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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
THE INDIAN PRINCESS 
 
ADDISON WOODARD STUBBS 
 
THE INDIAN PRINCESS 
 
 ME-NUNG-GAH 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Addison Woodard Stubbs 
 
 ARTIetVPRITATl 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 BOSTON 
 
Copyright 1912 by A.W. Stubbs 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 ©CI.A328717 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 To the memory of Hon. Eugene F. Ware, the 
 beloved Kansas poet who, a few days before his 
 death, wrote suggesting; "Some of these days you 
 must publish a book," and to the many other friends 
 who have suggested the same thought, this volume is 
 respectfully dedicated with the love of the 
 
 AUTHOR 
 
AUTHORS PREFACE 
 
 THE human race, as if by instinct, 
 divides into two classes or factions. 
 In politics there are Republicans and 
 Democrats, Stand-patters and Pro- 
 gressives; in the church, progressives 
 and conservatives, in the city, one class who be- 
 lieve in public improvements, another who would 
 allow things to drift along in the good old way. 
 
 The American Indian is no exception to this 
 general rule. In every tribe may be found the 
 Stand-patters and Progressives. The former 
 stand by the old tribal traditions handed down 
 from father to son and are loath to change habits 
 and customs. They cling with tenacity to ancient 
 modes of dress and living and though they may, 
 from compulsion, learn the English language, 
 they speak it with reluctance. The Progressives 
 try to adopt the white man's ways and are proud 
 to be able to speak his language. 
 
 In the story of the Indian Princess, the writer 
 attempts to portray some of the characteristics 
 of the two Indian factions and to picture some of 
 the reasons why the original great tribes have 
 become segregated into smaller bands or tribes. 
 The fact that the Kon-za or Kansas Indians, the 
 Osages or Wah-shah-shas ; the Pon-cas, Quaw-paws 
 and some others speak substantially the same 
 language, would seem to be proof positive that 
 they were all originally one great nation. 
 
 The average Indian takes to whisky as a duck 
 takes to water and the introduction of liquor by 
 the whites has been one of the most potent causes 
 of trouble between the two races, as well as among 
 the Indians themselves. 
 
To this extent, at least, the story of Me-nung- 
 gah is founded on facts and throughout, an 
 attempt is made to portray this remarkable 
 people as they impressed themselves upon the 
 author during his childhood and young manhood 
 when he attended school with Indian children 
 as classmates and playmates and was for some 
 time employed as the official U. S. Interpreter. 
 
 Hearing often from their own lips the stories 
 of their trials and hardships; of their broken 
 treaties; of swindles perpetrated in obtaining 
 title to their lands; of traders who obtained their 
 meagre revenues by selling them inferior goods at 
 fabulous prices. All of these things created a 
 lasting impression on the mind and if those who 
 read this simple story shall reach the conclusion 
 that, after all, the Indian has been sinned against 
 as well as being somewhat of a sinner himself and 
 that might does not necessarily make right, the 
 purpose of its writing will have been attained. 
 
 The miscellaneous poems, most of which are here 
 presented to the public for the first time, are not 
 the result of studied thought, but simply the 
 ebullitions of a somewhat poetic nature, and have 
 been written at odd times during a busy life. The 
 writer has always believed there were more lovers 
 of poetry than current prose writers would have 
 us believe, and it is gratifying to note that organi- 
 zations are being formed and periodicals estab- 
 lished, even in this age of commercialism, to pro- 
 mote the production of good poetry and for the 
 encouragement of those who are poetically in- 
 clined. 
 
 We bespeak for the work, as a whole, the recep- 
 tion to which its merits may entitle it, with the 
 consciousness that we have at least helped to 
 make true the saying of one of old, "Of the mak- 
 ing of books there is no end. " 
 
 Addison Woodard Stubbs. 
 
 C 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Author's Preface 5 
 
 THE INDIAN PRINCESS 
 
 Canto 1 13 
 
 Canto II 21 
 
 Canto III 32 
 
 Canto IV 34 
 
 Canto V 44 
 
 Canto VI 47 
 
 Canto VII 51 
 
 Canto VIII 55 
 
 Canto IX 66 
 
 Canto X 68 
 
 Vocabulary 73 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Opportunity 77 
 
 Man 77 
 
 The American Desert 78 
 
 A Ruined Life, 79 
 
 The Morning Glory 80 
 
 Back to the Farm 82 
 
 I Wish I Knew 83 
 
 Col. R. T. Van Horn 83 
 
 The Passers-By 85 
 
 A Little Heroine 86 
 
 The Stove Problem 87 
 
 The Galveston Storm 88 
 
 Washington 89 
 
 Kansas at Fifty 90 
 
 The Gray And The Blue 92 
 
 John Brown 92 
 
 Tribute To Woman 93 
 
 A Song of Peace 94 
 
 7 
 
Justice And Reason 96 
 
 The Morning Fly 96 
 
 Memorial Day 97 
 
 On The Same 98 
 
 The Strenuous Life 99 
 
 The Wind 99 
 
 A Kansas Cyclone 100 
 
 Money Matches 101 
 
 The Savage 102 
 
 Plug Tobacco 103 
 
 To A Young Lady of Twenty-Five 104 
 
 The Man With An Axe 105 
 
 Story of The Chrysanthemum 106 
 
 Daring 107 
 
 A Pansy 108 
 
 Crab-Apple Blossoms 108 
 
 Mother 109 
 
 To The Mountains 110 
 
 To James Whitcomb Riley Ill 
 
 A Tale of The Sea 113 
 
 To A Night-Blooming Cereus 114 
 
 / Love To Lie And Steal 115 
 
 Unwritten Poems 115 
 
 The Santa Fe Trail 116 
 
 The Summer Rain 117 
 
 Tribute To Roosevelt 118 
 
 Two of A Kind 120 
 
 Patriotism 121 
 
 Moses And Bob 123 
 
 The Farmer s Gems 124 
 
 Mother 125 
 
 Ironquill 126 
 
 Mark Twain 127 
 
 A Transformation 128 
 
 Santa Claus 128 
 
 A Letter 129 
 
 My Mother's Corn Pone 130 
 
 Grand Army of The Republic 131 
 
 Trusts And Combines 133 
 
 Baby's Soliloquy 134 
 
 Mother Is Dead 135 
 
 8 
 
The Locomotive Engineer 136 
 
 The Kansas Idea 137 
 
 The Poet's Dream 137 
 
 Stand Pat 138 
 
 Hog Killirt Time 139 
 
 A Tale of The Horse 140 
 
 Julia Dent Grant 141 
 
 My Castle 142 
 
 Kentucky 143 
 
 Decoration Day 144 
 
 November 145 
 
 To A Chrysanthemum 146 
 
 The First Family 147 
 
 Anxiety 148 
 
 To Col. John A. Joyce 149 
 
 The Palmetto State 150 
 
 The Miner s Lament 151 
 
 Immortality 152 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Addison Woodard Stubbs Frontispiece 
 
 TO FACE PAGE 
 
 Me-nung-gah 16 
 
 Papoose as Carried on Mother's Back 24 
 
 Little Indian Princesses 40 
 
 Typical Indian with His Wives 64 
 
 Geronimo, Apache Chief 72 
 
THE INDIAN PRINCESS 
 
 ME-NUNG-GAH 
 Canto I 
 
 Harken now ye pleasant dwellers 
 In the land where once the Red-man 
 Lived contented in his wigwam, 
 
 Roamed unfettered through the wildwood, 
 Feasted on the game abundant, 
 Lived and fought, but never yielded, 
 Never would submit to bondage. 
 
 History does not reveal it; 
 
 It is only legendary, 
 
 But I'll paint for you a picture 
 
 Of a wronged and suffering people, 
 
 Of a strange misguided people, 
 
 Of a proud and haughty people, 
 
 Who for many years have suffered 
 
 Misery and degradation, 
 
 When they should have been uplifted 
 
 By the men who have oppressed them; 
 
 Should have been taught useful lessons 
 
 That would build and elevate them, 
 
 From their wild and savage station 
 
 To a strong and healthful nation. 
 
 Long ago, how many winters 
 No one knows and none can tell you, 
 When the forests were primeval, 
 When the sod was still unbroken, 
 When the Red man was the owner 
 Of the great trans-Mississippi, 
 Sat a Savage Indian chieftain 
 Telling his young braves and warriors 
 Ne-kah-shinga, wah-si-sig-ga 
 Wah-ko and his shin-gah-shin-gah 
 Of his brave and daring ventures 
 In the land of the Da-ko-tahs. 
 
 13 
 
Of the scalps that he had taken; 
 Of the ponies he had stolen; 
 Of the enemies he conquered 
 On the plains and in the mountains. 
 
 As he spoke in fiery fervor, 
 Young men listening in wonder 
 At the story he was telling, 
 Came a young man from the river 
 Saying, "Yonder on the water 
 Comes a mighty heaving monster, 
 Sounding like the voice of thunder, 
 Belching fire like some great demon : 
 It must be the great Wah-kun-dah. " 
 
 Rushing from a thousand tee-pees 
 Came the Indians in amazement, 
 Gazing there in silent wonder 
 At the awful thing before them. 
 
 First they thought to flee in terror, 
 Then they saw a pale-faced stranger, 
 Clad in robes of royal splendor, 
 Waving to them with a banner. 
 Then the brave old Wah-kun-dah-gee , 
 Spoke in tones commanding silence : 
 "Chiefs and braves and fellow warriors, 
 Listen while I tell the story 
 Hitherto I have not told you." 
 "How!" the eager throng responded. 
 Then the stately Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 Told them of an ancient legend, 
 That there came across the water 
 In the distance whence the sunshine 
 Comes in early dawn of morning — 
 Came like him they saw before them, 
 In a house upon the water. 
 
 Came a stranger to the east-land, 
 Came the pale-face to their fathers 
 
 14 
 
From across the briny ocean; 
 Told them how the Ne-kah-shu-ja 
 Feared the pale-face as Wah-kun-dah, 
 Feared and brought him many presents, 
 Meat and skins and beads of wampum. 
 Then he told them how the pale-face 
 Gave their fathers fire-water, 
 Drinking which, it made them crazy; 
 Made them slay a wife or brother, 
 Made them act like very demons. 
 
 Then he told them how their fathers 
 Fled in terror from the pale-face, 
 Fled across the pah-do-tun-gah 
 And across the Ne-skah-tun-gah 
 To the land of the Mo-sho-jah, 
 Where they found the great cha-don-gah, 
 The cha-min-gah and cha-shin-gah, 
 Found the countless herds of bison, 
 This they called the land of Kon-za's. 
 Here we've lived for generations 
 On the banks of the Mo-sho-jah; 
 Here our fathers' bones are buried; 
 Here our braves have won distinction 
 Driving back invading red-men 
 Who have come to steal our ponies. 
 
 Now the pale-faced man has found us. 
 
 He has with him pe-a-je-nee, 
 
 He will give us fire-water; 
 
 He will make our young men crazy; 
 
 Make us slay our wife or brother 
 
 As he did our great ancestors. 
 
 Shall we let him come among us? 
 Shall we not the rather slay him, 
 Throw his carcass on the water, 
 Float it down to warn his brother 
 Of the danger of the Kon-za's 
 On the banks of the Mo-sho-jah? 
 
 15 
 
Listen to your Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 In the pale-face there is danger ! 
 I have spoken." 
 
 Then the chief of all the Kon-za's 
 Arose in his majestic splendor, 
 Towering far above his fellows, 
 Clad in furs and paint and feathers, 
 "Listen! am I not your chieftain, 
 Chief of all you braves and warriors, 
 Chief of young men, women, children, 
 Chief of all the tribe of Kon-zas? 
 Have I ever been a coward? 
 Have I ever fled in battle? 
 See my scalp-locks dangle yonder 
 From the pole beside my wig-wam? 
 Scalps of other ne-kah-shu-jas 
 I have met on field of battle ! 
 
 What is this upon the water 
 
 That should make our Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 
 Fear and tremble like a woman? 
 
 Motion hither yonder pale-face, 
 Bid him welcome to your camp-fires, 
 Give him food and give him shelter, 
 Harken to your fearless chieftain!" 
 
 Clad in sack-cloth and in ashes, 
 Clad in worn and ragged raiment, 
 Waiting not to greet the pale-face, 
 Stole the aged Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 To his haunt upon the hill-side; 
 With his face turned from the sun-light 
 Sat he on the rocky hill-side 
 Weeping sad and there lamenting 
 For the error of his chieftain. 
 Calling to the great Wah-kun-dah 
 "Save my people, save my people, 
 Save them from the pale-faced stranger, 
 Save them from his fire-water!" 
 
