour, 
 I saw the chandeliers 
 Ablaze with dazzling light 
 And stalwart pioneers 
 Came riding through the night. 
 
 What spells are these that bind me 
 
 'Mid scenes of long ago 
 
 And faces that I know? 
 
 "The Girl I Left Behind Me" 
 
 Rings in my startled ear, 
 
 So loud and clear, 
 
 I heard Jim Redfern calling, 
 
 "Now, ready, balance all." 
 
 See how the mortar's falling 
 
 Down from the shaking wall !
 
 48 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 My eyes behold no riches, 
 See yonder rustic youth 
 Adown the center skoot; 
 A cotton shirt and breeches 
 Is all that he can boast, 
 And yet he swings the most. 
 O, here are bonnie lasses 
 Within these lowly walls 
 And beauty that surpasses 
 The Eastern fashion balls. 
 
 I love the art of dancing 
 And asked the nearest girl 
 If she would take a whirl, 
 When, lo ! the scene entrancing 
 Grew dim before my sight 
 And vanished in the night. 
 George Osgood with his fiddle 
 And all the joyous throng, 
 Jim Redfern in the middle, 
 Into the darkness swung.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 49 
 
 BELLMAN. 
 (From the Swedish of Tegner.) 
 
 Make room, make room, another poet's coming. 
 
 The joyous Bacchus of the icy North, 
 
 Hear how he jokes and hear him softly humming 
 
 A song to nymphs that round about him sport. 
 
 But Oh, his joys are not amid the glasses, 
 
 Not in the idylls he has scattered round. 
 
 His drunken eye to loftier beauty passes 
 
 As pensive as the Muse on high Parnassus, 
 
 A poet's grief to rosy covers bound. 
 
 The greatest poet of the North, O sages, 
 
 Lies slumbering here beneath your oaken trees, 
 
 His song shall last through all the coming ages, 
 
 There is no other land with songs like these ; 
 
 A song, a lyric, yet it breaks the tether 
 
 Of all the rules of art, so free it runs; 
 
 As if on Mount Olympus he had met her 
 
 And half unconscious tripped a dance together 
 
 With Poetry and Music all at once.
 
 50 THE; Ou> SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 We called her "Daisy" for her face 
 Had something of that flower's grace 
 And something of the loveliness 
 Of hawthorn buds who come to bless 
 The lonely range. 
 
 One night her cheek grew pale and chill, 
 The cabin was so still, so still, 
 The wandering coyote's dismal howl, 
 The hooting of the prairie owl 
 Sounded so strange. 
 
 "She's dying;" no it was not death, 
 More even came her fevered breath 
 She slept how glad how glad we were, 
 We stood and hardly dared to stir 
 Beside her bed. 
 
 We gathered round her bed again, 
 We knew that she was better then, 
 Her face appeared so calm and sweet 
 And from her cheek the fever heat 
 At last had fled.
 
 OTHER POEMS otf THE PLAINS 51 
 
 She was so fair, so like a saint, 
 A maiden such as dreamers paint; 
 Her soul had seen the land of flowers 
 That lay too far for eyes like ours 
 With vision dim. 
 
 When joyfully the sun arose 
 We took her from the cabin close, 
 We made her bed beneath the tree 
 Where the birds sang their melody 
 And morning hymn. 
 
 So tenderly we sheltered her 
 
 In softest bed of buffalo fur. 
 
 We were not blessed with riches then 
 
 But Daisy was our own again, 
 
 We asked no more. 
 
 The wind came to our breath like wine 
 From cottonwood and scattered pine, 
 More beautiful the prairie seemed 
 And brighter lights in heaven gleamed 
 When day was o'er.
 
 52 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 RBST. 
 
 Softly the evening twilight 
 
 Falls over hill and plain, 
 
 Down through the garret skylight, 
 
 Down through the tinted pane. 
 
 Nature reposes. 
 
 Still is the forest green, 
 
 Still are the garden roses, 
 
 Resting serene. 
 
 Hearts that are almost breaking 
 
 Over the trials met, 
 
 Brows that are tired and aching 
 
 Sleep and forget. 
 
 Strength from the bounteous Giver 
 
 Comes with the morning light, 
 
 Eyes where the tear-drops quiver, 
 
 Close for tonight. 
 
 You who are torn asunder, 
 Struck by the hand of fate, 
 Meet in the dreamland yonder, 
 Slumber unlocks the gate. 
 Lovers departed, 
 Come to that garden fair, 
 Friends who are tender-hearted 
 Gladden you there.
 
 OTHER POEMS OE THE PLAINS 53 
 
 Hushed are the jarring noises, 
 Labor and tumult cease, 
 Softly the evening voices 
 Call you to rest and peace. 
 Nature reposes, 
 Still is the forest green, 
 Still are the garden roses, 
 Resting serene. 
 
 THE, SHHPHHRD. 
 
 He came for our redemption sent, 
 
 And mercy following where He went 
 
 Shall nevermore be hidden, 
 
 Our Shepherd He will ever be 
 
 That we may follow glad and free 
 
 And do what He has bidden. 
 
 Upward, onward 
 
 Till the morrow 
 
 Free from sorrow 
 
 When we gather 
 
 In His image round the Father.
 
 54 THE OivD SANTA FE TRAII, AND 
 
 THE FISHING TRIP. 
 
 From the Swedish of Bellman. 
 Up, Ammaryllis, awaken, my lily 
 The weather is stilly, 
 Cool the air, 
 The rainbow stretches 
 O'er heav'n and sketches 
 For saints and wretches 
 Pictures rare; 
 
 All the birds of night their flight have taken 
 Neptune sits upon the wave forsaken, 
 Ammaryllis dear, you must awaken, 
 Slumber no longer, O eyelids fair. 
 
 Here is our shallop, the fishpoles are in it, 
 
 Come now this minute 
 
 Do not wait ; 
 
 Hide your long tresses 
 
 From Eol's caresses 
 
 And 'mid the watercresses 
 
 We'll set our bait. 
 
 Ammaryllis, see how clear the air is 
 
 Every island in its beauty varies, 
 
 'Mid the sirens and the water fairies 
 
 We'll paddle around till the hour is late.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 55 
 
 Where are the hooks and the nets we were mak 
 ing? 
 
 Daylight is breaking, 
 Look at the sky ; 
 O Ammaryllis, 
 Sweeter than Phyllis 
 Surely your will is 
 Not to deny. 
 
 Let us paddle where the sea-gull hovers 
 Or beneath the island's leafy covers 
 Where we first found out that we were lovers 
 When Thirsis so angrily hurried by. 
 
 Step in the shallop, singing and sailing, 
 
 Love is prevailing in our breast 
 
 Aeol is jealous, 
 
 He grumbles and bellows 
 
 Perhaps he would tell us 
 
 "Here is no rest," 
 
 Or perhaps it is his tempest hollow 
 
 But I care not, with my dear I follow 
 
 O'er the water, be it deep or shallow; 
 
 Mock me, ye sirens by billows caressed.
 
 I was studying and the fact is, 
 
 Used my spare time gaining practice 
 
 'Mong the poorest poor. 
 
 I had followed without speaking, 
 
 Up a stairway, dark and creaking 
 
 To a tenement floor. 
 
 Far below me swung the trolley, 
 Building rose across the alley, 
 Higher still and higher; 
 Dim and distant looked the people, 
 And the far cathedral steeple 
 Caught the sunset's fire. 
 
 But around me misery brooded, 
 Human beings, poor, deluded, 
 Crowded everywhere. 
 O, I saw them fever stricken, 
 Till my soul began to sicken 
 In a mute despair. 
 
 By the sick where she'd been kneeling 
 Rose a girl with eyes appealing, 
 And her welcome smiled; 
 I had come for gain and glory, 
 She to tell the wondrous story 
 Of the Bethlehem Child.
 
 OTHER POEMS OP THE PLAINS 
 
 Once she floated animated 
 
 In the dance, intoxicated 
 
 By life's thoughtless mirth; 
 
 Every wish and prayer was granted, 
 
 In a home that seemed enchanted 
 
 By the wealth of earth. 
 
 Did she find the nectar bitter? 
 Did she tire of gold and glitter 
 And the empty show? 
 O I know not but I found her, 
 With the fever struck around her, 
 In the slums below. 
 
 And she labored for the masses, 
 For the poor, the lower classes 
 As a simple nurse. 
 
 Where the smoke fell thick and thicker, 
 And the gambling and the liquor 
 Cast a withering curse. 
 
 O the battle and the crisis, 
 
 When the fever falls and rises, 
 
 In the time of dread ; 
 
 When the midnight hour comes stealing, 
 
 And the shadows on the ceiling 
 
 Are the loved and dead.
 
 58 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Then she comes, the courage-giver, 
 With her smile as kind as ever; 
 With her tender care. 
 And the fluttering pulse grows stronger 
 And the eyes are closed no longer 
 In a mute despair. 
 
 O how great the work and holy, 
 Thus to labor for the lowly, 
 To uplift, inspire ; 
 Like a star her memory lingers, 
 Like a song sung by the singers 
 Of an angel choir.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 59 
 
 CURLY. 
 
 He came in rain and vapor 
 To harvest for my Dad, 
 A shirt wrapped up in paper, 
 Was all the grip he had. 
 
 His hair was red and curly 
 He couldn't milk of course, 
 And never got up early 
 To help us do the chores. 
 
 He talked about Andoover 
 Where he'd been shocking wheat. 
 T would break the heart of Hoover 
 To see that fellow eat. 
 
 But Dad without complaining 
 Said, "Let him have the grub, 
 Whene'er it lets up raining 
 We'll need him on the job." 
 
 I never saw such weather; 
 The fields were like a flood, 
 We mired the loads and header 
 And left them in the mud.
 
 60 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Then we sat down and waited 
 Until the fields should dry. 
 To cut, as I have stated, 
 There was no use to try. 
 
 At last the heavens lifted, 
 A wind was blowing fair, 
 The clouds above us drifted 
 And vanished in the air. 
 
 That evening Dad told Curly, 
 "Tomorrow we shall cut, 
 You'll have to get up early, 
 Don't let that be forgot" 
 
 Next morning bright and early 
 We mobilized our crew, 
 But where, O where was Curly? 
 He came not for review. 
 
 He must have hit the trail 
 And never said good-bye, 
 For Dad began to rail 
 At harvest hands O my! 
 
 We should have been out early 
 To head and load and stack, 
 But where, O where was Curly 
 And when would he come back?
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 61 
 
 By the river, by the river, 
 Where the slender aspens quiver 
 
 Over grass and flowers; 
 Where the elm and oak are growing 
 And their giant shadows throwing, 
 
 Forming shady bowers. 
 
 There's a pathway where I wander 
 In sweet solitude and ponder, 
 
 'Neath the evening sky. 
 There the birds are singing o'er me, 
 There a vision comes before me 
 
 From the sunny days gone by. 
 
 O I know I can not paint her, 
 For her form is always fainter 
 
 When portrayed by tongue or pen, 
 Than when sporting o'er the prairie 
 Slender, graceful as a fairy 
 
 Could you but have seen her then. 
 
 Or when questions were debated, 
 When her form was animated, 
 
 All her soul within her eyes; 
 For we met sometimes at college 
 And enlightened with our knowledge 
 
 Any subject 'neath the skies.
 
 62 THE OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 ' O, ye women politicians, 
 And ye wire-pulling magicians, 
 
 Talking silver, talking gold; 
 With a trouble that increases 
 And a stock that never ceases, 
 
 Of the schemes that you unfold. 
 
 Keep your speeches flowery laden, 
 Let me listen to this maiden 
 
 With her winning smile; 
 Campaign speeches chestnut seasoned, 
 Can not rival lips that reasoned, 
 
 Free from all your guile.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 63 
 
 OUTCAST. 
 
 I spoke so harshly yestermorn 
 'Twas but a beggar in the street, 
 A tramp, a beggar, tired, forlorn 
 And ragged, that I chanced to meet. 
 
 He asked for money or for bread, 
 And stood there shivering at my side ; 
 I questioned something that he said, 
 He answered, but I knew he lied. 
 
 What right had I to question him? 
 I, educated, housed and fed ; 
 He with his vision blurred and dim, 
 His body starved, his soul half dead. 
 
 And then I thought of Magdalene, 
 I thought of those who came to Christ, 
 Blind and despised, sinful, unclean, 
 And how the people were surprised. 
 
 When these were healed and went away 
 With new ambition, kind and strong, 
 I felt ashamed, I could but pray! 
 "Forgive me, Lord, for I was wrong."
 
 64 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THE MIRAGE. 
 
 Out from the desert's scorching heat 
 The traveler sought a cool retreat ; 
 And lo ! as by a magic spell 
 A lake arose, and shadows fell 
 Upon its banks from date and palm 
 But round it lay the desert calm. 
 The waves by gentle breezes fanned, 
 Were beating slowly on the strand; 
 He saw the lake from shore to shore, 
 But not a boat the billows bore ; 
 He saw the trees that round it made 
 A circle of inviting shade. 
 But not a cottage met his eye; 
 He called ; but no one gave reply 
 Save Echo, that his voice pursued 
 Into the boundless solitude. 
 Strange ! but there was not e'en a sign 
 Of people in that spot divine. 
 So bounteously by nature blest ! 
 A garden where the tired may rest, 
 Like those the Babylonian Queen 
 Suspended earth and heav'n between; 
 But he would seek that garden fair, 
 And rest at least a moment there. 
 Then from the beaten path he turned 
 Out where the glistening desert burned; 
 The sun in heaven seemed to frown, 
 And pour its flood in anger down.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 65 
 
 There were no clouds to hide it now 
 There were no winds to cool his brow ; 
 But on he pressed with burning feet. 
 Now it was near, the waters sweet, 
 And now again it seemed afar 
 But beckoning, like a friendly star. 
 Was that a skull upon the sand ? 
 Was that a skeleton's bony hand ? 
 That seemed to warn and wave him back 
 To seek again the beaten track ! 
 In vain! In vain! Bewildered, lost, 
 He saw but where the billows tossed 
 Their silver spray upon the beach 
 So clear and cool, but out of reach. 
 It sparkled 'neath the foliage dense, 
 And made his thirst grow more intense. 
 Still fiercer grew the noonday sun 
 His courage now, was almost gone ; 
 His giant strength was failing fast, 
 And on the sand he sank, at last! 
 But still his overheated brain 
 An Eden pictured on the plain 
 So near that he could hear the swell 
 Of billows as they rose and fell. 
 He tried to plunge into the tide, 
 But fainted on the sand and died.
 
 66 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 FINLAND'S NATIONAL SONG. 
 
 Our land, our land, our native land, 
 O send the echoes forth! 
 No mountain rising high and grand, 
 No valleys fair, no wave-beat strand, 
 More dear than the beloved North, 
 Our father's home on earth. 
 
 Our land is poor and dark our sky 
 To those who seek for gold. 
 A stranger passes proudly by, 
 But O, we love the Northland high ! 
 In towering cliff, in lake and wold, 
 A gold-land we behold. 
 
 We love our river's mighty rush, 
 Our brooklets dancing light, 
 Our woodland's moan at even-hush, 
 Our starry night, our sunset-blush, 
 All, all that here in song and sight 
 Has made our life so bright. 
 
 With pen and plow our fathers toiled 
 And here they slumber sweet; 
 Here, when the war was raging wild, 
 When fickle fortune frowned or smiled, 
 Through victory, suffering and defeat, 
 The heart of Finland beat.
 
 OTHER POEMS otf THE PLAINS 67 
 
 And who shall count her battles o'er, 
 The weary march recall, 
 The conflict and the cannon's roar, 
 The frost that came and famine bore? 
 How true her sons to fight and fall, 
 Or patient bear it all. 
 
 O, it was here they fought and bled 
 And held the foe at bay. 
 Here they rejoiced when famine fled 
 And heaven's bounty came instead, 
 And here they built and paved the way, 
 Long, long before our day. 
 
 Now, to the farm, the humble cot, 
 Content we come and go; 
 Whate'er misfortune be our lot, 
 A land, a native land we've got. 
 What greater gift can heaven bestow 
 To keep our hearts aglow? 
 
 And here, far as the eye can reach, 
 
 When come the summer skies, 
 
 We point to wood and lake and beach 
 
 And say with heart too full for speech : 
 
 "It is our native land that lies 
 
 So fair before our eyes."
 
 68 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 And though we left, for regions bound 
 'Mid gold-clouds far away, 
 And though we danced a starry-round 
 Where neither tear nor sigh were found ; 
 To this poor land, both night and day, 
 Our longing thoughts would stray. 
 
 O Northland of a thousand lakes, 
 Of faith and minstrelsy, 
 Our infant eye to thee awakes, 
 Our dust thy bosom kindly takes. 
 O Motherland be glad and free, 
 Nor blush for poverty. 
 
 Thy future in the bud confined 
 Shall break its prison cell, 
 And in our true affection find 
 A beauty of the royal kind; 
 Then jubilant our song shall swell 
 And greater tidings tell.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 69 
 
 THE CITY OF SUFFERING. 
 
 O that city, have you seen it? 
 Flowers and maple trees between it 
 And the thoroughfare. 
 Weary mortals, tempest driven 
 Like a ship, all wrecked and riven, 
 Find a haven there. 
 
 City of the pallid faces, 
 
 Full of peaceful resting places, 
 
 Flowers upon the tinted shelf. 
 
 Just a hospital in practice, 
 
 But you feel it, and the fact is, 
 
 'Tis a city in itself. 
 
 Have you traveled through that city? 
 Greater, then, must be your pity, 
 Warmer must your hand-clasp be. 
 Not for you are pride and splendor 
 But a feeling deep and tender 
 For the suffering ones you see. 
 
 Far below it swings the trolley, 
 Buildings rise across the alley 
 Higher still and higher; 
 Dim and distant look the people 
 And the far cathedral steeple 
 Gleams with sunset fire.
 
 70 THE OLD SANTA F TRAIL AND 
 
 Soft and low, her footsteps hushing, 
 O'er the carpets tufted cushion, 
 On her round the sister comes, 
 Turns the pillow, smooths the cover 
 For some one just carried over, 
 Rescued from the city slums. 
 
 Close beside him on the dresser, 
 Are the flowers she brought, God bless her, 
 "Just to freshen up the room." 
 Fragrant flowers, smelling sweeter 
 Mid the lingering fumes of ether 
 Than in gardens all abloom. 
 
 O, the battle and the crisis 
 
 When the fever falls and rises 
 
 In the time of dread; 
 
 When the midnight hour comes stealing 
 
 And the shadows on the ceiling 
 
 Are the loved and dead. 
 
 Then she comes, the courage-giver, 
 
 With her smile as kind as ever, 
 
 With her tender care, 
 
 And the fluttering pulse grows stronger 
 
 And the eyes are closed no longer 
 
 In a mute despair.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 71 
 
 O, how great the work and holy 
 Thus to labor for the lowly, 
 To uplift, inspire. 
 Fondly still, the memory lingers 
 Like a song sung by the singers 
 Of an angel choir.
 