 16 
 
ME-NUNG-GAH 
 
All night long sat he there weeping, 
 Thinking of the ancient legend, 
 Thinking of his people's peril. 
 Till the early dawn of morning 
 Sat the old man weeping, wailing, 
 Crying for his wayward children 
 Who refused to heed his warning. 
 
 Slowly down the hill descending, 
 Tear-drops down his cheeks still streaming, 
 Came Wah-kun-dah-gee at sunrise, 
 To his wigwam in the valley. 
 
 Slowly then, as was his custom, 
 Marched the old man through the village, 
 Speaking with a voice of thunder 
 He addressed his wayward people. 
 
 Always he had counseled valor, 
 Taught the braves to fear no danger, 
 Taught the young men to be hunters, 
 Taught them to drive out invaders, 
 As their fathers had before them 
 Driven other tribes and nations 
 Who had dared to give them battle. 
 Never had his words of wisdom 
 Been rejected by his people, 
 Who had prospered by his teaching. 
 Now his chief had dared oppose him, 
 Taken in the pale-faced stranger, 
 Who, tradition from his father 
 Taught him, leads to fearful danger. 
 
 Slowly spoke the Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 
 Then, these words of fearful import : 
 
 "Harken once again my children 
 
 While I tell again the story, 
 
 Tell to you the old tradition 
 
 Told me by my aged father 
 
 Who was once your Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 
 17 
 
But who sleeps on yonder hill-top, 
 Told me as his dying message, 
 Told me I should warn the Kon-zas 
 From the danger of the pale-face, 
 Should he ever cross the water 
 Of our stream the great Mo-sho-jah. 
 Yesterday we saw him coming, 
 Moving up the mighty river, 
 And I promptly told the legend 
 Handed down through generations 
 From your ancient Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 As a warning to the Kon-zas. 
 
 Then I bade you slay the stranger 
 E'er he entered in your Wig- warn; 
 Told you how his fire-water 
 Had so crazed our great ancestors 
 That they fled in mortal terror 
 Over mountain, plain and valley 
 To the land of the Mo-sho-jah; 
 To the land where since, the Kon-zas 
 Rule a vast expanse of country 
 Covered o'er with grass and timber, 
 Where our game in countless number 
 Furnishes our food and shelter. 
 
 Here we dwell in peace and plenty, 
 With no foe we cannot conquer, 
 With our fathers sleeping yonder 
 In the rocks upon the hill- top. 
 Thus may we live on forever 
 If you will but heed my warning 
 Of the legend of my father 
 Who has told me that my people 
 Must not listen to the pale-face 
 Who may come, has come among us 
 In his house upon the water, 
 As he came to our forefathers, 
 Bringing with him fire-water 
 That, possessed of evil spirits, 
 
 18 
 
Will deprive us of our reason; 
 Drive our young men mad with frenzy, 
 Cause them to destroy their brothers, 
 Slay their wives and e'en their mothers. 
 Harken, I beseech you, warriors, 
 Listen to your Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Listen to my fearful warning. 
 Harken, oh my noble chieftain, 
 You, who fear no foe nor danger, 
 You, who always first in battle 
 Lead us ever on to conquer, 
 Hear me, hear your Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 Who would save you from great danger, 
 Who would save you from the stranger, 
 Coming here with fire-water, 
 That will drive from you your people, 
 Drive them out to cold and hunger, 
 As it drove our great ancestors 
 From their home beyond the mountains. 
 Hear me, mighty chieftain, hear me ! 
 Let my words of warning reach you, 
 Let our fathers' legend teach you 
 There are dangers that you know not, 
 Enemies that, though you fealr not, 
 You can never hope to conquer. 
 
 Once again I beg, implore you, 
 Though you have received this stranger, 
 Taken from him beads and trinkets, 
 Given him your robes and deer-skins ; 
 Drive him quick from out your borders, 
 Drive him down the great Mo-sho-jah. 
 Tell him never more to come here 
 To the land of all the Kon-zas; 
 To the land that we have chosen; 
 To the land where sleep our fathers 
 In the rocks upon the hill-tops. 
 Hear me, oh my people, hear me. " 
 
 Thus the aged Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 19 
 
Plead all day among his people, 
 
 As he walked throughout their village, 
 
 From the sun-rise till the sun-set. 
 
 Then the great head-chief, Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 Sent his crier through the village, 
 
 As the shades of night were falling, 
 
 C ailing all his braves and warriors 
 
 To assemble on the morrow 
 
 For a mighty feast and council. 
 
 Thought the great head chief, Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 "Now has my great Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 
 Bid defiance to my mandate. 
 
 Bid my people disobey me, 
 
 Bid them question all the wisdom, 
 
 That I hitherto have uttered. 
 
 I, who never have been conquered, 
 
 Never fled on field of battle 
 
 From an enemy before me. 
 
 I, the chief of all the Kon-zas! 
 
 I am asked to fear the pale-face, 
 
 Lest he with his fire-water 
 
 Drive from me my loyal people, 
 
 Drive us from our land of plenty, 
 
 Drive us from our herds of bison, 
 
 Drive us farther to the west-ward, 
 
 Whence the cold and freezing blizzard 
 
 Comes in fierce and blinding fury. 
 
 Shall I yield or shall I conquer?" 
 
 Meditated thus Wah-tun-gah 
 
 As he sat within his wigwam, 
 
 As he viewed the list of trinkets 
 
 Brought him by the pale-faced stranger; 
 
 Trinkets bright, of glistening silver; 
 
 Beads and ribbons without number; 
 
 Ornaments of royal splendor, 
 
 Such as he had never witnessed. 
 
 "Can there be within this stranger 
 Elements of dread and danger, 
 Such as my great Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 
 20 
 
Has portrayed unto my people?" 
 There he sat and silent pondered 
 
 Far into the hour of darkness 
 
 By the dim fire of his wig-wam, 
 
 While around him all was stillness 
 
 Save the hooting of the night-owl 
 
 In the shadows of the wood-land, 
 
 And the barking of the coyote 
 
 In the distant open prairie. 
 
 Till at last, long after mid-night 
 
 Fell he into fitful slumber; 
 
 Slept the great head chief Wah-tun-gah. 
 
 Still his mind was agitated 
 
 By the new and fearful problem . 
 
 He must solve upon the morrow. 
 
 Never had his braves and warriors 
 Failed to do him greatest homage, 
 Failed to go where he would lead them, 
 Failed to do what he would bid them, 
 Would they fail him on the morrow? 
 
 These thoughts filled the chief with sorrow 
 As he fell in fitful slumber, 
 On his bed of robes of bison 
 He had slain with bow and arrow 
 On the plains toward the sun-set, 
 In the sunny land of Kon-zas. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 WARRING FACTIONS 
 
 As he slept, forebodings vanished, 
 And he dreamed of future greatness; 
 Dreamed that, robed in royal splendor, 
 Decked in paint and streaming feathers, 
 He was coming from a battle 
 At the head of all his warriors, 
 With the scalps that he had taken 
 
 21 
 
Dangling from his belt of wampum. 
 Scalps of his old foes, the Pawnees, 
 He had often met in battle, 
 And as often had defeated. 
 Dreamed he saw old men and women 
 Coming out to meet and greet him, 
 On his homeward march triumphant, 
 Chief of all the tribes of Kon-zas. 
 
 Suddenly he was awakened, 
 By the voice of Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Who, in early dawn of morning 
 Cried aloud again his warning 
 Of the danger from the pale-face 
 Anchored out on the Mo-sho-jah. 
 
 Angered then beyond endurance, 
 Acting quickly on the impulse, 
 As the vision of his greatness 
 Loomed in splendor up before him, 
 Leaped the chieftain from his wig-wam, 
 Bearing in his hand a dagger, 
 Ran he forth to Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Saying to himself, "I'll slay him, 
 Slay the man who dare oppose me; 
 Dare to make my warriors cowards; 
 Dare to make them act like women. " 
 
 But, approaching Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Instantly his heart was melted 
 For he saw that tears were streaming 
 Down the old man's cheeks in sorrow, 
 As he cried in bitter anguish, 
 "Oh my people, hear my warning, 
 Drive away the pale-faced stranger, 
 Let him not come near your wigwams 
 With his deadly fire-water. 
 He will make your young men crazy, 
 He will steal your wives and daughters. 
 
 Then saw he his chief before him; 
 Suddenly the tear-drops vanished 
 From his eyes that flashed like lightning, 
 
 22 
 
And the two great warring spirits 
 Stood with eyes fixed for a moment 
 As if each would rend the other. 
 By an impulse both relented; 
 Then they talked the matter over; 
 Each tried to convince the other; 
 Both, however, were determined, 
 And as they had met, they parted. 
 
 Chief Wah-tun-gah, young, ambitious, 
 Hastened back into his wigwam 
 Firmer yet in his decision 
 To befriend the pale-faced stranger 
 Who had brought him beads and trinkets, 
 Ear-bobs, paints and scarlet blankets, 
 Coffee, sugar and provisions, 
 Things that he had never tasted, 
 Things that he had never dreamed of. 
 
 Then, preparing for the council 
 Of his chiefs and braves and warriors, 
 He bedecked himself in splendor; 
 Filled his ears with silver ear-bobs, 
 On his breast a silver medal, 
 Girt his arms with silver bracelets, 
 Painted cheeks with rich vermillion, 
 On his brow a great war-bonnet 
 Made of gorgeous eagle feathers 
 Streaming to the ground behind him; 
 Leggings made of softest deer-skin, 
 Moccasins also to match them. 
 Then be-girdled with a blanket, 
 With a scarlet woolen blanket, 
 Marched he out into the sunshine; 
 Marched he to the council chamber, 
 There to greet his braves and warriors. 
 
 Never had a Kon-za Chieftain, 
 In the history of the nation, 
 Been arrayed in dazzling colors 
 Such as wore the great Wah-tun-gah 
 On this memorable occasion. 
 
 Women stood in awe and wonder 
 
 23 
 
As they saw his towering figure 
 Move in majesty before them; 
 Children fled in mortal terror; 
 Others gazed on with amazement. 
 
 When he reached the council chamber 
 Strong men stood in fear and trembled 
 At the mighty transformation 
 In their chief, the great Wah-tun-gah. 
 
 Solemnly, he bade be seated 
 All the chiefs and braves and warriors 
 Who had come there at his bidding 
 To engage in solemn council. 
 
 Lighting then his pipe of red-stone, 
 Filled with powdered leaves of sumach, 
 Filled with fragrant red mum-be-gee, 
 Wafted first a puff to heaven, 
 Homage to the great Wah-kun-dah 
 For his favors to the Kon-zas. 
 Then he passed the pipe on from him 
 To another chief or warrior; 
 Other chiefs and Wah-kun-dah-gees 
 Also lighted pipes and passed them, 
 On from one unto another 
 As has been the Indian custom 
 Always at their feasts and councils. 
 
 Smoke to them is emblematic 
 Of their prayers to heaven ascending, 
 To their God, the great Wah-kun-dah, 
 In whom they are all believers. 
 
 As the pipe of peace was passing. 
 Chiefs and braves and all the warriors 
 Sat they all in perfect silence. 
 