 72 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THE POLICE JUDGE. 
 
 I long for flowers growing 
 
 O'er meadow, hill and dale ; 
 
 For wind through hedges blowing. 
 
 I long for thrush and quail, 
 
 The hawks that overawe them 
 
 I even long to meet, 
 
 Although I seldom see them, 
 
 My home is on the street. 
 
 Through windows mud bespattered 
 The glaring sunlight falls, 
 The paper torn and tattered 
 Hangs on my office walls. 
 No painting by the masters, 
 No landscape of De Vouges, 
 But tales of grim disasters 
 And gallery of rogues. 
 
 O, sweet it is to listen, 
 To women free from guile 
 When eyes with love light glisten 
 And faces beam and smile, 
 But those who tower o'er me 
 To such a view are blind, 
 The women brought before me 
 Are not the virtuous kind.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 73 
 
 The poet's necromancy 
 Was once within my reach, 
 I sailed the ship of fancy 
 To many a tropic beach; 
 But now I keep the docket, 
 The book of ordinance, 
 My fancy, drudgery took it, 
 Or frightened it, perchance. 
 
 And yet, though fancy passes, 
 Back to its fairy land, 
 Among the lowly masses 
 I gladly take my stand. 
 I've learnt by passing through it, 
 That most of those who fall, 
 Are not, if we but knew it, 
 So wicked after all.
 
 74 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 NHCKANS POLKA. 
 A Translation. 
 
 In the ocean 'neath the crystal cover 
 
 Neckan slumbers in coral vale, 
 
 Stars of night are bending brightly over, 
 
 Over wood, over hill, and dale, 
 
 And the evening scatters sombre beauty round, 
 
 On the zephyr not a murmur, not a sound, 
 
 To break the stillness of night's repose 
 
 When from his castle the king of ocean goes. 
 
 Agir's daughters are rocking slowly 
 
 The kind of ocean across the deep. 
 
 The harper's music is melancholy; 
 
 It seeks a grave where the willows weep. 
 
 Not a messenger in heaven meets his eye 
 
 To betoken that the queen of night is nigh : 
 
 Freja's decking her golden hair, 
 
 And pensive Neckan plays a mournful air. 
 
 "Oh, where art thou, brightest star of heaven 
 In the rapturous evening hour, 
 Thou who once to me on earth was given, 
 Was my bride in the ocean bower; 
 Fairy maid of more than earthly charms, 
 Coming shy and trembling to my arms, 
 In the waves beneath the jeweled sky, 
 When the golden harp stood silent by.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 75 
 
 But my loved one was by Oden taken 
 
 Placed to shine upon Gimle's throne 
 
 And the singer is left forsaken, 
 
 He possesses her name alone; 
 
 But the gods shall win the victory 
 
 Over evil and the world be free, 
 
 Then we'll meet on the billows blue 
 
 And play the golden harp in regions new." 
 
 Thus he sang and where the stars are meeting 
 Freja looked from her azure throne, 
 Smiled and gave him a silent greeting 
 But her tears in the twilight shone, 
 And the trembling waves her image mild 
 Mirrored back to heaven when she smiled, 
 Then enraptured his fingers flew 
 O'er the golden harp on billows blue. 
 
 Now the maids of night are drawing nearer, 
 
 They tread the dance in the evening still 
 
 And the melody grows sweeter, clearer, 
 
 As it echoes from hill to hill, 
 
 But when all the East in purple glows 
 
 From the dance the gentle maiden goes, 
 
 Bids the singer a sad adieu, 
 
 And silent is the harp on billows blue.
 
 76 THE Ou> SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THH KANSAS GIRL. 
 
 O, come my harp, let music stream 
 
 From every quivering string, 
 
 The Kansas girl shall be my theme, 
 
 For her let music ring. 
 
 Last night amid the party's throng 
 
 She set my head awhirl, 
 
 But still I'll sing a joyful song 
 
 To every Kansas girl. 
 
 I heard the music's rhythmic flow 
 
 I saw those maidens rare, 
 
 Upon their cheeks the sunset glow 
 
 Had painted roses fair, 
 
 And Cupid with his bow and dart, 
 
 Was hiding mid their very curls. 
 
 Ah, woe unto the lover's heart, 
 
 For dangerous are the Kansas girls. 
 
 I hear the railroad engines blast, 
 
 It warns that I must go, 
 
 I know not where my lot is cast ; 
 
 But whether mid the polar snow 
 
 Or Kansas sunlight clear, 
 
 Or where the wind o'er desert whirls 
 
 I still shall treasure memories dear 
 
 Of all the Kansas girls.
 
 OTHER POEMS oE THE PLAINS 77 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Oh songster of the forest, where have you winged 
 
 your flight? 
 
 In vain I sit and listen for your melodies tonight. 
 The Autumn leaves are falling, the flowers all are 
 
 dead, 
 The maples by the roadside are dressed in tints of red. 
 
 Oh happy bird of Summer, melodious and free, 
 
 You need not fear the tempest or the raging winter 
 
 sea, 
 You have journeyed o'er the ocean to the children of 
 
 the sun, 
 And you build and sing and carol, your nesting time 
 
 begun. 
 
 O have you seen my lost one who left so long ago, 
 
 And sailed into the distance when the sun was sink 
 ing low, 
 
 To seek that land so wonderful across the viewless 
 track 
 
 That takes our sons and daughters and does not give 
 them back? 
 
 O stately was the vessel bound for the land of gold, 
 It plowed into the open sea where glittering billows 
 
 rolled, 
 It took our dearest treasures from cottage, thorp and 
 
 hall, 
 And my darling was the fairest and the loveliest of 
 
 them all.
 
 78 THS OLD SANTA Fu TRAIL AND 
 
 She had eyes as blue as heaven, she had hair of sun 
 light spun, 
 
 And her cheeks were like the roses where the moun 
 tain streamlets run 
 
 And she left with many a promise to return ere many 
 years, 
 
 But tonight my hopes have vanished and my eyes are 
 filled with tears. 
 
 Our little farm has prospered and full the orchard 
 
 stands, 
 
 But all our little treasures pass into other hands, 
 Oh, songster of the forest, could I but follow you 
 Across the hills and valleys, across the ocean blue. 
 
 I would seek her till I found her though I traveled 
 
 night and day, 
 
 And fold her to my bosom where in babyhood she lay. 
 Feel again the thrilling pleasure that the mothers only 
 
 know, 
 While I kissed her lips and forehead as I used to, long 
 
 ago.
 
 OTHER POEMS 01? THE PLAINS 79 
 
 THE DESERT. 
 
 We saw a lake from shore to shore, 
 
 But not a boat the billows bore. 
 
 It lay so fair beneath the sky, 
 
 We called, but no one gave reply 
 
 Save echoes that our voice pursued 
 
 Into the boundless solitude. 
 
 Deluded from the path we turned, 
 
 The endless desert round us burned, 
 
 But on we pressed with eager feet, 
 
 Now it was near, the water sweet, 
 
 And now again it seemed afar 
 
 But beckoning like a friendly star, 
 
 Until at last, bewildered, lost, 
 
 We saw but where the billows tossed 
 
 Their silvery spray upon the beach, 
 
 So clear and cool but out of reach. 
 
 Then all at once the picture fair 
 
 Grew dim and vanished in the air. 
 
 Calm lay the desert as before, 
 
 With sage and cactus scattered o'er. 
 
 Our strength was gone, our courage gone, 
 
 We would have perished every one 
 
 But for the guide who found us there, 
 
 Bewildered by the burning air, 
 
 And cheered us on and brought us safe 
 
 Back to the river's cooling wave.
 
 80 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 One day the engine's measured stroke 
 
 The silence of the centuries broke, 
 
 A hundred men with spade and drill, 
 
 Were tunneling through a giant hill ; 
 
 They turned the river's mighty flow 
 
 All harnessed on the plain below. 
 
 How strange it seemed to wake from sleep, 
 
 From centuries of slumber deep. 
 
 The Indians on the mountain range 
 
 Looked awe-struck on the wondrous change. 
 
 The desert that they used to dread, 
 
 By evil spirits tenanted ; 
 
 The cactus field, the valley bare, 
 
 Grew verdant with a beautv rare.
 
 OTHER POEMS OE THE PLAINS 81 
 
 THE PRAIRIE SONGSTER. 
 
 O, songster of the prairie, where have you winged 
 
 your flight? 
 
 In vain I sit and listen for your melodies tonight. 
 The autumn leaves are falling, the flowers all are dead, 
 The sumac in the valley is dressed in tents of red. 
 
 Soon will the rolling river in icy chains be bound, 
 I seem to hear it murmur with a sad and muffled 
 
 sound. 
 
 O, are you in the land where eternal summer reigns? 
 Where the antelopes are sporting in freedom o'er the 
 
 plains ? 
 
 Where the figs and the bananas in wild profusion 
 
 grow, 
 And the ocean's balmy breezes over hills and valleys 
 
 blow. 
 Are you sitting in the branches when the evening 
 
 hours begin, 
 And listening to the music of the joyous violin? 
 
 Where the southern youths and maidens in a world of 
 
 rapture meet, 
 And, in nature's verdant bowers, dance among the 
 
 flowers sweet, 
 Do you fill the air with music when they part and 
 
 wander home, 
 And the amorous moon is gliding up in the starry 
 
 dome?
 
 82 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Are you listening to the thunder of the cataract rush 
 ing down 
 
 In a cloud of mist and vapor from the mountain's 
 snowy crown ? 
 
 Where condor and the eagle build upon the precipice, 
 
 And the springs of leaping water far below them boil 
 and hiss? 
 
 Have you journeyed o'er the ocean when it slumbered 
 
 like a child, 
 Nothing on its placid bosom to betray its passions 
 
 wild; 
 Or when it was roused and angry, did you hear the 
 
 thunder shock 
 Of the vessel that was breaking into fragments on 
 
 the rock? 
 
 Did you stop and take a message that the struggling 
 
 sailor gave 
 For the loved ones ere he vanished down beneath the 
 
 ocean wave? 
 Have you seen the old Parthenon, ruined, overgrown 
 
 with moss 
 And the excavated cities buried in Vesuvius? 
 
 Have you sung in the arena where the gladiators fell, 
 And among the thousand ruins that of other heroes 
 
 tell? 
 Ah, the palaces of Caesar now to dust are crumbling 
 
 fast, 
 And their tales of ancient splendor sound like fables 
 
 of the past.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 83 
 
 But you care not for the glory and the palaces of old, 
 You would rather seek the farmer and the shepherd 
 
 with his fold, 
 Or the happy children playing by the lowly cottage 
 
 door, 
 And to them your joys and sorrows in melodious 
 
 music pour.
 
 84 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 DREAMING OF HOME. 
 
 Around me the shadows 
 
 Of evening descend, 
 And the groves and the meadows 
 
 In phantasy blend, 
 And the farmer comes home to the cots where I roam ; 
 
 But my heart is afar 
 
 Where the loved ones are 
 I am dreaming of home, I am dreaming of home. 
 
 There comes from the lilies 
 
 A message of peace 
 And the slumbering rill is 
 
 Reflecting the trees 
 In the glimm'ring light from the heavenly dome; 
 
 But my heart is afar, 
 
 Where the loved ones are 
 I am dreaming of home, I am dreaming of home. 
 
 The birds in the shadows 
 
 Are whisp'ring of love 
 And sweet are the meadows, 
 
 The flowers and grove, 
 
 But they're not like my own o'er the deep ocean's 
 foam; 
 
 For that land is so fair, 
 
 And the loved ones are there 
 I am dreaming of home, I am dreaming of home.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 85 
 
 DR. C. A. SWHNSON. 
 
 How the pictures rise before me as I gaze into the 
 past, 
 
 See the tented wagons coming drifting o'er the prai 
 rie vast ! 
 
 Here the settlers camp and picket, stake their home 
 steads one by one, 
 
 Here where there are trees and water, shelter from 
 the wind and sun. 
 
 Indian warriors grim and painted, gaze in wonder on 
 
 the scene, 
 Roaming with their bows and arrows where the oxen 
 
 graze serene. 
 
 Sleepless nights upon the prairie, journeys to the 
 railroad far, 
 
 Deeds of daring pass before me brilliant as the morn 
 ing star. 
 
 Hopefully the prairies blossom where the settlers 
 
 build and break, 
 See the wheatfields and the verdure nature's dormant 
 
 powers awake. 
 
 By the cottage, by the river, o'er the winding buffalo 
 
 path, 
 Springs the orchards into beauty in the sun's electric 
 
 bath.
 
 86 THE Ou> SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 But the rising generation, how shall their young minds 
 
 unfold, 
 When the spirit droops and sickens in the ceaseless 
 
 quest for gold? 
 
 Thus we asked, and while we waited came the one 
 
 we needed most, 
 It was Swenson, C. A. Swenson, in himself a valiant 
 
 host. 
 
 Came with youth's hot pulses throbbing, scattered joy 
 
 on every hand, 
 Filled with hope the weary masses toiling toward the 
 
 sunset land. 
 
 Champion of a higher learning, champion of the true 
 and good, 
 
 Of a stronger, worthier manhood, and a nobler wom 
 anhood. 
 
 All his wealth of mind he lavished, all his giant 
 strength he gave, 
 
 Wakened music from its slumber, poetry from ob 
 livion's grave. 
 
 Every Sabbath from the pulpit to us all his message 
 
 came, 
 Lifting to a higher level with his eloquence and flame. 
 
 At his lectures in the chapel in the sacred morning 
 hour, 
 
 Filled us with his inspiration and with love's trans 
 forming power.
 
 OTHER PO^MS OF THE PLAINS 87 
 
 See, upon the college campus, by the school he loved 
 
 so well, 
 Daisy fields are all in blossom, clover buds in beauty 
 
 swell 
 
 But no more he comes to greet us with his hand clasp 
 
 warm and strong, 
 For he sleeps upon the prairie in the sleep so calm and 
 
 long. 
 
 Round thy brow, O Bethany College, beautiful his 
 
 memory gleams, 
 Here the scholar comes and lingers, here the lover 
 
 comes and dreams. 
 
 O ! our songs are unavailing when the spirit great has 
 
 fled, 
 Words of cheer no joy awaken in the cold heart of 
 
 the dead. 
 
 Eagerly the river rushes onward to the boundless sea, 
 Heedless of the wind's caresses and the songsters' 
 
 melody. 
 
 Yonder hill in vapor shrouded tells of mystery and 
 
 gloom, 
 But a joyful spirit whispers from a thousand flowers 
 
 in bloom. 
 
 And we wait with hope and patience for the mist to 
 
 roll away, 
 For the beautiful to triumph and the true to win the 
 
 day.
 
 88 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THE TRAVELERS. 
 
 Oh, travelers, in the heat and dust, 
 Come in across the meadow 
 And share my coffee and my crust 
 Within the maple's shadow. 
 
 Here where the hedge balls hang in rows, 
 Where golden-rods are flaunted, 
 As fair as any flower that grows 
 In regions wonder-haunted. 
 
 I care not where your lot's been cast, 
 'Mid garden bloom or heather; 
 It matters not, the past is past, 
 We're comrades here together. 
 
 You, too, have heard the luring cry 
 Of woods and meadows calling, 
 The music 'neath the western sky, 
 The mountain torrents falling. 
 
 Tell me of places you have seen, 
 The fairy tales of wonder, 
 The moss-hung branches, dark and green, 
 That you have wandered under. 
 
 And I will weave it into rhyme 
 With feeling deep and tender, 
 You shall be hero every time 
 Dressed in the old time splendor.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 89 
 
 The flowers wild are free to all, 
 The air is free forever; 
 The turtle dove, the bluebirds call 
 And darkling flows the river. 
 
 We'll follow in the sunset's track 
 Without a guide or leader, 
 The wilderness our bivouac, 
 Our shelter pine and cedar. 
 
 Or shall we rest upon the sand, 
 Our campfire brightly burning, 
 In Montezuma's speechless land 
 'Mid empires unreturning? 
 
 The star-swept sky will bend above, 
 The ruins tell the story, 
 All silently of hate and love 
 And vanished pomp and glory. 
 
 How sad the haunting bugles blow, 
 What odorous winds are wafted 
 Until the morning comes, aglow, 
 With sunbeams golden-shafted. 
 
 Calm lies the desert at our feet, 
 No prowling foe attacked us; 
 The yucca blooms, the air is sweet, 
 High towers the giant cactus.
 
 90 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 ONLY A DREAM. 
 
 Heaven's stars are growing dimmer, 
 Skies in melting purple glimmer, 
 Clouds and shadows break ; 
 Turtle-doves are softly cooing, 
 Winds across the prairie blowing, 
 And the songsters wake. 
 
 In the topmost branches swinging, 
 Hear them warbling, hear them singing, 
 As they greet the day. 
 Where the glorious notes are streaming, 
 Sleeping yet and fondly dreaming 
 Sits a sparrow gray. 
 
 As it dreams it joins the chorus 
 
 Of the music floating o'er us, 
 
 Little foolish thing ; 
 
 Beautiful the song is sounding. 
 
 Sparrow's heart with joy h bounding, 
 
 Oh, how sweet they sing. 
 
 Now in ecstacy they're soaring, 
 All their hearts in music pouring 
 Through the prairie-grove, 
 And the birds around them flying 
 Stop to listen, softly sighing, 
 When they sing of love.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 91 
 
 From the eastern purple lining 
 O'er the plain the sun is shining 
 And the sparrow wakes; 
 Tries to follow in the singing 
 But its chirp so harshly ringing, 
 In the music breaks. 
 
 There are people like the sparrow ; 
 Mingled waves of joy and sorrow 
 Beat within the breast; 
 They would sing a song i-ejoicing 
 'All the hopes and sorrows voicing 
 Of a soul's unrest. 
 
 But the broken notes are straying 
 
 Through their singing, through their playing, 
 
 With discordant ring; 
 
 They have listened to the poet 
 
 And they know it, O they know it, 
 
 That they cannot sing. 
 
 But sometime their souls are glowing, 
 Thrilled, enraptured, overflowing 
 With a burst of song; 
 And sometime to ease the paining 
 Of the heart, they sit complaining 
 In their broken tongue.
 
 92 TH$ OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 TO THE BOYS OF COMPANY D. } 
 McPHHRSON, KANSAS. 
 
 On their departure for Mexico, June, 1916. 
 
 How grand you looked that day in June as on the 
 
 field's incline 
 You answered to the bugle's call and marshaled into 
 
 line, 
 
 Tanned by the wind, the Kansas sun, 
 O, we had known you every one 
 Through hardships that had come and gone, 
 In work, in rain and shine. 
 
 All ripening stood the fields of v/heat upon that sum 
 mer morn, 
 
 The meadows waited for the mower and for the plow 
 the corn, 
 
 And yet you came, you left it all 
 
 In answer to your country's call. 
 