 Then the great head chief, Wah-tun-gah, 
 Stood before the great assemblage, 
 Drew himself to fullest stature, 
 Folded gracefully his blanket 
 Underneath his arm-pits 'round him. 
 Then began he, slowly speaking: 
 "Ki-he-ga and wah-si-si-ga 
 Wah-di-an-gah, ne-kah-shin-gah 
 
 24 
 
PAPOOSE AS CARRIED ON MOTHER'S BACK 
 
Wah-ko, shin-gah-shin-gah, zah-nee 
 I have called in august council, 
 All my brave and loyal people, 
 Harken to the words I utter: 
 I am chief of all the Kon-zas 
 As my father was before me, 
 As his father was before him, 
 I am of the royal house-hold. 
 I am chief because my birth-right 
 Makes me chief of all the Kon-zas! 
 "How!" with one accord they answered, 
 Meaning, "Yes, you have well spoken." 
 Then he told them of his triumphs; 
 Of his daring deeds of battle; 
 How when he was but a young man 
 He had slain a stealthy Pawnee 
 Sneaking through the grass at midnight 
 Like a snake to steal his pony. 
 As he spoke he grew in stature, 
 Fairly swelled with self-importance, 
 And his voice swelled in proportion, 
 Till it shook the very branches 
 Of the trees that stood around him. 
 Frequent interruptions told him 
 He was making an impression; 
 Thus encouraged, he proceeded, 
 Speaking on with graceful gestures 
 He had learned by intuition; 
 Gestures, which the child of nature 
 Learns without the aid of tutor; 
 Uses with the utmost freedom 
 When and where to be effective; 
 Suddenly across the woodland 
 Came the pale-face with companions, 
 From their boat upon the water, 
 Each one bearing with him presents 
 Which were placed before the chieftain; 
 Having been attracted thither 
 By the speech the chief was making, 
 Which resounded from the hill-sides, 
 
 25 
 
From the steep and rocky hill-sides, 
 Which surrounded there the valley 
 Where was then the Kon-zas village 
 And where now stands Kansas City, 
 And where still the Kon-zas river 
 Flows into the great Mo-sho-jah. 
 When the strangers then were seated 
 Close within the inner circle, 
 And had smoked with them the peace-pipe, 
 Chief Wah-tun-gah then proceeded: 
 "These are strange and wondrous people, 
 Sent perhaps by great Wah-kun-dah 
 With the presents they have brought us. 
 Dare we slay or drive them from us, 
 Lest we grieve the great Wah-kun-dah 
 Who has given us the bison, 
 Deer and elk that roam the forests, 
 Bear and game in rich profusion?" 
 As he spoke a strange thing happened. 
 From the dense brush of the forest 
 Rushed a deer into the open 
 Where it stopped, confused, astonished. 
 Quick a pale-face seized his rifle, 
 Then a flash and whizzing bullet 
 Dropped the deer like stroke of lightning; 
 Then, just as if nothing happened, 
 Took his seat again among them, 
 Knowing well he'd taught a lesson 
 That would never be forgotten. 
 Then a scene of wild commotion 
 Seized the vast assembled council. 
 Some cried out "It is Wah-kun-dah. 
 See he brings the lightning, thunder, 
 When the sun shines clear and brightly, 
 When no storm clouds hover over. 
 Surely he's a great magician 
 Greater than our Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 Who has said so much against him, 
 Who has told us we should slay him. " 
 Then they taunted Wah-kun-dah-gee: 
 
 26 
 
"If you are a great magician 
 
 Why have you not shown your power? 
 
 Why have you not killed a wild deer, 
 
 Blowing lightning from your nostrils, 
 
 Followed by a sound of thunder? 
 
 If you represent Wah-kun-dah, 
 
 Why do you not slay the pale-face 
 
 As you saw him slay the wild deer? " 
 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee sat in silence. 
 
 Tears were coursing through the wrinkles 
 
 Of his old face worn and haggard. 
 
 Then the great head-chief Wah-tun-gah, 
 Knowing he had won the victory, 
 Said, "We will not slay the strangers. 
 We will build for them a wig- warn ; 
 Let them stay and live among us ; 
 Teach us all the power and wisdom 
 They have learned from their Wah-kun-dah 
 Who has sent them here among us 
 With their ornaments and blankets 
 Such as here you see me wearing. 
 All my young men and my maidens 
 Shall be robed in finest garments; 
 Likewise, too my braves and warriors, 
 Shall go forth to meet the Pawnees, 
 When they come to steal our ponies, 
 Decked in paints and glistening trinkets 
 Such as they have never witnessed, 
 And perhaps the pale-face stranger 
 May teach us to kill the Pawnee, 
 As you saw him slay the wild deer, 
 With the sound of his Wah-ho-tah. 
 Women! bring ye hither deer-meat; 
 Bring the meat of bear and bison, 
 Make a gruel of Wah-ko-sa; 
 Let us feast the pale-faced stranger; 
 Henceforth call him Mo-he-tun-gah, 
 For the ' Big knife ' he has brought us. " 
 
 When the chief had ceased his speaking, 
 Others spoke as they were bidden; 
 
 27 
 
Giving to his words approval. 
 
 Some, however, had misgivings 
 And refused a word to utter, 
 Thinking to themselves the rather 
 That the aged Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 Spoke the truth in giving warning 
 That they should drive out the stranger 
 From the land where dwelt the Kon-zas. 
 
 These men, sullen, without murmur, 
 Moved away before the feast-time 
 And refused to smoke the peace-pipe 
 That they knew would be extended 
 When Wah-tun-gah's feast was over. 
 
 These were friends of Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Who would listen to his teaching, 
 Who would cling to old traditions 
 Handed through him by their fathers 
 For the guidance of the Kon-zas. 
 
 Others were young chiefs, ambitious 
 To dethrone the great Wah-tun-gah 
 And become the leading factor 
 In the counsels of the nation. 
 
 All were silent on the subject; 
 Feared to mention what their thoughts were 
 Lest they reach the great Wah-tun-gah, 
 Thus incurring hot displeasure 
 That would ruin all their prospects. 
 
 When at last the feast was over 
 And they passed around the peace-pipe, 
 Then the strangers, realizing 
 That they were receiving favors 
 More than even they expected 
 From the wild untutored savage 
 Whom they had approached in terror, 
 Knowing well the traits of red men 
 Whom they had before encountered. 
 They determined then to show them 
 Even more and greater kindness 
 Than they had in giving presents. 
 
 28 
 
Going back unto the river, 
 
 They soon came again with caskets, 
 
 Out of which then pouring liquid, 
 
 Sparkling liquid red and fiery, 
 
 They first offered to Wah-tun-gah ; 
 
 As he gazed into the contents 
 
 Of the cup which they presented, 
 
 This, thought he, is fire-water 
 
 Which the old man Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 
 Tells us is so full of danger; 
 
 Shook his head and would not drink it 
 
 Lest it make him wild and crazy. 
 
 Then the pale-face to assure them 
 
 That indeed there was no danger, 
 
 Drank himself the fire-water. 
 
 Seeing this young Wah-di-an-gah 
 
 Who was also Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 
 Motioned to the pale-faced stranger 
 
 He was not afraid to drink it; 
 
 This he did to show his fellows 
 
 He was brave and feared no danger; 
 
 Braver than his chief, Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 Brave as was the pale-faced stranger. 
 
 Seeing that no harm befell him, 
 
 Others followed his example 
 
 Till at last the cask was empty. 
 
 Though it made them feel exultant 
 
 None became intoxicated. 
 
 Then they went to Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 
 Told him what they had been doing, 
 
 That they drank the fire-water, 
 
 That it was as hot as fire, 
 
 But it had not made them crazy. 
 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee sat in silence, 
 Did not even deign to answer; 
 But his heart was filled with sorrow, 
 Filled with dread because his people 
 Did not realize their danger. 
 
 As the sun was slowly passing- 
 Down behind the western tree-tops, 
 
 29 
 
Wah-kun-dah-gee climbed the hill-side 
 Where he often prayed and fasted. 
 There he lingered till the morning- 
 Weeping, wailing and beseeching 
 Wah-kun-dah to save his people 
 From the dangers that his father 
 Told him had beset the Kon-zas 
 In their home toward the sun-rise. 
 
 When the sun in all his splendor 
 Rose above the eastern hill-tops, 
 Still he prayed and still he fasted, 
 
 Three long days and nights he fasted 
 Tasting neither food nor water. 
 Then with slow and tottering foot-steps 
 Went his way back to his wig-wam, 
 Where in sweet repose he slumbered. 
 
 As he lay there peaceful, dreaming 
 That his God would save his people, 
 Long after the hour of mid-night 
 Stealthily there came a foot-step. 
 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee was awakened. 
 "Wah-kun-dah-gee, holy father," 
 Said the chief who bowed before him, 
 " I have been your faithful follower 
 Ever since my early child-hood, 
 Never have you been mistaken, 
 Never have you told a falsehood. 
 Deep within my heart are hidden 
 All the words you ever uttered. 
 Three days now since you were absent 
 Have the young men acted foolish, 
 Drinking of the fire-water, 
 Brought here by the Mo-he-tun-gah. 
 Some were even made so crazy 
 That they struck their wives and children 
 Till we had to hold and tie them; 
 They are doing as you told us 
 They would do with fire-water. 
 Even our great chief Wah-tun-gah 
 
 30 
 
Drank till he was almost crazy; 
 Never did he talk so foolish; 
 Why, he even said he'd kill you 
 For the words that you have spoken ! 
 You, who always have stood by him, 
 Counseled him with words of wisdom; 
 Taught him how to win his battles ; 
 Said he'd rend your heart asunder 
 If you dare again oppose him; 
 This is why I came in darkness 
 That I might in secret warn you 
 To beware of threatened danger. 
 And that we might here together 
 Talk in quiet of the future 
 And plan out a course to follow. 
 
 I have thought the matter over 
 And my heart is filled with sorrow 
 That your warning was rejected 
 By our great head chief Wah-tun-gah. 
 But, we have a mighty country 
 On this side of the Mo-sho-jah, 
 Far toward the frozen north-land 
 Where the bison go in spring-time 
 And toward the sunny south-land 
 Where they migrate for the winter, 
 I will take my band of people, 
 x\re they not one half the Kon-zas? 
 Now that it is in the summer, 
 We will go into the south-land 
 Following the herds of bison 
 Till we reach the great Ne-shu-jah, 
 Till we reach the great Red- Water, 
 There we'll form another Nation; 
 You shall be my Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 I will listen to your counsel, 
 All my people too will hear you, 
 Will obey your words of wisdom, 
 And traditions of our fathers, 
 Handed down through generations. 
 We will not receive the pale-face 
 
 31 
 
But will drive him from our country, 
 Should he ever dare to enter 
 With his dreadful fire-water. 
 You are growing old and feeble 
 And, since you have been rejected, 
 Soon another will supplant you, 
 Take your place as Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 In the counsels of the Kon-zas." 
 Saying this, he then departed, 
 Promising that on the morrow, 
 He would come again at mid-night 
 To receive the old man's answer. 
 
 CANTO III 
 
 WAH-KUN-DAH-GEE, A CONSERVATIVE 
 
 When the young chief had departed, 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee could no longer 
 Then restrain the tears from flowing; 
 Silently he sat there weeping; 
 Wept because his wayward people 
 Had not listened to the warning 
 Which he gave and oft' repeated. 
 Then before the sun had risen 
 Up above the eastern hill-top, 
 Slowly went he to the hill-side, 
 Clad in sack-cloth and in ashes, 
 Where again he prayed and fasted; 
 Prayed and fasted, thought and pondered: 
 Thought again his past life over; 
 Thought of all the old traditions 
 He had heard and taught his people; 
 How he talked to young Wah-tun-gah 
 When he played with other children; 
 Told him to be brave and fearless ; 
 Told him he must lead all others; 
 Taught the rest they should obey him, 
 For he soon would be their chieftain, 
 
Chief of all the tribe of Kon-zas ; 
 
 Can it be the truth was told me? 
 Can it be he said, he'd kill me, 
 Kill his old friend, Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Who have been a father to him, 
 Since the day his father perished 
 In a battle with the Pawnees, 
 Long ago, now twenty winters? 
 
 There can be no doubt he said it, 
 Else my friend would not have told me. 
 
 But he drank the fire-water, 
 Which I said would make him crazy; 
 He was crazy when he said it. 
 He can never, never harm me; 
 I will never, never leave him; 
 I will stay and still will warn him 
 Of the threatened desolation, 
 That will come to all our people 
 If we do not heed the legends, 
 Heed the warnings of our fathers. 
 
 I will go and tell the young chief 
 He must not be too ambitious. 
 We must keep our tribe together; 
 That Wah-tun-gah will not slay me, 
 Though he does I will not leave him. 
 Then he tottered to his wig-wam 
 Feeling sad and broken hearted. 
 
 When it was the hour of midnight, 
 Came the young chief to his wigwam 
 Eager to receive the answer; 
 Sorely was he disappointed 
 When the old man quickly told him 
 He would never leave his chieftain, 
 Never separate his people. 
 
 Went he then away in sorrow, 
 Fearing lest the Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 Might disclose to chief Wah-tun-gah 
 All the words that he had uttered. 
 
 But the old man knew the wisdom 
 Of the young man's proposition 
 
 33 
 
And resolved he would not tell it 
 
 Lest it make them further trouble; 
 
 Lest the chief with fire-water, 
 
 Slay the young man who opposed him, 
 
 Bringing on a fearful warfare 
 
 In the great tribe of the Kon-zas. 
 