 To march, to fight, perhaps to fall 
 
 On battlefields forlorn. 
 
 We know not what your orders are, where you shall 
 
 make your stand, 
 
 Perhaps upon some arid plain beyond the Rio Grande, 
 But still our hearts are all aglow 
 With hope and joy, for this we know, 
 A gleam shall follow where )'ou go 
 To glorify the land.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 93 
 
 Reared on the freedom-loving plains, sons of the 
 pioneer, 
 
 You helped to tame the wilderness and win the splen 
 dors here. 
 
 Fling out your colors 'neath the sky, 
 
 The threatening forces drawing nigh 
 
 Shall quail before that banner high 
 
 In panic-stricken fear. 
 
 O there are fertile prairies there and beauty spots, we 
 know, 
 
 And lakes that sparkle in the sun and catch the after 
 glow, 
 
 But fearful is the tyrant's spell, 
 The bandits of the chaparral, 
 
 The greed, the hate that none can tell. 
 
 Oh, stricken Mexico. 
 
 Here are your homes, your friends are here and here 
 
 the skies are blue, 
 But bugles blow; Good-by! Good luck to you our 
 
 soldiers true; 
 
 When war's mad rage at last is spent 
 Come back to us from camp and tent 
 As glad, as willing as you went 
 When Duty called you.
 
 94 THE OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 A MORNING PICTURE. 
 (From the Swedish of Bellman) 
 
 Hushed the storm and billows are, 
 And the gleaming morning star, 
 Now its lonely watch forsaking, 
 Fades away; the day is breaking. 
 
 Fogs are lifted, 
 
 From us drifted, 
 Birds by song of rapture gifted. 
 Winds are dancing o'er the plain, 
 Rattling door and window pane, 
 Asp and maples quiver, 
 The black-cock by the river 
 
 Now is drumming 
 
 And the humming. 
 
 To his barn the farmer coming 
 
 And in the stove 
 
 Grasses and things 
 
 Sputter and glow 
 
 Till aflame it springs. 
 The porridge pots are steaming higher; 
 
 And the farmer there 
 
 With a smiling air 
 Hunts for his tobacco fire 
 
 In the field alone 
 
 Leaning on a stone 
 Stands the early Dalaker.
 
 OTHER POEMS of THE PLAINS 95 
 
 See the man behind the bar 
 Dusting where the bottles are, 
 
 And a minute after 
 Stand and shake with laughter, 
 
 Smoke and banter 
 
 With the hunter 
 And the customers that enter. 
 
 The madame down beside the stand 
 Leans her head upon her hand. 
 At her work she's plodding 
 Slumbering and nodding. 
 
 The sun climbs higher, 
 
 And his fire 
 Shines upon the goblet by her. 
 
 From the river bed 
 
 The mill sounds clear 
 
 Hear from the shed 
 
 Oh, did you hear ? 
 The cheerful sound of the village smithy? 
 
 The blacksmith tall and slim 
 
 In the shadows dim 
 Now begins his morning ditty. 
 
 Swings the hammer high, 
 
 Makes the embers fly 
 Dancing 'neath the rafters bare. 
 
 Bracing is the morning air 
 
 Every bud and flower fair 
 
 Bathes in dew its chalice 
 
 By both hut and palace.
 
 96 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 The day grows sweeter 
 
 And completer 
 
 With perfume the flowers greet her. 
 The woods are painted dark and blue; 
 Hills and mountains come to view 
 With both sheep and cattle: 
 Children run and prattle 
 
 Of the weather 
 
 O'er the heather, 
 Call their straying herds together. 
 
 Over the crops 
 
 The lark arose; 
 
 The rooster flaps 
 
 His wings and crows! 
 And all nature stirs and wakens 
 
 Beautiful and gay, 
 
 Dressed for work or play.
 
 OTHER POEMS OP THE PLAINS 97 
 
 KANSAS. 
 
 O, land of rolling prairies, 
 Land of the restless throng 
 That cannot stop but hurries 
 In eager haste along. 
 
 Our freedom's sun descending 
 Hung by the western strand 
 When thou its cause defending 
 Upraised thy infant hand. 
 
 The North and South were sundered 
 And threatening grew the sky 
 'Round thee the cannons thundered 
 And sung thy lullaby 
 
 The fire that thou hadst lighted 
 Soon spread from sea to sea 
 And slavery fled affrighted, 
 Four million slaves were free. 
 
 Hushed is the sound of battle, 
 The cannons flaming red. 
 See herds of grazing cattle 
 And fields of wheat instead. 
 
 O, pioneers and heroes 
 Oft hidden in the blast 
 Of smoke and battle near us, 
 We know your worth at last.
 
 98 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Your aged feet are turning 
 To leave the battle's brunt, 
 But troops with pulses burning 
 Are pressing to the front. 
 
 And still the cry is "Forward 
 For liberty and truth." 
 There is no faltering coward 
 Among the Kansas youth. 
 
 God speed your youthful forces 
 Ye regiments of toil. 
 You have the vast resources 
 Of Kansas' fertile soil. 
 
 Lift nearer to the summit 
 Our golden "Sunflower State," 
 And banish evil from it, 
 Seek for the good and great.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 99 
 
 THE WBAL. 
 
 My dream-world, how its towers 
 Fade as the bayonets gleam; 
 My faith in human powers ; 
 My fond Utopian dream. 
 I dreamt it in my childhood, 
 I dreamt it in my home 
 Beside a river-wildwood 
 Where fairies used to roam. 
 
 For I was born 'mid splendor 
 Of prairies rolling free, 
 And loving hands and tender 
 Were those that sheltered me. 
 The leaping prairie-fire, 
 The bolts by lightning hurled, 
 The buds on tree and briar 
 Made wonderful my world. 
 
 The fields of necromancy 
 Were then within my reach, 
 I sailed the ship of Fancy 
 To many a tropic beach. 
 I drew from magic places 
 The nymphs of fairyland 
 To tread with me the mazes 
 Of music, hand in hand.
 
 100 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 sweet it was to listen 
 To woman free from guile, 
 When Love had broken prison 
 And beamed in look and smile, 
 And still my being quivers 
 To that first ecstacy 
 
 As glad as mountain rivers 
 That join to meet the sea. 
 My daily work and duty 
 Were dear to me as life. 
 
 1 dreamt of love and beauty 
 I woke to war and strife, 
 
 And something great had vanished, 
 
 Some earthly hope and trust, 
 
 Some cherished dreams were banished, 
 
 Some flowers turned to dust. 
 
 Is there no higher vision 
 
 Such as I fancied then? 
 
 Are there no fields Elysian? 
 
 Then let me dream again. 
 
 Let me forget the real, 
 
 The muddy, rolling stream, 
 
 Give me the high ideal, 
 
 O give me back my dream! 
 
 Let me believe the glory 
 
 Of goodness, truth of heart, 
 
 Though battlefields are gory 
 
 And friends and lovers part. 
 
 Let me believe the hour 
 
 Has come when right must win 
 
 O'er hate, and lust for power, 
 
 O'er tyranny and sin.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 101 
 
 THE AVIATOR. 
 
 Like a ship that is tempest driven 
 He fell in his aeroplane, 
 Down, down from the starry heaven 
 To the foot of the mountain chain. 
 
 They called him a reckless rider, 
 They said he was overbold, 
 In this city with mines besile her 
 Where the people dug for gold. 
 
 But he told not a word of his story, 
 Of his flight over lake and wood, 
 Not a word of the thrill and the glory 
 For they would not have understood. 
 
 He thanked for the water given 
 From the spring at the mountain side, 
 He raised his eyes to heaven 
 And folded his hands and died. 
 
 They know not, who dwell in that city, 
 Of his dream to conquer the skies, 
 And never a tear of pity 
 Is shed where the rider lie.
 
 102 THS OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 THE FAIRY DANCE. 
 
 In the shade and the quiver 
 
 Of cottonwoods tall, 
 
 Where the quail by the river 
 
 Is piping its call, 
 
 A farmer boy wanders. 
 
 Of the wonderful things 
 
 That solitude brings 
 
 He dreams and he ponders. 
 
 Around him the shadows 
 
 Of evening descend, 
 
 And the groves and the meadows 
 
 In phantasy blend; 
 
 And the fairies have opened their portal 
 
 Over the prairie they stray, 
 
 And the music, the play, 
 
 Is too sweet for the ears of a mortal. 
 
 Round the youth they are weaving 
 
 Their wonderful spell, 
 
 Was he sad? was he grieving? 
 
 No mortal can tell. 
 
 But like one from a slumber he started, 
 
 He is joining the band; 
 
 See! the queen gives her hand, 
 
 O ! the queen she is fair, but cold hearted.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 103 
 
 Scarcely bending the grasses 
 
 Her tiny feet fly, 
 
 And the wind as it passes 
 
 In ecstasy by 
 
 Throws her willowy hair on his shoulder. 
 
 "O, what rapture to be 
 
 In the dancing with thee" 
 
 Were the only words that he told her. 
 
 But the music is ceasing 
 
 As strange as it came, 
 
 The light increasing, 
 
 The sky is aflame. 
 
 How soon it was over 
 
 That midsummer night; 
 
 Not a fairy in sight. 
 
 All alone are the youth and old Rover. 
 
 But oft when the shadows 
 
 Of evening descend, 
 
 And the groves and the meadows 
 
 In phantasy blend, 
 
 And the monotone crickets are playing; 
 
 Where the echoes are heard 
 
 Of the sad mocking bird 
 
 A lonely farmer is straying. 
 
 Come softly and listen, 
 He plays on his flute 
 When the moon has risen 
 And the songsters are mute
 
 104 THE OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 You shall linger and listen enraptured. 
 
 For the melody speaks 
 
 Of the loved one he seeks 
 
 'Tis the music from fairyland captured. 
 
 Each evening he follows 
 
 The river and streams; 
 
 O'er the buffalo hollows 
 
 Where the firefly gleams 
 
 He seeks for the queen of the prairie, 
 
 But he gazes in vain 
 
 Over valley and plain 
 
 For that loved but mysterious fairy. 
 
 He has sought where the lilies 
 
 Are fanned by the breeze, 
 
 And down where the rill is 
 
 Reflecting the trees, 
 
 By the moon's ever varying glimmer 
 
 He has sought her at night 
 
 Till the prairie fire's light 
 
 In the distance grew dimmer and dimmer. 
 
 But she's gone, and he never 
 
 Shall find her again. 
 
 Oh garlanded river, 
 
 Oh valleys and glen, 
 
 Oh birds of the prairies 
 
 Who come every spring 
 
 And carrol and sing 
 
 Why comes not the queen of the fairies?
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 105 
 
 THE PEASANT GIRL. 
 (From the Swedish of Runeberg.) 
 
 The evening came, the setting sun, the quiet and 
 peaceful shadows; 
 
 A light of pallid purple glowed on cottages and 
 meadows. 
 
 And from their labor came a troop of tired militia 
 men 
 
 Their task was done and they returned back to their 
 homes again. 
 
 The day was won, the harvest reaped, the battle-field 
 
 forsaken. 
 
 A bold marauding enemy was slain or captive taken. 
 They'd hastened out to stop their march before the 
 
 morning chime, 
 When all was turned to victory, then it was evening 
 
 time. 
 
 Not far from where the battle raged, by wood and 
 meadow skirted 
 
 Beside the road a cottage stood, at that time half- 
 deserted ; 
 
 Upon the stair a maiden sat and saw the troops go by, 
 
 Returning to their peaceful homes beneath the even 
 ing sky.
 
 106 . THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 She gazed like those who seek someone; who knows 
 
 what she was thinking? 
 Her cheeks were redder than the sun in western 
 
 purple sinking. 
 She looked so eager where she sat, so tremulous and 
 
 sweet, 
 And if she listened as she gazed, she heard her own 
 
 heart beat. 
 But silently the troop went by, close to the cottage 
 
 turning ; 
 
 To every rank, to every man she sent a question burn 
 ing, 
 A question in the eyes appeal, expressed without a 
 
 word, 
 
 As silent as the sigh that died upon her lips unheard. 
 When the last rank had come and gone, when every 
 
 one had passed her, 
 Then the poor maiden's courage failed, her grief she 
 
 could not master; 
 Like one resigned her forehead sank into her open 
 
 palm 
 
 And sweetly came a flood of tears with sorrow's heal 
 ing balm. 
 "Why do you weep? Have courage, girl, for hope 
 
 may come tomorrow. 
 O daughter hear your mother's voice; in vain is all 
 
 your sorrow ; 
 The one you sought but could not find a little while 
 
 ago, 
 He is not dead, he thought of you and he will come 
 
 I know.
 
 OTHER PO^MS OF THE PLAINS 107 
 
 He thought of you, before he went, I counseled him 
 in quiet, 
 
 Not to rush blindly into war or into battle's riot. 
 
 Unwillingly he joined the troops, 'mid gleaming lance 
 and shield; 
 
 The joys of life were dear to him and hard the battle 
 field." 
 
 The maiden looked with anguish, up and rose, when 
 she had spoken, 
 
 As if some wild, foreboding fear her silent grief had 
 broken. 
 
 She did not wait, she cast a look out where the field 
 was won, 
 
 And silently she stole away, grew dimmer and was 
 gone. 
 
 A moment passed, the night was near, the sky began 
 to show it, 
 
 A cloud was floating silver-white, but twilight lay 
 below it. 
 
 "She lingers long. O daughter come! In vain is all 
 your fear; 
 
 Tomorrow ere the morning sun. your bridegroom will 
 be here." 
 
 The daughter came, she did not hear, her mother's 
 voice consoling; 
 
 Her tender eyes no longer dim with tears beyond con 
 trolling, 
 
 But O, her hand in greeting given, was colder than the 
 night, 
 
 Her cheeks more pallid than the cloud in heaven float 
 ing white.
 
 108 THE) OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 "Make me a grave, O mother dear! My hopes were 
 
 all unfounded, 
 The one to whom I gave my love, fled when the bugle 
 
 sounded ; 
 He thought of me and of himself when danger was at 
 
 hand, 
 Unfaithful to his brethren's hope and to his native 
 
 land. 
 
 I found him not among the ranks returning slowly 
 
 near us, 
 But thought that like a man he lay among the fallen 
 
 heroes ; 
 So precious was his memory then, I shed no bitter 
 
 tears, 
 I only asked to live and mourn for him a thousand 
 
 years. 
 
 mother, I have searched the field, where now the 
 
 shadows hover, 
 But none among the fallen bore the features of my 
 
 lover. 
 Ill-fated land if all were false when foes are drawing 
 
 nigh, 
 
 1 found him not among the dead and therefore let me 
 
 die."
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 109 
 
 THE HEROES OF THE SPANISH- 
 AMERICAN WAR. 
 
 The bugle notes are falling 
 O'er cities, towns and farms, 
 It is the nation calling 
 The cry, to arms! to arms! 
 
 There, where the crowds are meeting, 
 Some aged veterans come, 
 Their hearts are wildly beating, 
 To hear the fife and drum. 
 
 O! pioneers and heroes, 
 Oft hidden in the blast 
 Of smoke and battle near us, 
 We know your worth at last. 
 
 . 
 Your aged steps are turning 
 
 To leave the battle's brunt, 
 But troops with pulses burning 
 Are pressing to the front. 
 
 And still the cry is "Forward 
 For liberty and truth !" 
 There is no faltering coward 
 Among the Kansas youth.
 
 110 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 They see the flashing sabre, 
 They hear the cannon's boom, 
 These men whose patient labor 
 Has made the desert bloom. 
 
 They leave the friends they cherish, 
 O do you understand 
 To fight, perhaps to perish, 
 Upon a foreign strand. 
 
 When fever runs its riot 
 Will there be faces sweet, 
 And tender hands to quiet 
 The heart's convulsive beat? 
 
 See the white tents are gleaming 
 Down by the Mexic tide; 
 The blue and gray are dreaming 
 Of victory side by side. 
 
 And heavy ships are coming 
 To bear our soldiers o'er 
 Hear, hear the cannons booming 
 Upon the Cuban shore. 
 
 O friends! we can but bid you 
 A lingering, fond good-bye, 
 Our hopes, our hearts are with you 
 Beneath the Southern sky.
 
 OTHER POEMS of THE PLAINS 111 
 
 ROSE MARIE. 
 
 Saloons are everywhere 
 And eyes upon us glare 
 Who feel no pity, 
 In buildings old and gray, 
 Around a large cafe 
 Deep in the city. 
 
 And dainty Rose Marie 
 Who came across the sea 
 Is waiting table, 
 She with the deep blue eyes 
 That bards immortalize 
 In song and fable. 
 
 The air within the room 
 Is filled with liquor fume 
 From cups and glasses, 
 And to her table come 
 From boulevard and slum 
 All ranks and classes. 
 
 She moves from chair to chair 
 
 So innocent and fair 
 
 And does her duty; 
 
 Her woman's mighty power 
 
 Just bursting into flower 
 
 And radiant beauty.
 
 112 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 Still linger in her eyes 
 The wonder and surprise 
 Of a new comer 
 And written in her face 
 Are simple country ways 
 And smile of summer. 
 
 She knows not that the truth 
 And purity of youth 
 Are held the cheapest 
 That those who love the most 
 Are ruined and lost 
 And sink the deepest. 
 
 But e'er her" soul shall feel 
 The crushing hobo's heel, 
 Like some poor flower, 
 Some desert wanderer 
 Among the souls that err 
 May feel her power. 
 
 And read the truth that lies 
 In those deep azure eyes 
 And courage gather, 
 To turn his step once more 
 Back to the open door, 
 Back to the Father.
 
 OTHER POEMS OE THE PLAINS 113 
 
 COMRADES. 
 
 We met behind the friendly banks 
 
 Made by a shell-torn crater, 
 
 I was a private in the ranks 
 
 And he an aviator. 
 
 His plane lay wrecked upon the field 
 
 In No Man's Country stranded, 
 
 A mass of flame from wing to shield, 
 
 Deserted where he landed. 
 
 We talked of places far away 
 
 From that ill-fated heather 
 
 For we had met in U. S. A. 
 
 And traveled much together. 
 
 Again we lived through every scene, 
 
 We saw the land of wonder, 
 
 The moss-hung branches dark and green 
 
 That we had wandered under. 
 
 We followed in the settler's track 
 
 Without a guide or leader, 
 
 The wilderness our bivouac, 
 
 Our shelter pine and cedar. 
 
 We camped upon the rolling plain 
 
 Beside the peaceful river, 
 
 We saw the reapers in the grain, 
 
 The children glad as ever.
 
 114 THE OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 They had not felt the Demon's breath 
 Within those peaceful borders, 
 They had not heard the cry of Death, 
 The Kaiser's frightful orders; 
 Nor heard, O, God, beneath the skies 
 The prayers of children lonely; 
 Nor seen the cheeks, the hungry eyes 
 That speak of suffering only. 
 