 Then reflected Wah-kun-dah-gee: 
 
 I shall soon sleep with my fathers 
 
 In the rocks on yonder hill-top; 
 
 Matters little if I perish 
 
 Trying now to save my people 
 
 From the dangers that beset them. 
 
 I will go and see Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 I will even now defy him, 
 
 Threaten him with insurrection; 
 
 Threaten to divide the nation; 
 
 Threaten him with dire destruction 
 
 Or the loss of his position, 
 
 If he does not drive the pale-face, 
 
 With his poison fire-water, 
 
 Back from whence on the Mo-sho-jah 
 
 He has come to bid defiance 
 
 To the Kon-zas' old traditions. 
 
 First, however, I will coax him, 
 
 Try to still retain his favor; 
 
 Try to show him that our fathers 
 
 Spoke to us the words of wisdom 
 
 And we should not disobey them. 
 
 CANTO IV 
 
 PLANNING SECESSION 
 
 Young Ki-he-ga Shun-ga-sob-ba, 
 Brother of the chief Wah-tung-gah, 
 Calling all his braves together, 
 Told them of their chieftain's actions, 
 How he threatened Wah-kun-dah-gee. 
 How, by drinking firewater, 
 
 34 
 
He was acting wild and silly ; 
 Then he counseled separation, 
 Moving southward with the bison. 
 "We will build another nation 
 Far out on the great Ne-shu-ja 
 Where the pale-face will not follow 
 With his deadly fire-water. 
 I will be your great Ki-he-ga, 
 You shall be my braves and warriors. 
 We will take the name Wa-shah-sha, 
 Feast on bison and tah-tun-ga, 
 Feast on wild game and wah-ko-sa, 
 Sheltered from the blasts of winter 
 By the forests on the border 
 Of the Tah-gu-hu, the Walnut. 
 Go with me my braves and warriors 
 To the land of peace and plenty ; 
 To the land of which I'm speaking, 
 On the southern Kon-zas border. 
 You will find a Mo-zho-yol-la, 
 Goodly land for all our people; 
 Full of antelope and turkey; 
 Where our children will not hunger 
 In the summer or the winter." 
 
 Those who listened to the chieftain, 
 Counseling for them secession, 
 Were impressed by what he told them. 
 One by one they gave their sanction, 
 Promising that they would follow 
 Through the sunny plains of Kon-zas 
 To the land that he had chosen, 
 There to build another nation, 
 Free from strife and molestation 
 Of the pale-face who had wronged them ; 
 Led their chief to deeds of anger, 
 Causing strife and sore dissension 
 In the grand old tribe of Kon-zas. 
 One there was though, disappointed, 
 One who loved Wah-tun-gah's daughter, 
 Me-nung-gah, his eldest daughter; 
 
 35 
 
And he knew she also loved him 
 But he feared her irate father 
 Who had never yet consented, 
 Since he had, on field of battle, 
 Failed as yet to win distinction. 
 This young chief was Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 Whom Wah- tun-gah had rejected, 
 Even laughed at in derision, 
 When he asked for fair Me-nung-gah, 
 Fairest maid of all the Kon-zas. 
 ''Go" said he "toward the sunset. 
 Bring to me the bleeding scalp-lock 
 Of our enemy the Pawnee, 
 Or the Cheyenne farther west- ward. 
 Show me first some deed of valor, 
 Show that you, like your great chieftain. 
 Fear no foe on field of battle, 
 E'er you ask for fair Me-nung-gah." 
 Though his heart was in the movement, 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca could not leave her; 
 Could not leave the fair Me-nung-gah. 
 Lest he never more should see her, 
 Lest her father in his madness 
 Might, as said old Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Turn upon and slay his daughter. 
 Dare he speak to fair Me-nung-gah? 
 Dare he steal and take her with him? 
 Would she still to him be loyal? 
 Dare he tell her their intentions? 
 Would she go and tell her father? 
 These and many other questions 
 Passed his mind in quick succession 
 As he marched back to his wig-wam, 
 Slowly, sadly and dejected. 
 
 Suddenly an inspiration 
 Seized his mind, and exultation 
 Took the place of sad dejection. 
 I will go and tell Wah-tun-gah, 
 I am ready for the battle; 
 Ready for the death encounter 
 
 36 
 
With our foe, the stealthy Pawnee, 
 Or the Cheyennes of the mountains. 
 I will ask to head the party 
 That from out the plains of Kon-zas, 
 Shall bring back the stolen ponies, 
 Taken from us by the Pawnees, 
 On their last mid-night invasion, 
 Me-nung-gah shall, with her uncle, 
 With Wah-tun-gah's younger brother, 
 Be a member of the party. 
 She shall witness all my triumphs; 
 She shall be the first to greet me 
 When, with bloody scalp-locks dangling 
 From the spear which I shall carry, 
 I shall prove that I am worthy 
 Of the hand of fair Me-nung-gah. 
 Then in haste to Shon-ga-sob-ba, 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca, with his story, 
 Went to lay his plans before him 
 So the two might work together, 
 Each to win his own ambition. 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba sat and listened, 
 To the plans of Wah-ho-bec-ca. 
 Then a sudden impulse seized him, 
 Here's a chance for our secession. 
 Wah-tun-gah, my elder brother, 
 Surely can have no objection 
 To my leaving with a party 
 Going out to chase the bison, 
 On the plains toward the mountains. 
 We will promise meat and deer-skins, 
 Hides and meat for all the nation. 
 All the young men will go with me; 
 All who drink no fire-water; 
 All who do not like the pale-face. 
 W 7 hen we reach the herds of bison, 
 We will slowly follow southward 
 Till we reach the great Ne-shu-ja; 
 There we'll stay and build a nation, 
 Greater than the tribe of Kon-zas. 
 
 37 
 
I am of the royal household; 
 I am great and tall of stature, 
 Stronger than my elder brother: 
 All my people will be loyal. 
 Younger chiefs and braves and warriors, 
 I will call into my councils, 
 Giving them the high positions 
 That will unify my people. 
 Wah-shah-sha shall be a nation 
 Stronger than the tribe of Kon-zas ; 
 Thus he planned and meditated. 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca still in silence, 
 Waiting Shon-ga-sob-ba's answer, 
 Sat and thought of fair Me-nung-gah. 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba then, awakened 
 From his dream of future greatness, 
 Said to waiting Wah-ho-bec-ca : 
 "If I win for you Me-nung-gah, 
 Fairest of the maids of Kon-zas, 
 Will you follow where I lead you? 
 Will you do what 'e'er I bid you? 
 Speak and tell me, Wah-ho-bec-ca!" 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca 's eyes were sparkling 
 As he said to Shon-ga-sob-ba: 
 " If you win for me Me-nung-gah, 
 I will follow where you lead me; 
 I will do what you may bid me; 
 I will be your loyal subject; 
 Wah-kun-dah shall be my witness; 
 Only win for me Me-nung-gah. " 
 Then they smoked the pipe together, 
 Calling on their God to witness 
 That henceforth they would forever 
 Even fight for one another. 
 "Go now," then said Shon-ga-sob-ba, 
 "Quietly among the Kon-zas; 
 Find the friends of chief Wah-tun-gah 
 Who would never dare to leave him ; 
 Who would never dare forsake him; 
 Come to me each night and tell me. " 
 
 38 
 
Light of foot and joyous hearted, 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca did the bidding 
 
 Of his new-found friend and chieftain. 
 
 Day by day among the young men 
 
 Quietly he sought opinions 
 
 Of Wah-tun-gah's bad behavior, 
 
 Of his drinking fire-water — 
 
 His abuse of Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 
 Of his changed and sad condition. 
 
 Faithfully to Shon-ga-sob-ba, 
 
 Every night he told the story 
 
 He had learned among the Kon-zas. 
 
 Chief Wah-tun-gah, often drunken, 
 
 Failed to guard so close his daughter; 
 
 Stealthily she often left him 
 
 With a trusted girl companion, 
 
 To whom she her love confided, 
 
 For the handsome Wah-ho-bec-ca. 
 
 Strolling far out through the woodland 
 
 To a place they had selected 
 
 On the rippling banks of Se-cah, 
 
 Turkey creek, that from the southward, 
 
 Flows into the Kon-zas river; 
 
 There these wild untutored lovers 
 
 Met and told the same old story 
 
 That in generations after 
 
 Pale-faced men and fairer maidens 
 
 Still are telling to each other, 
 
 In the parks of wondrous beauty, 
 
 Over-looking still the Se-cah 
 
 In what now is Kansas City, 
 
 Where still flows the rippling water 
 
 Down to join the Kon-zas river. 
 
 Now polluted, vile and filthy, 
 
 Giving off a thousand odors; 
 
 Turkey creek was clear as crystal 
 
 When these ancient Indian lovers 
 
 Met and smiled and told the story 
 
 That through ages oft repeated, 
 
 Never ceases to be charming, 
 
 39 
 
Never tires from the telling, 
 Always new and so refreshing. 
 Each succeeding generation 
 Loves to hear and loves to tell it. 
 Ah, but could this babbling brooklet 
 Speak and tell us all the stories 
 It has heard in trysting places, 
 From the lovers on its borders, 
 Would our boasted civil people 
 Be the gainer or the loser 
 By the story and its telling. 
 But my story is digressing. 
 Buoyantly, young Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 Left his charming dusky maiden, 
 To fulfill his chieftain's mission, 
 Gleaning each day information 
 That would hasten their departure, 
 And, though leaving friends behind him 
 That would grieve and so distress him, 
 Still, would he not win Me-nung-gah, 
 Fairest of the Kon-zas' maidens, 
 And would this not compensate him? 
 When at last the count completed, 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba was delighted, 
 For he found three-fourths the Kon-zas 
 Eager, ready, only anxious 
 To forsake their chief Wah-tun-gah 
 And enlist beneath his banner. 
 Then he went to chief Wah-tun-gah, 
 Told him of their need of wig- warns; 
 Of their need of food and raiment, 
 Lest approaching storms of winter 
 Should assail with cold and hunger. 
 
 Gladly did the chief Wah-tun-gah 
 Tell his brother Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 Then to take a band of Kon-zas, 
 All who ready were to join him, 
 And go out in search of bison. 
 Then he beckoned Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 40 
 

 LITTLE INDIAN PRINCESSES 
 
To partake of fire-water 
 
 Which the pale-face had supplied him, 
 
 And which, from his oft partaking, 
 
 Kept him in a drunken stupor; 
 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba did not take it, 
 
 Neither did he reprimand him, 
 
 But in sorrow he departed. 
 
 Then he went to Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 
 Bade him cry throughout the camp grounds 
 
 That he had the chief's permission 
 
 For a mighty hunting party, 
 
 That would start upon the morrow 
 
 For the plains in search of bison; 
 
 That the young chief Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 Would be leader of the party. 
 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee then, the crier, 
 
 Marched throughout the Kon-zas village 
 
 Urging all to join the party. 
 
 Early in the dawn of morning 
 
 Young men hastened to the pastures, 
 
 Bringing in the herds of ponies. 
 
 All the camp was in an uproar; 
 
 Women packing trunks of rawhide, 
 
 Children screamed, anticipating 
 
 All the joys of such a journey. 
 
 Only one of all the thousands 
 
 Sat dejected in her wigwam. 
 
 Me-nung-gah, the chief's fair daughter, 
 
 Having heard old Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 
 Name the leader of the party, 
 
 Knew her father was not going, 
 
 But she saw that Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 
 Had brought in his herd of ponies 
 
 And prepared for his departure. 
 
 Then, espying that her father 
 
 Had awakened from his stupor, 
 
 Me-nung-gah in desperation 
 
 Moved and sat down close beside him; 
 
 Asked him why he was not going; 
 
 Said she longed to see the wild flowers 
 
 41 
 
Growing out upon the prairie; 
 Longed to taste the uncured bison, 
 Begged that she might join the party, 
 But Wah-tun-gah quick repulsed her; 
 Told her she must think him crazy, 
 To allow his favored daughter 
 Thus to go away and leave him. 
 Then with bitter tear drops streaming, 
 Me-nung-gah sought her companion, 
 Told her of her sore dilemma ! 
 Begged that she tell Shon-ga-sob-ba, 
 That he might devise some measure 
 By which she might join the party. 
 I-Cis-sy sought Shon-ga-sob-ba; 
 Told him of Me-nung-gah's trouble, 
 Urging that he take her with him. 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba had been planning 
 All the while for fair Me-nung-gah, 
 But he had not dared to tell her, 
 Wisely waiting till she asked him 
 That he might more safely venture 
 To unfold his purpose to her. 
 Now he felt in perfect safety; 
 Sent Me-nung-gah word to meet him 
 At a given place appointed. 
 Underneath the hanging branches 
 Of the willows on the border 
 Of the great Mo-sho-jah river. 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba met Me-nung-gah; 
 Told her all the fearful import 
 Of the step that he was taking; 
 First exacting that she promise 
 Never to reveal the secret, 
 Whether she should leave her parents 
 Or remain and suffer with them. 
 Told her of Wah-tun-gah's actions; 
 How her father had betrayed them ; 
 How the Kon-zas had been loyal; 
 Suffered long, been patient with him, 
 Hoping he would see his error 
 
 42 
 
And would banish from among them, 
 Enemies with fire-water, 
 Who were daily taking from them 
 All their finest furs and deer skins, 
 Leaving only fire-water, 
 That was driving mad with frenzy 
 Every one who dared to drink it. 
 Then he left to her discretion 
 Whether to depart forever 
 From her father and her mother, 
 Told her if she chose to join him, 
 She should marry Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 Who would be the second chieftain 
 Of the new tribe of Wah-shah-sha. 
 Me-nung-gah sat bowed in silence, 
 Awed and dazed at what he told her; 
 Tears unbidden trickled freely 
 Down upon her heaving bosom. 
 In her breast a war was waging; 
 Could she leave her aging parents 
 And forsake them for her lover? 
 Could she leave her brother, sisters, 
 Leave her all for Wah-ho-bec-ca? 
 All her happy days of childhood 
 Flashed before her tear-dimmed vision. 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba grew impatient, 
 Lest his absence from his wigwam 
 Should be noticed by the Kon-zas 
 Who were eager for departure. 
 "Speak, Me-nung-gah, speak and tell me, 
 Quickly, what is your decision?" 
 Then the maiden stood before him, 
 Straight of form and fair of feature; 
 Never was there Indian Maiden 
 Seemed more like a very princess, 
 As these words she slowly uttered; 
 "Shon-ga-sob-ba, father's brother, 
 Hard the choice you put before me; 
 Choose, you say, twixt kin and lover; 
 Go forsake the chief my father, 
 
 43 
 
Join you, self-confessing traitor, 
 Who would rob his elder brother 
 Of the right which he is heir to, 
 Chief of all the tribe of Kon-zas, 
 Or remain and lose my lover. " 
 Once again the tear drops starting, 
 Trickled down upon her bosom, 
 Heaving with the wild emotion 
 That was tearing out her heart-strings. 
 Soon regaining her composure 
 She then gave him her decision : 
 " I will not forsake my kinsmen, 
 Dear to me as is my lover, 
 I can not forsake my father 
 Though he slay me, still I love him 
 And my mother, sisters, brother, 
 They will need my help and comfort 
 When they find we are forsaken. 
 Go, but know I'll not betray you; 
 And my lover Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 He will find another maiden 
 As a great chief of Wah-shah-sha's, 
 He will woo another maiden. " 
 Then she swooned beneath the willow. 
 Cursing at Me-nung-gah's folly, 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba quickly left her; 
 Hastened back where stood his ponies, 
 Packed and ready for departure. 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 SEPARATION 
 
 Then moved from the Kon-zas river, 
 Caravan the greatest ever, 
 That had crossed the plains of Kon-zas, 
 Moving southward up the Secah, 
 Slowly wending to the highlands, 
 Three-fourths of the tribe of Kon-zas 
 
 44 
 
Followed chieftain Shon-ga-sob-ba. 
 Proud was he beyond all measure, 
 As he stood Upon the hill-top 
 Over-looking Secah valley, 
 And reviewed the long procession. 
 Aged women, dogs and children, 
 Riding on the backs of ponies 
 Or behind them, in the baskets 
 Swung between the dragging tent poles 
 That were fastened to the girdles 
 Of the heavy-laden ponies. 
 Men and women, walking, riding; 
 Miles there were of this procession 
 That was leaving now forever 
 All that had been sacred to them 
 In the valleys of the rivers 
 That traverse now Kansas City, 
 Centre of the trade and commerce 
 Of a vast expanse of country, 
 Built upon the blasted prospects 
 Of the once proud tribe of Kon-zas, 
 Scattered as if by a whirlwind. 
 
 Day by day the mighty concourse, 
 Moving slowly to the westward, 
 Crossed the gently rolling prairie; 
 Camped at night on rippling brooklets, 
 Where they feasted on the wild deer, 
 Antelope and swift jack-rabbits 
 That were brought in by the hunters 
 Skirting either side the old trail, 
 That was afterward made famous 
 By Fremont, the old path-finder, 
 And the freight trains heavy-laden, 
 Bearing goods to mountain regions; 
 Bringing back the gold and silver 
 That the pale-face had discovered 
 In the gorges and the canyons 
 Of the rugged Rocky Mountains. 
 Six days out they reached a river, 
 
 45 
 
Largest one they had encountered. 
 
 Here they found in countless thousands, 
 
 Herds of bison in the valley, 
 
 Fairly hidden by the blue stem 
 
 On the border of the river, 
 
 Which they called, still call, Neosho, 
 
 Meaning there is "water in it. " 
 
 Here they camped and long they feasted; 
 
 Here the young chief Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 Plotted more and planned secession ; 
 
 Here he held a famous Council 
 
 In a Grove beside the river, 
 
 Where now stands another city, 
 
 Council Grove, a lovely city. 
 
 Here he named his chiefs and warriors. 
 
 All his braves were here selected, 
 
 For the new tribe of Wah-shah-sha, 
 
 That seceded from the Kon-zas, 
 
 From the once great tribe of Kon-zas. 
 
 Wisely did young Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 Choose the leaders of his nation. 
 
 Few there were who, disappointed, 
 
 Stole back to their chief Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 Leaving in the deadly darkness, 
 
 Lest the young chief Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 Should restrain and stop their going. 
 
 When, at last, through feasts and councils, 
 
 All arrangements were perfected, 
 
 Shon-ga-sob-ba led his people 
 
 Southward to the great Ne-shu-ja, 
 
 Where the Tah-gu-hu, the Walnut, 
 
 Flows into the great Red Water. 
 
 There the great new tribe, Wah-shah-sha, 
 
 Camped and planned to build a nation 
 
 Where no pale-faced "Mo-he-ton-ga, " 
 
 With his deadly fire-water, 
 
 Ever should come near to bother. 
 
 There they passed the autumn, winter, 
 
 Feasting on wild deer and turkey, 
 
 Game of all kinds in abundance 
 
 46 
 
That abounded in the woodlands 
 And the plains that then surrounded 
 These rich valleys of the rivers 
 Where the new tribe of Wah-shah-sha 
 Hoped to stay and live forever, 
 Free from strife and molestation. 
 Little dreamed they, boys then living 
 Would behold the transformation 
 That a century has witnessed; 
 That white men in countless thousands 
 Would invade and drive them farther; 
 Would destroy their herds of bison, 
 Change their dress and mode of living, 
 All within a single lifetime 
 Of the boys that then were romping 
 Freely over plain and valley. 
 Little thought they, that their children, 
 So unfettered, free and listless, 
 Would be taken from their wigwams, 
 Forced to go into a school-room, 
 Sit and ponder over letters; 
 That to them was worse than folly. 
 Little wonder children often 
 Of the younger generations 
 Stole away to haunts of freedom, 
 Back into their tents and wigwams, 
 Where they might, with bow and arrow, 
 Practice shooting birds and rabbits 
 And prepare them as their fathers 
 Had prepared to shoot the bison 
 That provided food abundant, 
 Satisfying all their hunger. — 
 Again my story is disgressing. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 AT THE OLD CAMP 
 
 When the Kon-zas had departed, 
 Wah-tun-gah soon missed Me-nung-gah. 
 
 47 
 
Sought the aged Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Who remained with him still loyal; 
 Bade him cry throughout the village, 
 Call aloud for fair Me-nung-gah. 
 Faithful to his well known duty, 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee, through the village, 
 Called aloud for fair Me-nung-gah 
 To return unto her wigwam; 
 But in vain he sought and called her. 
 Then Wah-tun-gah recollected, 
 She had asked to join the party 
 That had gone in search of bison 
 On the Western plains of Kon-zas. 
 "Can it be my fair Me-nung-gah 
 Now has dared to disobey me?" 
 Drinking then some fire-water, 
 He soon raged throughout the village 
 Like a maddened, roaring lion; 
 Frightened squaws and little children 
 Fled from him into the bushes, 
 Lest he slay them in his madness. 
 Meanwhile, all her friends and neig- ' ors 
 Sought the missing girl, Me-nung-gah, 
 Till the shadows of the nightfall 
 Cast a gloom across the valley; 
 Then a sudden shout of triumph 
 From the border of the river, 
 Told the glad news that Me-nung-gah 
 Had been found beneath the willow. 
 Messengers then quickly hastened, 
 Found her still unconscious, lying 
 On the grass beneath the willow, 
 As she lay when Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 Left her in the early morning. 
 Soon the doctor, Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 Came and knelt beside the maiden; 
 Saw that she was gently breathing; 
 Bade them bear her to the wigwam 
 Of her father, chief Wah-tun-gah. 
 Hastily, they made a stretcher 
 
 48 
 
Of the soft skin of a bison; 
 Bore her gently to the wigwam 
 Where her father chief Wah-tun-gah 
 Had succumbed in drunken stupor. 
 Then the faithful Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 Crawled around the prostrate maiden, 
 Weirdly chanting incantations, 
 Calling on the great Wah-kun-dah 
 To restore to them Me-nung-gah, 
 Fairest maid of all the Kon-zas. 
 Soon her eyelids slowly opened. 
 Calling for a drink of water, 
 Me-nung-gah then gazed about her, 
 With a look of strangest wonder, 
 At the women there assembled. 
 Sitting up, she soon remembered 
 Of the meeting 'neath the willows, 
 Then again became unconscious. 
 Days and weeks the maiden hovered 
 "On the border of the river 
 Whence returns no way-worn traveller. ' 
 But at last, by careful nursing 
 And the herbs which Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 Steeped and gave the frail Me-nung-gah, 
 She became restored and healthful. 
 Oft she thought of Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 But his name she dared not mention. 
 Chief Wah-tun-gah often wondered 
 Why no tidings from the hunters 
 Had been sent by Shon-ga-sob-ba. 
 
 When their patches of wah-ko-sa 
 Had been garnered for the winter, 
 Fears of trouble dawned upon them. 
 Had their enemies, the Pawnees, 
 Or the Indians from the mountains 
 Killed and captured all the Kon-zas? 
 Straggling bands of aged Kon-zas 
 Who had left young Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 Then came in and told the story 
 
Of the new tribe of Wah-shah-sha, 
 
 That had left the tribe of Kon-zas. 
 
 Chief Wah-tun-ga became furious, 
 
 Said he'd follow Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 Till he found him, then he'd slay him; 
 
 Flaunt his scalp lock in the faces 
 
 Of his chiefs and braves and warriors, 
 
 And compel them to be loyal 
 
 Once again to chief Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 Who by birth-right was the head-chief 
 
 Of the great tribe of the Kon-zas. 
 
 Then he knew that Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 Had with him the herds of ponies 
 
 Taken to bring back the bison 
 
 And provide their meat for winter. 
 
 Slowly now it dawned upon him 
 
 That his brother Shon-ga-sob-ba 
 
 Had betrayed him, taken from him 
 
 Every vestige of his power. 
 
 Realizing his position, 
 
 He called in old Wah-kun-dah-gee; 
 
 Told him of their sad dilemma, 
 
 How the children now were hungry, 
 
 How they needed skins for wig-wams. 
 
 "We shall perish," said Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 "From the fearful cold and hunger, 
 
 In the coming moons of winter." 
 
 "We must move," said chief Wah-tun-gah, 
 
 "To a camp-ground farther westward, 
 
 Where we'll find the herds of bison 
 
 And obtain our meat for winter. 
 
 Go and tell my loyal people 
 
 We must move upon the morrow." 
 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee, though still loyal, 
 
 Could not then refrain from saying 
 
 To his chief the great Wah-tun-gah : 
 
 "See how all my words of warning 
 
 Are fulfilled and how our nation 
 
 Now has suffered from your actions. 
 
 Had you driven back the pale-face — 
 
 50 
 
Never tasted fire-water — 
 
 You would still have been the chieftain, 
 
 Chief of all the tribe of Kon-zas. " 
 
 Wah-tun-gah, humiliated, 
 
 Bowed his head in solemn silence, 
 
 Not a word he dared to utter. 
 