 Why are we here ? we sometimes ask 
 When loud the sabres rattle, 
 Why did we leave our peaceful task 
 For suffering and battle? 
 O we are here to stem the flood 
 That threatens every nation! 
 We were not human if we stood 
 And watched this desolation.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 115 
 
 THE CITY. 
 
 In Germany, above the mountain cedar, 
 It towers high with minarets aglow, 
 Among the gayest of the gay, a leader 
 In sport and fashion and the glittering show. 
 
 There lived a race who gathered wealth and treasure 
 In stately palace, in the castle grand, 
 Who lived for power for fashion and pleasure 
 And had no care for toilers of the land. 
 
 And yet they knew that in the darkness dwelling 
 Another people held the mountain's base, 
 That fortune's roses in the sunlight swelling 
 Drew life and bloom from this neglected race. 
 
 In that fair city, 'mong the trees and flowers, 
 A singer lived, the favorite of all, 
 Whose voice had magic and refreshing powers 
 Like David's music to the heart of Saul. 
 
 Hers was the power, the joy, to charm and capture 
 The hearts of men with the sweet gift of song, 
 To win the loud applause, to feel the rapture, 
 The inspiration of the listening throng. 
 
 Tired of the feast one night she left the castle 
 With flowers and roses that her songs had won, 
 And down she passed from the electric dazzle, 
 Down to the plain where deep the rivers run.
 
 116 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 From wretched huts and midnight hiding places 
 Arose a sound as of a muddy stream; 
 Among those scenes, among those haggard faces, 
 With her poor flowers she stood as in a dream. 
 
 Into her basket hungry eyes were staring 
 But fell the torch light on the flowers and moss, 
 A laugh was heard, half mocking, half despairing, 
 "She brings us flowers, only flowers, for us." 
 
 "What can you give, Oh lady, with your riches? 
 Our homes are cold, our children cry for bread, 
 Our men are rotting in the Kaiser's ditches, 
 Give us our sons, give us our loved and dead." 
 
 She fled affrighted but the haggard faces 
 Before her eyes as apparitions came. 
 Sweet were the flowers in the familiar places 
 But pleasure's world did not appear the same. 
 
 The feast was o'er, the revellers departed, 
 The lords and ladies of the castle slept, 
 She could not sleep, the singer, tender hearted, 
 She bowed her head upon her hands and wept.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 117 
 
 THE FLAG. 
 
 The raging fight at last was o'er, 
 Both friends and foes were sleeping, 
 And on the silent battlefield 
 The dewy night was weeping; 
 Among the fallen ones who lay 
 Upon the field of death 
 Was one, forgotten and alone, 
 Whose spirit lingered yet. 
 
 The fevered hand with iron grasp 
 A starry flag was holding, 
 Whose folds fell softly on his breast, 
 The slender form enfolding. 
 It was the flag his valor saved 
 Upon that hard fought day; 
 The one for which he gladly gave 
 His youthful life away. 
 
 Hark! Listen, see from yonder plain 
 By wood and meadow skirted, 
 A girl comes riding to the field 
 Of battle, now deserted. 
 The glances from her anxious eyes 
 Are piercing through the night; 
 The wavy hair falls round a face 
 Flushed by the hurried flight.
 
 118 THE OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 Oh! now she passes near the youth 
 Whose life is swiftly fleeting; 
 She stops and looks with startled eyes, 
 Perhaps she heard him breathing, 
 Her gaze falls on the slender form 
 Wrapped in the starry shroud, 
 And then upon the stillness rings 
 A cry of anguish loud. 
 
 Again we plunge into the fight, 
 
 For peaceful night is ended, 
 
 And densely rolling clouds of smoke 
 
 With tongues of flame are blended. 
 
 The remnant of our army stands 
 
 Cut off from all retreat, 
 
 But fighting bravely, though they know 
 
 It only means defeat. 
 
 Then from the clouds of blinding smoke, 
 
 Out where the guns are flashing, 
 
 A girl upon a charger swift, 
 
 Comes to the battle dashing, 
 
 She waves aloft the battle flag 
 
 To every soldier dear, 
 
 The flag that floated o'er the field 
 
 When victory was near.
 
 OTHER POEMS of THE PLAINS 119 
 
 O ! hear that shout, that wild hurrah ! 
 
 See o'er the trenches leaping 
 
 Our shattered ranks against the foe 
 
 In bayonet charge are sweeping. 
 
 No human power could long withstand 
 
 That wild and fierce attack, 
 
 At every point along the lines 
 
 The foes are driven back. 
 
 When all was o'er and victory won, 
 Among the dead we found her, 
 The banner that her lover saved 
 Was fondly wrapped around her. 
 The dainty hand around the staff 
 In death had firmly closed 
 And calmly now upon the field 
 The lovely form reposed. 
 
 We raised the flag above our dead, 
 In all its battle-beauty. 
 No weakly, unmanly tears we shed, 
 Had they not done their duty? 
 The glorious flag we loved so well 
 Was floating proudly near us, 
 Unconquered still it rose and fell 
 Above the dead, the heroes.
 
 120 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 PLAYMATES. 
 
 Beneath the rosy tinted eastern sky 
 
 A cottage stood, the rivulet flowing by 
 
 Wound here and there and loitered on its way, 
 
 To sing and babble like a child at play, 
 
 The tireless swallow dipped her pinions there 
 
 And giant trees that towered in the air, 
 
 Spread out their boughs, and in the shade beneath 
 
 Two children sat and bound a daisy-wreath, 
 
 A little fellow and his playmate fair. 
 
 Their prattling fell like music on the air. 
 
 Their task was done, the wreath was finished now, 
 
 He rose and placed it on her fair young brow 
 
 And then they played upon the meadow green; 
 
 He was the king and she the fairy queen. 
 
 Thus passed the years till they were grown, 
 
 Then came the call, the order, 
 
 "To arms! to arms!" The bayonets shone, 
 
 The Germans crossed the border. 
 
 And where the children used to come 
 
 With song and joyful prattle, 
 
 There fell the sons of Belgium 
 
 In fierce, defensive battle. 
 
 When darkness came upon the scene 
 
 The bullets still were flying 
 
 But he who played upon the green 
 
 Lay 'mong the dead and dying. 
 
 Forgotten were the flash and gleam, 
 
 The wounded round him reeling. 
 
 A vision or perhaps a dream 
 
 Came o'er his senses stealing.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 121 
 
 A hand was stretched his wounds to bind, 
 
 A hand so soft and tender, 
 
 And spirit-eyes so wondrous kind 
 
 Shone in their midnight splendor. 
 
 She raised his head but did not speak, 
 
 His face to heaven turning. 
 
 She touched his temple and his cheek, 
 
 They were so hot and burning, 
 
 And then she vanished as she came. 
 
 He could not hear her speaking. 
 
 The cannons shot their tongues of flame, 
 
 The shells were round them shrieking, 
 
 At last he woke, his wounds were dressed, 
 
 His limbs felt better, stronger. 
 
 The morning wind his brow caressed 
 
 As if men fought no longer. 
 
 He looked around upon the scene. 
 
 Hushed were the noise and rattle 
 
 But she who played upon the green 
 
 Lay on the field of battle. 
 
 Shot as she passed the line at night, 
 
 Where Love and Duty brought her, 
 
 Her stiffened hands were holding tight 
 
 His helmet filled with water.
 
 122 THE OLD SANTA F$ TRAIL AND 
 
 THE RED CROSS NURSH. 
 
 Dark it lies, a town forsaken, 
 But the "First Relief" has taken 
 Quarters there tonight. 
 And the rescue force advances, 
 On the field, the ambulances 
 Come with burdens white. 
 
 Come with men with haggard faces, 
 
 Men from widely scattered places, 
 
 Into battle flung, 
 
 Some, with fevered brains, who stammer 
 
 Of the glory and the glamour, 
 
 Some so pale and young. 
 
 O the loneliness, the crisis, 
 
 When the fever falls and rises 
 
 In the time of dread ; 
 
 When the midnight hour comes stealing 
 
 And the shadows on the ceiling 
 
 Are the loved and dead. 
 
 Nights in trenches on the prairie, 
 Haunting scenes from Chateau Thierry, 
 Crowd into review, 
 Comrades dying unattended, 
 Noble men whose lives are ended, 
 Cry from Wood Belleau.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 123 
 
 See! The shattered ranks are forming, 
 Rushing onward, firing, storming 
 Through the wild Argonne, 
 And the airplanes, never resting, 
 Battle in the night, contesting 
 Every victory won. 
 
 Hark ! She comes ! The men who languish 
 In that room of pain and anguish, 
 Breathe a silent prayer, 
 For she comes and bathes and dresses 
 Wounded limbs and softly blesses 
 With a nurse's care. 
 
 O, I know I cannot paint her 
 For her spirit-face grows fainter 
 'Neath the brush or pen. 
 You must see her serving, bending 
 O'er the sick, the wounded tending, 
 Paint her picture then. 
 
 Paint her in the midnight lonely, 
 With the dying, waiting only 
 For the day to come. 
 Hear the words of comfort spoken, 
 See the message left, the token, 
 For the loved at home.
 
 124 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 O the buildings gray and rifted 
 And the tents on rafters lifted 
 Sheltered all her sick, 
 But without the love she's teaching, 
 What were buildings, heaven-reaching? 
 Only walls of brick.
 
 125 
 
 THE- INDIAN FOUNTAIN. 
 
 It runs 'mid the glow and glory 
 Of trees that are old and hoary, 
 'Mid fringes of golden rod ; 
 Around it the forest arches 
 And seems, when the sunlight parches 
 The fields, like a house of God. 
 