 Tears of bitterness and sorrow 
 
 Spoke the anguish of Wah-tun-gah 
 
 More than words he might have uttered. 
 
 Thus old Wah-kun-dah-gee left him, 
 
 Going out among his people 
 
 To proclaim the doleful message 
 
 As his chief Wah- tun-eah bade him. 
 
 CANTO VII 
 
 NEW HOME 
 
 Tired and foot sore from their journey, 
 Next we find the chief Wah-tun-gah 
 With his remnant of the Kon-zas 
 At the Junction of the river 
 That unites to form the Kon-zas, 
 And where now stands Junction City. 
 On their journey to the westward 
 Chief Wah-tun-gah felt dejected 
 Seeing only but a remnant 
 Of the once great tribe of Kon-zas, 
 Left to follow his dictation. 
 Nearly all of these were old men 
 Scarcely able for the journey; 
 Some had fallen by the wayside 
 Overcome by strong exertion; 
 Others stricken were and helpless, 
 And, bereft of fire-water, 
 He was wanting in the courage 
 That had hitherto sustained him. 
 Then he thought him of the Pawnees 
 Whom he'd often met in battle 
 
 51 
 
And as often had defeated. 
 Fearing that they now would find him 
 In his helpless, sad condition, 
 And destroy him and his people. 
 
 Thus for days and months he brooded 
 Through the cold and dreary winter. 
 Me-nung-gah his charming daughter 
 Was his mainstay and his comfort; 
 Always kind to do his bidding, 
 Ever loyal, faithful to him, 
 Though her heart was always heavy, 
 For she knew how hard the burden 
 That her father had to carry. 
 Oft she thought of Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 Of her distant, absent lover, 
 Wondered if he had forgotten 
 All their secret happy meetings 
 In their lovely trysting places 
 Underneath the hanging shade trees, 
 On the banks of rippling Secah. 
 She was always melancholy, 
 And, though others would have wooed her, 
 Gently, firmly she repulsed them, 
 Thinking only of her father 
 And her distant, absent lover; 
 
 Thinking of her changed condition 
 From the princess of a nation 
 Great in number, great in power, 
 Fearing neither man nor devil, 
 Fearing none that might assail them, 
 Now a remnant of the nation. 
 Once so many giant young men, 
 Now but few and small of stature, 
 Seemed to her like men had dwindled 
 As had dwindled down the nation. 
 But while she was thus discouraged, 
 Still she helped with house-hold duties, 
 Always busy doing something. 
 On her back bore heavy burdens 
 
 52 
 
Of dry wood to kindle fire : 
 
 Broken limbs of oak and walnut, 
 
 Bore them like a beast of burden, 
 
 As was then the Indian custom. 
 
 Men were hunters, proud and haughty; 
 
 Killed the game, cared for the horses, 
 
 Made the pipes and bows and arrows. 
 
 Women "jerked" and cured the wild meat: 
 
 Cut and plaited strips of bison, 
 
 Wove them in and out together 
 
 As the old time frontier settlers 
 
 Wove their baskets and chair bottoms 
 
 From the bark of hick'ry saplings, 
 
 Or the fibre of the white oak. 
 
 When thus plaited firm together, 
 
 Women hung meat in the sunshine, 
 
 There to cure and dry for winter. 
 
 Since the coming of the pale-face, 
 Since imbibing fire-water 
 Coupled with the great dissension 
 And desertion of his people, 
 Chief Wah-tun-gah fast was aging. 
 Oft he sat within his wigwam, 
 Brooding over his misfortune; 
 Grieving at his loss of power; 
 That his greatness had departed 
 That the once proud tribe of Kon-zas 
 Now forever was disrupted. 
 Could no longer meet invaders 
 And protect themselves from dangers, 
 From the Indians of the mountains 
 Or their enemies, the Pawnees. 
 As he sat one day, thus brooding, 
 Suddenly he heard a war-cry. 
 Instantly he knew the Pawnees, 
 Bitter foes for generations, 
 Had attacked his little remnant 
 Of the great tribe of the Kon-zas. 
 Quick as flash he seized his quiver, 
 
 53 
 
Screamed defiance, as he sallied 
 Out to meet the hated Pawnees. 
 Urging all his men to action, 
 Chief Wah-tun-gah stood defiant, 
 Aiming arrows with precision. 
 One by one he saw the Pawnees 
 Falling from their maddened ponies. 
 Thus encouraged, still he shouted 
 To his little band of warriors, 
 "Kill the snakes, repulse the cowards, 
 They have come to steal your ponies, 
 Drive them back to the Ne-blas-ka, 
 Drive them to the great flat water. " 
 As he spoke in tones of thunder, 
 Came a Pawnee daring near him, 
 With his war club raised to strike him; 
 But Wah-tun-gah sent an arrow 
 Through his heart and felled the Pawnee, 
 Gasping, dying from his pony. 
 E'er the pony darted from him 
 Old Wah-tun-gah seized the bridle, 
 Held it, while he scalped the Pawnee. 
 
 Then with dripping scalp lock dangling, 
 Mounted he the frightened pony. 
 Waving high the bloody trophy, 
 He defied his ancient foemen, 
 And, with furious maddened frenzy, 
 Rode he closely in among them, 
 Calling all his braves to follow. 
 In his wild and raging fury 
 Never had he thought of danger. 
 Suddenly he was surrounded 
 By a thousand yelling demons. 
 Fighting still in desperation, 
 Overcome by force of numbers 
 Fell the once great chief Wah-tun-gah. 
 Me-nung-gah had, from her wigwam, 
 Watched the terrible encounter. 
 When she saw the chieftain falling, 
 
 54 
 
Though she knew she could not save him, 
 Rushed she forth with hand uplifted, 
 Weeping, wailing for her father. 
 Seeing her surpassing beauty 
 Then a Pawnee quickly seized her, 
 Drew her struggling up before him, 
 Bore her from the field of battle 
 To the northward whence the Pawnees 
 Came upon their deadly mission. 
 
 CANTO VIII 
 
 WAH-HO-BEC-CA SECEDES 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca had been restless, 
 
 Waiting for Chief Shun-ga-sob-ba 
 
 To fulfill his sacred promise. 
 
 Many moons he had been waiting, 
 
 Longing for his lost Me-nung-gah. 
 
 Oft' he thought his past life over: 
 
 Of the secret trysting places 
 
 When he met the charming daughter 
 
 Of the once great chief Wah-tun-gah; 
 
 Of the promises he made her, 
 
 That when he had slain the Pawnees 
 
 And regained the stolen ponies 
 
 How he then would come to claim her, 
 
 As the chief, her father bade him. 
 
 Now he feared her lost forever. 
 
 Blaming young chief Shun-ga-sob-ba 
 
 For his greatest disappointment, 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca was revengeful 
 
 And determined at all hazards 
 
 To regain his lost Me-nung-gah. 
 
 Quiet life on the Ne-shu-jah 
 
 Was to him becoming irksome, 
 
 And he organized a party 
 
 For a journey toward the northland 
 
 Where he hoped to meet the Pawnees 
 
 55 
 
And engage them in a battle. 
 
 Then, when laden with his trophies, 
 
 Scalp-locks of the hated Pawnees, 
 
 He would visit the Mo-sho-jah 
 
 And would claim his fair Me-nung-gah 
 
 From the hand of Chief Wah-tun-gah. 
 
 Quietly he told his purpose 
 
 To his friends, the young Wah-shah-shas, 
 
 Whom he knew would gladly follow 
 
 Where-so-e'er he chose to lead them. 
 
 Boldly then to Shun-ga-sob-ba 
 
 He imparted information 
 
 Of his hopes and his ambition 
 
 To regain his lost Me-nung gah 
 
 Whom the chief had failed in winning 
 
 Though to him he had been loyal. 
 
 Then a bitter quarrel followed, 
 
 And the young chief Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 
 Took one-half of the Wah-shah-shas 
 
 From their leader, Shun-ga-sob-ba, 
 
 To the north land of Ne-blas-ka, 
 
 There to found another nation 
 
 That should be the tribe of Pon-ca. 
 
 As they moved on slowly northward, 
 
 Scouts came running to their chieftain 
 
 From the border of the river, 
 
 Saying they had seen a Pawnee 
 
 Bearing with him on a pony 
 
 One who seemed to be a woman. 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca, thinking only, 
 
 Of the scalp-lock of the Pawnee, 
 
 Quickly organized a party 
 
 Of young braves and daring warriors 
 
 And pursued the fleeing Pawnee, 
 
 Over hills and through the valleys. 
 
 On they rode in desperation 
 
 Till they neared the hated Pawnee 
 
 Whom they hoped to rend asunder. 
 
 Looking backward then the Pawnee 
 
 Saw his enemies pursuing. 
 
 56 
 
Thinking that it was the Kon-zas, 
 He determined they should never 
 Rescue from him his fair captive. 
 On he urged his jaded pony; 
 Closer came young Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 Yelling like a very demon, 
 Followed by his braves and warriors, 
 Eager for the flying scalp-lock. 
 Seeing that with fresher horses 
 Soon he would be overtaken, 
 The Pawnee now in desperation 
 Drew his bone knife from the scabbard 
 Sank it deep into his captive; 
 Then he dropped her from the pony. 
 Thus relieved of half its burden, 
 Onward leaped the tired pony. 
 
 Hesitating but a moment, 
 Seeing it was but a woman, 
 Onward flew young Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 Now determined for the scalp-lock 
 That would help him win Me-nung-gan. 
 As he almost reached his foeman 
 Suddenly the Pawnee halted, 
 Whirled and threw his deadly war club 
 Fairlv striking Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 Whol'ell reeling from his pony. 
 Onward came his faithful warriors. 
 Leaving one, a Wah-kun-dah-gee, 
 There to guard young Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 And to minister unto him 
 Should he find the hated Pawnee 
 Had not killed him with his war club; 
 On the flying demons hastened 
 Yelling now like very mad -men. 
 Soon they overtook the Pawnee, 
 And with savage fury slew him, 
 Then they quickly seized and scalped turn, 
 Bearing proudly back the trophy, 
 Proudest trophy that a Kon-za 
 Ever bore from field of battle. 
 57 
 
Hastily they urged their ponies 
 Back to where their fallen chieftain 
 Still unconscious lay but breathing. 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee crawled around him 
 On his hands and knees before them, 
 With loud groans and incantations 
 Like some roaring, maddened bullock, 
 Chewing native herbs the meanwhile, 
 Spewing them on the abrasion 
 Where had struck the Pawnee's war club. 
 Long they waited for their chieftain 
 Till the nightfall was approaching. 
 Having held a quiet council, 
 They decided Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 Must be taken at all hazards 
 Hastily back to the camp-fire 
 Where he could have more protection 
 And be sheltered from the storm clouds 
 That began to hover over. 
 Lifting him upon his pony, 
 That had now become well rested 
 From the hot fatiguing journey, 
 Slowly moved the sad procession, 
 Back towards whence, in exultation. 
 They had ridden on that morning; 
 Soon they passed where lay the woman. 
 One more curious than the others 
 Rode up close and heard her groaning; 
 Then dismounting, he spoke to her, 
 In her native tongue, the Kon-za's; 
 Feebly she her face uplifted, 
 When the warrior in amazement 
 Saw the face of fair Me-nung-gah. 
 Daughter of their former chieftain 
 Daughter of the chief, Wah-tun-gah. 
 Calling loudly to the warriors, 
 Quickly told them that Me-nung-gah 
 Was the victim of the Pawnee. 
 As, surprised, they came around her, 
 Me-nung-gah then told the story 
 
 58 
 
Of the battle with the Pawnee; 
 Of the killing of her father, 
 By the treacherous, hated Pawnees; 
 Of her going to his rescue; 
 Of her capture by the Pawnee; 
 How her eyes had been blind-folded 
 Lest she know in what direction 
 She was being taken captive. 
 How she heard some one pursuing 
 But supposed it was the Pawnees 
 Fleeing from the field of battle, 
 Where she saw them kill her father; 
 How she felt a dagger strike her; 
 How the fall and dagger dazed her; 
 Then they told her Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 Was the leader of the party 
 That pursued and killed the Pawnee 
 Who was bearing her a captive. 
 Then they told her how the Pawnee 
 Struck her lover, Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 Felled him to the ground unconscious; 
 That the body on the pony 
 Was the body of her lover. 
 Hearing this, the fair Me-nung-gah, 
 Swooned upon the grass before them. 
 Quickly then they held a council, 
 And decided they must take her 
 With them back to their own wigwams. 
 Hastily they made a basket 
 From the willows on the border 
 Of the stream which they were near to, 
 That flowed down into the Kon-za 
 From the fair land of Ne-blas-ka. 
 Then behind the well trained pony 
 Of their chieftain, W 7 ah-ho-bec-ca, 
 On two poles that dragged suspended 
 From the saddle of the pony, 
 Me-nung-gah was gently lifted 
 To the basket there suspended, 
 And the sad but glad procession 
 
 59 
 
Moved in darkness to the wigwams 
 
 Where they found the camp fires burning 
 
 And the anxious people waiting 
 
 Tidings of the absent warriors. 
 