 A temple for rich and lowly, 
 A temple with anthems holy 
 That banish the thoughts of care. 
 Untouched by the hand of vandals, 
 Like Moses without his sandals 
 You feel you should enter there. 
 
 Oh, enter and wander deeper 
 In the wood for it has no keeper, 
 No bar to the water sweet ; 
 It beacons across the prairies 
 As free as the open air is, 
 A haven for weary feet. 
 
 Some trees that have stood for ages 
 Are green as the desert sage is, 
 While some are a deeper hue, 
 And the fountain flows forever, 
 Forever it seeks the river 
 That leads to the ocean blue.
 
 126 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 It thrills to the morning's laughter, 
 To splendor that follows after, 
 When fire-flies dart and flame. 
 The flowers are so red, so golden, 
 They grow as in centuries olden, 
 Before the white man came. 
 
 And dancing around the waters 
 
 I fancy I see the daughters 
 
 And sons of the Indian race 
 
 In the light where the waters sparkle, 
 
 Where pebbles gleam and darkle, 
 
 They gather from every place. 
 
 They toil over plain and hollow 
 Where only the strong can follow ; 
 They frolic on hill and slope. 
 In deep ravines and narrow 
 They hunt with the bow and arrow 
 The deer and the antelope. 
 
 But no one has told their story 
 In song or in oratory, 
 Or fashioned a deathless gem. 
 The spear-head, the broken arrow 
 Upturned by the plow or harrow 
 Is all that reminds of them.
 
 OTHER POEMS OE THE PLAINS 127 
 
 And race after race shall follow 
 To toil over plain and hollow 
 Through wondrous eternity. 
 And the fountain flows forever, 
 Forever it seeks the river 
 That leads to the open sea.
 
 128 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 A SOLDIER'S LOVE. 
 
 The evening comes, the waterfowls are trailing 
 
 A path in heaven over lake and stream, 
 
 From far away the ships are homeward sailing, 
 
 They seek the sheltered harbor of their dreams. 
 
 And here and there a cottage-light is beaming 
 
 A spirit soars upon the wings of song. 
 
 My fancy pictures 'mid the glow and gleaming 
 
 A dream of love where sacred memories throng. 
 
 A dream of love, how sweet the words are falling 
 Upon my ears, a dream of home and you, 
 With peace and joy and children's voices calling, 
 And over all a heaven arching blue. 
 O I remember on the day we parted 
 You smiled so bravely when you said, "Good-bye." 
 You smiled and hid the tears that almost started, 
 Till we were gone, and then you had your cry. 
 
 You should have seen us marching into Paris, 
 We who had come across the ocean deep, 
 The last reserves against the foe who carries 
 The flag of ruin where his armies sweep. 
 O what a sight it was! the poor, down-trodden, 
 The children rescued from the dangers near. 
 You would have liked it, you were born to gladden 
 The hearts of all with sympathy and cheer.
 
 " OTHER POEMS OE THE PLAINS 129 
 
 You should have seen the pure Madonna-faces, 
 
 The art that held the centuries of thought. 
 
 You should have wandered through the classic places 
 
 And seen the gardens to perfection brought. 
 
 I know a garden on the rolling prairie, 
 
 I know the birds, the trees, the flowers bright. 
 
 Beside the gate a bush of elderberry 
 
 Stands like a bride dressed in a robe of white. 
 
 And you are there, all radiant and tender, 
 Fair as a morning by the sunlight blessed. 
 Your soft brown hair a crown of royal splendor ; 
 Above your heart the cross of service pressed. 
 The beacon-lights that you have lit and tended 
 Are shining brightly o'er the ocean blue. 
 God bless the land, the homes we have defended 
 And bring me back victorious to you.
 
 130 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL. 
 
 In the shade and the cover 
 Of cottonwoods tall, 
 Where quails in the clover 
 Are piping their call, 
 The lovers wander; 
 They whisper of things 
 That a parting brings, 
 They dream and they ponder. 
 
 Around them the shadows 
 
 Of evening descend, 
 The groves and the meadows 
 
 In fantasy blend 
 'Mid the glow and the glimmer, 
 
 So still is the night, 
 
 The auto's quick light 
 Grows dimmer and dimmer. 
 
 Pale, pale are the lilies 
 
 And heavy with dew, 
 
 And down where the rill is 
 The waters are blue. 
 
 But shadowy, broken, 
 How soon it is past 
 The farewell, the last, 
 
 So tenderly spoken.
 
 131 
 
 A moment she lingers 
 
 In silence alone; 
 The strong, manly fingers 
 
 Have slipped from her own. 
 But a sanctified beauty, 
 
 A meaning profound 
 
 Illumines the round 
 Of her household duty. 
 
 O'er cooking and baking 
 
 A fantasy falls, 
 A world in the making 
 
 Her spirit enthralls. 
 She lives with the nation 
 
 Of brave Lafayette, 
 
 Where armies have met 
 In battle formation. 
 
 
 Ablaze is the valley, 
 
 The city, the town. 
 From highway and alley 
 
 The women come down. 
 With little ones crying; 
 
 The grief and despair 
 
 Of battle are there, 
 The dead and the dying.
 
 132 THE OLD SANTA Fs TRAIL AND 
 
 See! ships on the ocean! 
 
 The troops are in sight! 
 She fills with emotion, 
 
 She thrills with delight. 
 The flags they're bearing 
 
 Now leap into view. 
 
 O, the red, white and blue! 
 The true and the daring. 
 
 They come and they carry 
 The hope and the youth 
 
 Of the billowy prairie; 
 
 The freedom, the truth, 
 
 Of the towering Sierras, 
 
 O, they land and advance 
 Where the trenches of France 
 
 Rise, terrace on terrace. 
 
 
 
 When they charge up the burning 
 The shell-battered height 
 
 Their love and their yearning 
 For freedom and right 
 
 Shall shine in their glory. 
 
 They bring from the West 
 The bravest, the best, 
 
 To the Orient hoary.
 
 OTHER POEMS OF THE PLAINS 133 
 
 Here, far from the battle, 
 
 By highway and gate, 
 The horses, the cattle, 
 
 Their masters await 
 With something like sorrow, 
 
 And people pass on, 
 
 Each seeking the dawn, 
 A brighter tomorrow. 
 
 And oft when the shadows 
 
 Of evening descend, 
 When the groves and meadows 
 
 In fantasy blend 
 By cottage and river, 
 
 The voices of light, 
 
 The winds of the night, 
 Thru cottonwoods quiver. 
 
 They whisper so gladly 
 
 A message of cheer, 
 They whisper so sadly 
 
 When battles are near, 
 To sweethearts and mothers 
 
 They tell of the love, 
 
 The secret of love, 
 To suffer for others.
 
 134 THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL AND 
 
 OH! LORD FORGIVE THEM ALL. 
 
 Givenchy village lies a wreck, 
 
 Givenchy church is bare, 
 
 No more the peasant maidens 
 
 Come to say their vespers there. 
 
 The altar-rails are wrenched apart 
 
 With rubbish littered o'er. 
 
 The sacred sanctuary lamp 
 
 Lies broken on the floor, 
 
 And mute upon the crucifix 
 
 He looks upon it all 
 
 The great white Christ, the shrapnel scourged 
 
 Upon the eastern wall. 
 
 He sees the churchyard delved by shells, 
 
 The tombstones flung about, 
 
 And dead men's skulls, 
 
 And white, white bones 
 
 The shells have shoveled out, 
 
 The trenches running line by line 
 
 Thru meadow fields of green 
 
 Mute, mute He hangs 
 
 Upon His cross 
 
 The symbol of His pain 
 
 And as men scourged Him long ago, 
 
 They scourge Him once again 
 
 There in the lonely war-lit night 
 
 To Christ the Lord I call, 
 
 Forgive the men who work Thee harm, 
 
 O Lord forgive them all.
 
 OTHER POEMS of THE PLAINS 135 
 
 TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 Onward Christians to the rescue, 
 
 Wherefor stand ye idly by? 
 
 Hear ye not the sound of conflict? 
 
 Hear ye not the battle cry? 
 
 Tis your Master who is calling, 
 
 Hasten for the help is late, 
 
 'Tis your brothers who are falling, 
 
 Dying for the Christian faith. 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Onward Christians to the rescue, 
 
 Wherefor stand ye idly by? 
 
 Onward, onward Christians to the rescue 
 
 Wherefor, wherefor stand ye idly by, 
 
 Hear ye not the sound of conflict ? 
 
 Hear ye not the battle cry? 
 
 Hear ye, hear ye not the sound of conflict? 
 
 Hear ye not the battle cry? 
 
 Not to take a mighty city 
 
 In the battle's deadly glare, 
 
 But with hope and love and pity, 
 
 To your brothers in despair, 
 
 O' ye parents tender hearted, 
 
 With the loved ones round your hearth, 
 
 Think of those who now are parted 
 
 From the ones they love on earth.
 
 136 THE OLD SANTA F TRAIL, AND 
 
 Think of those by mis'ry driven, 
 Where the heathen banners wave, 
 Hear the cry that goes to Heaven, 
 Where no help is near to save. 
 Tis a cry that must be heeded 
 By the Christians ev'rywhere, 
 O, your help is sorely needed, 
 Give it with your love and prayer.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444
 
 ^S Pearson - 
 3531 'i'he old Santa 
 P3l8o Fe trail. 
 
 JUL 3 1 1953| 
 
 PS 
 
 3521 
 ?3l8o