 Mingled shouts of exultation 
 
 And the cries and lamentations 
 
 Of the savages assembled, 
 
 Made a night more weirdly hideous 
 
 Than has white man often witnessed. 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca and the maiden 
 
 Still were motionless, unconscious, 
 
 But that both might yet recover 
 
 Was the thought of all who saw them. 
 
 All night long the hideous yelling 
 
 Of the wild untutored savage, 
 
 Gloating round the scalp-lock taken 
 
 From their enemy, the Pawnee, 
 
 Women's wails and lamentation 
 
 For their young chief Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 
 Made a scene to be forgotten 
 
 Never while an Indian warrior 
 
 Lives to hear the ancient legends 
 
 Of the once great tribe of Kon-zas. 
 
 By the watchful care and nursing 
 
 Of the old squaws who had known her, 
 
 Me-nung-gah had soon recovered, 
 
 For the knife had missed her vitals, 
 
 And though badly stunned from falling 
 
 She was not severely injured. 
 
 But for days young Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 
 Lay unconscious, moaning, groaning; 
 
 Often in his wild delirium 
 
 Yelling at the fleeing Pawnee. 
 
 Then again, in calmer moments, 
 
 He would plead for fair Me-nung-gah 
 
 As if talking to her father. 
 
 All of this the watchers noted 
 
 And reported to Me-nung-gah 
 
 Who could not conceal the pleasure 
 
 It afforded, that her lover 
 
 60 
 
Wah-ho-bec-ca still was loyal. 
 Then she plead that she might see him ; 
 Might sit by and wait upon him, 
 And perchance her voice in pleading, 
 Might assist the Wah-kun-dah-gee 
 To restore him to his reason 
 And restore to them their chieftain. 
 Soon they led her to his wigwam, 
 And as she sat down beside him, 
 Others there withdrew and left them; 
 As they did so, Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 Spoke and called for his Me-nung-gah. 
 Quickly then the happy princess 
 Made response unto his pleading, 
 Told him she was there beside him, 
 Bade him wake and look upon her. 
 Then, half-dazed, his eyes he opened, 
 Saw what seemed to him a vision 
 Of the face of fair Me-nung-gah, 
 And his pain and anguish vanished. 
 Smiles appeared as she had seen them 
 On the face of Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 In their old-time trysting places 
 On the shady banks of Secah. 
 Slowly then, returning reason 
 Told him he was not mistaken, 
 But in fact his faithful watcher 
 Was no other than Me-nung-gah, 
 She, for whom he braved the danger 
 And pursued the fleeing Pawnee. 
 Then he asked her for the story, 
 How she came to be so near him? 
 What indeed to him had happened? 
 Where he was and all about it? 
 But she told him to be patient 
 And that later she would answer 
 All the questions he had asked her. 
 Steadily his strength and vigor 
 Now returned to Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 Through Me-nung-gah 's faithful nursing, 
 
 61 
 
And throughout the Indian village 
 Spread the fame of fair Me-nung-gah. 
 Was she not a Wah-kun-dah-gee? 
 Had she not restored their chieftain, 
 Whom they feared from long prostration 
 Might still prove to be the victim 
 Of the daring hated Pawnee. 
 
 When he fully had recovered 
 
 From his serious prostration, 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca met Me-nung-gah 
 
 By appointment in the shadow 
 
 Of a great oak by the river. 
 
 There he learned from her the story 
 
 Of the hardships of the Kon-zas; 
 
 Of their trip in search of bison 
 
 And the camp upon the river, 
 
 At the junction of the rivers 
 
 That unite to form the Kon-zas, 
 
 Near where now stands Junction City. 
 
 Told him that for want of ponies 
 
 They could scarcely kill cha-don-gah, 
 
 And had often suffered hunger. 
 
 Then she told him how her father 
 
 Met the Pawnees in a battle, 
 
 How he felled them from their ponies 
 
 With his old time youthful vigor, 
 
 How at last he scalped a Pawnee, 
 
 Then with daring desperation 
 
 Jumped upon the Pawnee's pony, 
 
 Riding out direct among them; 
 
 How, when seeing he was chieftain, 
 
 They surrounded then and slew him ; 
 
 How she hastened from the wigwam, 
 
 Knowing not what she was doing; 
 
 How a Pawnee seized and bound her; 
 
 How they rode for miles together 
 
 Till he struck her with a dagger; 
 
 How his party came and found her; 
 
 How she swooned when they had told her 
 
 m 
 
That her lover was the leader 
 Of the band that had pursued them ; 
 That the body on the pony 
 Was the body of her lover. 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca sat enraptured 
 As he heard the thrilling story 
 That Me-nung-gah had been telling; 
 Then he drew her closely to him, 
 Told her of the sacred promise 
 Of her uncle Shun-ga-sob-ba ; 
 How he had been disappointed, 
 And at last in desperation 
 Had determined he would find her, 
 After he had met the Pawnees 
 On the deadly field of battle 
 As her father had demanded. 
 Told her his surprise and wonder 
 That the woman they had rescued 
 Was his own beloved Me-nung-gah. 
 Then he told her his intentions; 
 Of his quarrel with Shun-ga-sob-ba; 
 Of his taking half the members 
 Of the new tribe of Wah-shah-sha, 
 And was moving to the northward 
 There to form the tribe of Pon-ca. 
 Then he asked if she would join him, 
 Be the wife of Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 Chief of the great tribe of Pon-ca; 
 Said that when they were established 
 He would send and get her mother, 
 Bring her also to Ne-blas-ka 
 Where they should be reunited. 
 Hearing this she then responded. 
 "You must first send to my mother, 
 Telling her about my rescue, 
 Lest she grieve and perish also, 
 And be laid beside my father. " 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca quickly told her 
 He would do as she requested, 
 
 63 
 
E'er the sunrise on the morrow. 
 Then, returning to their wigwams, 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca told his parents 
 Of his wooing of Me-nung-gah, 
 Of her promise to go with him. 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca sent a message 
 To the mother of Me-nung-gah, 
 Telling of her daughter's safety. 
 "Go and tell her," said the chieftain 
 To the messenger entrusted, 
 "That my tribe, the tribe of Pon-ca, 
 Will be friendly to the Kon-zas. 
 We will rescue from the Pawnees 
 All the ponies they have stolen. 
 We will early come with presents 
 That will bind the tribes together. 
 Tell her she shall join the Pon-cas 
 In our new home of Ne-blas-ka, 
 If she cares to leave the Kon-zas ; 
 That Me-nung-gah will go with me 
 As the wife of Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 Chief of all the tribe of Pon-ca, 
 Take to her this bit of scalp-lock 
 From the fiend who stole her daughter. 
 Go, and may the great Wah-kun-dah 
 Speed you safely on your journey. " 
 Thus instructed, Shung-ga-nunga, 
 Swiftest of the nation's runners, 
 Sped across the hills and valleys 
 To the junction of the rivers 
 Where was camped the tribe of Kon-zas. 
 Knowing well the Indian custom 
 That at early dawn of morning, 
 Clad in sack cloth and in ashes 
 Women would be weeping, wailing 
 At the grave of their departed, 
 Shung-ga-nunga, safely hidden 
 In the brush along the river, 
 Waited for the weeping widow, 
 For the widow of Wah-tun-gah, 
 
TYPICAL INDIAN WITH HIS WIVES 
 
For the mother of Me-nung-gah. 
 Long he waited in the darkness, 
 Tired, foot sore, worn and weary, 
 Dropping off in fitful slumber 
 Till at last he was awakened 
 By the voices of the women, 
 Wailing as they left their wigwams, 
 Weeping for their dear departed. 
 Then he knew the hated Pawnees 
 Must have killed a goodly number 
 Of his former tribe the Kon-zas. 
 Eagerly he scanned the faces 
 Of the wailing, crying women, 
 As they passed toward the hill-top 
 Where their fallen ones were buried 
 In the rocks upon the hill-tops. 
 Soon he saw Me-nung-gah 's mother, 
 Then he spoke and beckoned to her. 
 When she recognized the features 
 Of the messenger before her, 
 She was glad to hear the story 
 Of the rescue of her daughter 
 And her prospects for the future. 
 But, said she to Shung-ga-nunga, 
 "I can never leave the Kon-zas, 
 That were loyal to Wah-tun-gah 
 Who lies buried on the hill-top, 
 And for whom you see me mourning. 
 Now the chief is Ish-toh-la-zha, 
 "Spotted eyes," Me-nung-gah's brother. 
 He is young and I must help him 
 Bear the burden of the Kon-zas; 
 Tell my daughter to be faithful 
 To the young chief Wah-ho-bec-ca ; 
 Warn him of the pale-faced stranger 
 With his deadly fire-water; 
 Tell him never more to drink it; 
 It will ruin as it ruined 
 All the once great tribe of Kon-zas ; 
 Tell him we will keep our country 
 
 65 
 
On the borders of the river 
 That flows down to the Mo-sho-jah, 
 Go, and may the great Wah-kun-dah 
 Speed you on your homeward journey." 
 Then the mother of Me-nung-gah 
 Went and told to all her people 
 What the messenger had told her 
 Of the safety of her daughter, 
 Of the new tribe of the Pon-cas 
 Who would be their faithful allies, 
 And would help them fight the Pawnees 
 And restore their stolen ponies. 
 Then, forgetting for the moment 
 All their troubles and their sorrows, 
 All the Kon-zas met and feasted; 
 Held a war dance round the scalp-lock 
 Of the Pawnee who had stolen 
 And had borne away Me-nung-gah. 
 Stealthily, young Shung-ga-nunga 
 Stole his way back through the timber 
 Till he reached the open prairie; 
 Then he hastened, running swiftly 
 Over hills and through the valleys, 
 Straight as could have flown a raven 
 To the village of the Pon-cas, 
 Where he gave to Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 First, the message of the mother 
 Of his future wife, Me-nung-gah. 
 
 CANTO IX 
 
 THE WEDDING 
 
 When his parents heard the glad news, 
 They rejoiced with Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 And sent presents to Me-nung-gah. 
 Beads and ribbons they had purchased 
 In their dealings with the strangers 
 E'er they left the great Mo-sho-jah. 
 
 66 
 
Then, as was the ancient custom, 
 
 They arranged that Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 
 Should be wedded to Me-nung-gah. 
 
 On the day that was appointed, 
 
 All the Indians were assembled 
 
 There to witness such a wedding 
 
 As they seldom ever witnessed. 
 
 This the wedding ceremony : 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca dressed in splendor, 
 
 As befit a royal chieftain, 
 
 Rode before a splendid pageant, 
 
 Many horses heavy laden 
 
 With such gifts as they were able 
 
 To bestow upon the people 
 
 With whom dwelt the fair Me-nung-gah. 
 
 Not a single word was uttered 
 
 As they passed in solemn concourse 
 
 Through the village of the Pon-cas, 
 
 To the Wigwam of Me-nung-gah. 
 
 There they found the maiden seated 
 
 Underneath a shady oak tree, 
 
 Seated on a robe of bison. 
 
 Not a look of recognition 
 
 Did she give to Wah-ho-bec-ca 
 
 As he came and sat beside her. 
 
 Then the chief began disrobing, 
 
 Spread his blanket down before him; 
 
 Then his shirt he placed upon it 
 
 Then his moccasins and leggings. 
 
 These were taken by the woman 
 
 With whom Me-nung-gah was staying. 
 
 Meanwhile, Wah-ho-bec-ca's mother 
 
 Took the presents they had brought her, 
 
 Placing them around Me-nung-gah, 
 
 Also brought she other raiment 
 
 Which she gave to Wah-ho-bec-ca. 
 
 With this ceremony over, 
 
 Leaving also many ponies 
 
 As the price of fair Me-nung-gah. 
 
 She, still robed in height of fashion 
 
 67 
 
As became an Indian Princess. 
 
 Mounted on a splendid pony, 
 
 Led by proud young Wah-ho-bec-ca, 
 
 Rode she thus unto the Wigwam 
 
 Where resided Wah-ho-bec-ca. 
 
 Here again the pair were seated 
 
 On a splendid robe of bison. 
 
 Women then stripped off her clothing, 
 
 Giving to her new apparel. 
 
 And her lovely wedding garments 
 
 Were bestowed upon the mother 
 
 Of the bride-groom Wah-ho-bec-ca. 
 
 This bestowal of rich presents 
 
 Was an emblem of the friendship 
 
 Now established by two families 
 
 Through the bonds of sacred wedlock. 
 
 During all the ceremony 
 
 Not a word or pledge was spoken 
 
 By the bride or by the bride-groom, 
 
 Yet to them it was more binding 
 
 Than today are many weddings 
 
 Where by magistrate or preacher 
 
 Solemn pledges are exacted. 
 
 CANTO X 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 Wah-ho-bec-ca, thus established 
 As the husband of Me-nung-gah, 
 As the chief of all the Pon-cas, 
 Organized sub-chiefs and warriors 
 Ready to build up a nation 
 In the land of the Ne-blas-ka, 
 On the banks of great Flat-water. 
 Scouts and captains were selected 
 Who would guide the tribe in safety 
 From the country of the Konzas 
 To their new home of Ne-blas-ka, 
 
Where they soon became established 
 
 And remained for generations. 
 
 Soon the Kon-zas sold their country, 
 
 Sold two million splendid acres 
 
 On the borders of the Kon-zas. 
 
 West, through land where splendid cities 
 
 Have by white men since been builded, 
 
 This, the finest land in Kansas, 
 
 Sold for but ten cents per acre 
 
 By a treaty, made with agents 
 
 Sent from Washington to purchase 
 
 All the land owned by the Kon-zas. 
 
 Then the tribe moved from the Kon-za 
 
 To the valley of Ne-o-sho. 
 
 Where they dwindled from diseases 
 
 Down to bare six hundred members 
 
 Of the once great tribe of Kon-zas. 
 
 Then again they moved on southward 
 
 To the land of the Wah-shah-sha's 
 
 Where still live two hundred people, 
 
 All there left now of the Kon-zas 
 
 Who once owned the state of Kansas. 
 
 Other sections of this nation 
 
 Dwell on lands in Oklahoma; 
 
 All on friendly terms together, 
 
 Poncas, Quawpaws, and Wah-shah-shas, 
 
 Otoes and perhaps some others, 
 
 Who once formed the tribe of Kon-zas 
 
 E'er the white men came among them 
 
 With the deadly fire-water 
 
 That caused strife and sore dissensions, 
 
 Misery and degradation. 
 
 One alone of all the Kon-zas, 
 Has arisen to distinction. 
 Curtis, in the halls of Congress, 
 Though removed four generations 
 From his ancestors, the Kon-zas, 
 Ever to them has been loyal; 
 Striving always for their welfare; 
 
 69 
 
Seeking in the halls of justice 
 Retribution for the evils 
 That the pale-face heaped upon them 
 In his dealings with the Indian. 
 
 Could the story of the Indians 
 
 And their dealings with the white man 
 
 Be portrayed in truthful writing; 
 
 How they have been robbed and cheated, 
 
 Driven out to face starvation; 
 
 How their women have been treated, 
 
 Dragged down into degradation, 
 
 How the innocent have suffered 
 
 For the misdeeds of the guilty ; 
 
 How white men, disguised as Indians, 
 
 Have committed depredations 
 
 For the sake of gain and plunder ; 
 
 Then to shield themselves have murdered 
 
 Indian women, men and children, 
 
 How our troops, in name of warfare, 
 
 Have in darkness stole upon them, 
 
 Shot them down, then mutilated, 
 
 As befits alone the savage, 
 
 Sparing none, not even children : 
 
 Would the record be a credit 
 
 To us as a civil people? 
 
 Is there wonder that the Indian, 
 
 Victim of such fiendish carnage, 
 
 Has by instinct learned to doubt us? 
 
 Do you wonder, gentle reader, 
 
 That the Indian seems so sullen? 
 
 That he shrinks from, doubts the white man? 
 
 Place yourself in his position, 
 
 From his own lips hear the story 
 
 As the writer oft has heard it. 
 
 Only then will you be able 
 
 Fully to give him the credit 
 
 That belongs to any nation 
 
 That has suffered cruel torture 
 
 70 
 
By the hand of strong oppression. 
 
 If the story of Me-nung-gah 
 
 And the once great tribe of Kon-zas, 
 
 (Which is no exaggeration.) 
 
 Causes sober, sad reflection, 
 
 Warms the hearts of those who read it ; 
 
 Gives to some a clearer vision 
 
 Of our dealings with the Indian, 
 
 Wrongs our race have perpetrated. 
 
 Then its purpose is accomplished. 
 
 71 
 
GERONIMO. APACHE CHIEF 
 ENEMY OF THE KONZAS AND WHITE MAN 
 
KONZA VOCABULARY 
 
 Cha-don ga, Buffalo (male) 
 
 Cha-min-ga, " (female) 
 
 Cha-shin-ga, " (calf) 
 
 Ish-tah, eye 
 
 Ki-he-ga, chief 
 
 La-zha, spotted 
 
 Mo-sho-ja, smoke (Missouri River) 
 
 Mum-be-je, kimiikinic 
 
 Mo-he, knife 
 
 Mo-he-tun-ga, big knife 
 
 Mo-zho, country 
 
 Me-nung-gah, eldest daughter 
 
 Mus-che-tun-ga, jack rabbit 
 
 Muh-kuh, medicine 
 
 Muh-kuh-sob-ba, coffee 
 
 Ne-kah, man 
 
 Ne-kah-shin-ga, people 
 
 Ne-kah-shu-ja, red man (Indian) 
 
 Ne-skah-tun-ga, big white water (Mississippi 
 
 River) 
 Ne-shu-jah, red water (Arkansas River) 
 Ne, water 
 Ne-sku-ba, salt 
 
 Ne-blas-ka, flat water (Nebraska) 
 Pah-do-tun-ga, mountain 
 Pe-a-je-ne, whiskey (fire-water) 
 Pe-a-je, fire 
 
 Shin-gah-shin-gah, children 
 Shin-gah, little 
 Shu- j ah, red 
 Skah, white 
 Sob-ba, black 
 Shun-ga, horse 
 Shun-ga, dog (Osage language) 
 
 73 
 
Shun-ga-sob-ba, black dog 
 
 Se-cah, turkey 
 
 Shun-ga-nun-ga, running horse 
 
 Shun-ge-dah, dog 
 
 Shaw-nee, sugar 
 
 Tah-gu-hu, walnut 
 
 Tah-tun-gah, deer 
 
 Tah-cho-ge, antelope 
 
 Wah-si-sig-ga, braves 
 
 Wah-ko, woman 
 
 Wah-kun-dah, great spirit (God) 
 
 Wah-kun-dah-gee, doctor 
 
 Wah-tun-gah, the great 
 
 Wah-di-an-ga, undaunted (warriors) 
 
 Wah-ho-tah, the noise (gun) 
 
 Wah-ko-sa, corn 
 
 Wah-hu, bone 
 
 Wah-shah-sha, the name (Osage Tribe) 
 
 Yol-la, good 
 
 Zah-nee, all 
 
 74 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
OPPORTUNITY 
 
 Master of human destinies am I, 
 Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait. 
 Cities and fields I walk. I penetrate 
 Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by 
 Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, 
 I knock unbidden once at every gate. 
 If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise, before 
 I turn away. It is the hour of fate. 
 And they who follow me reach every state 
 Mortals desire, and conquer every foe 
 Save death; but those who hesitate, 
 Condemned to failure, penury and woe, 
 Seek me in vain and uselessly implore, 
 I answer not and I return no more. 
 
 The foregoing lines from the pen of the talented 
 Ingalls, U. S. Senator from Kansas, 1873-91, have 
 been more widely quoted, perhaps, than any of his 
 other writings, and yet they seem to have little 
 merit. This great country is teeming with oppor- 
 tunities and thousands have, in every department 
 of human activity, proven the falsity of the 
 assertion that opportunity knocks but once. I 
 would amend as follows: 
 
 MAN 
 
 Master of Opportunity am I, 
 Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait. 
 Cities, Nations I build. I penetrate 
 Deserts and seas remote and passing by 
 Dwellers in hovel or palace, soon or late, 
 I reach at will, my coveted estate. 
 Courage and energy are mine, yea more; 
 Power I have to seal my fate. 
 Unless I choose to dally, doubt or hesitate, 
 I subdue and conquer every foe 
 Save death; my worth I can create, 
 Fearing not failure, penury or woe; 
 All vainly seek and uselessly implore 
 To drag me from ideals I adore. 
 77 
 
Fearing not failure, penury or woe; 
 All vainly seek and uselessly implore 
 To drag me from ideals I adore. 
 
 THE AMERICAN DESERT 
 
 When the Lord of the heavens was finishing earth 
 With its marvelous beauty and wonderful worth, 
 And when he had coated with emerald green 
 The plain and the valley and mountainous scene 
 He found in his store-house a mountain of stuff, 
 Of shale dirt and other things still in the rough. 
 
 Pray what shall I do, thought the Ruler so kind, 
 And where can I pile up this rubbish I find ? 
 The mountains I've made full of silver and gold 
 And other material of value untold; 
 It never will do to cover them deep 
 From the eyes of mankind forever to sleep. 
 The valleys and plains with their grasses and trees, 
 I cannot afford to cover up these. 
 
 So He sent out his angels all over the land, 
 To spy out a place where nothing but sand 
 And cacti and rocks were open to view, 
 Where rain never falls the earth to renew. 
 
 Soon in came an angel of beauty and grace, 
 Saying, " Lord I have found Thee a very fine place 
 Where the refuse of earth may be stored in a heap, 
 Where naught but the reptiles of poison may sleep. 
 Grim solitude stalks in the place I have found 
 And rain never falls to moisten the ground. 
 The heat of the sun scorches every thing green. 
 Indeed 'tis a desert, the place I have seen." 
 "Well done, faithful servant," the Lord then 
 
 replied. 
 "To finish the world, I am now satisfied." 
 Then He turned to His workmen and said with a 
 
 smile 
 
 78 
 
"Throw the rubbish that's left in a long rugged pile 
 At the base of the Rockies, along the west side, 
 Where the reptiles of Satan within it may hide." 
 
 Twas done: and would thus in its solitude ever 
 
 remain 
 Had not the white man crossed over the plain. 
 He made streams of water run over the hills 
 And gladdened the soil with the brooks and the 
 
 rills. 
 
 Where grass never grew, he made it to grow, 
 Where trees never blossomed, he made them to 
 
 blow, 
 Where fruit never ripened the finest is grown, 
 The valleys, each year, with rich harvests are 
 
 strewn. 
 The guides of the railways are fulsome with praise 
 Of the wonderful crops the people can raise 
 Who reside in the valleys once barren of grain, 
 Where the water ditch now takes the place of the 
 
 rain; 
 Where cities are built of the rocks and the sand 
 That were dropped as a waste in this desolate land. 
 The sage brush and cactus have yielded their place 
 In the great onward march of the civilized race. 
 
 A RUINED LIFE 
 
 A beautiful maiden, with never a care, 
 
 With a father and mother so kind, 
 
 Was wooed by a lover, who thought she was fair 
 
 And to wed her he made up his mind. 
 
 He brought her rich gifts, so devoted he seemed 
 That she yielded at last to his plea, 
 And when in his presence and on her he beamed, 
 Became happy as happy could be. 
 
 79 
 
The parents reluctantly gave their consent, 
 
 For their daughter was part of their life, 
 
 And they feared with her lot she would not be 
 
 content 
 In the duties devolving on wife. 
 
 They started in life, in the new atmosphere, 
 With prospects as bright as the sun, 
 The young wife was happy with husband so dear, 
 She was proud of the man she had won. 
 
 She eagerly watched at the close of each day 
 And longed for his loving embrace, 
 She had lonely hours when he was away 
 But basked in the smile of his face. 
 
 All things she could do as a dutiful wife, 
 
 She performed with a pleasure and charm 
 
 That should banish from man all the sorrow and 
 
 strife 
 That might trouble or give him alarm. 
 
 Some years were thus passed, without trouble or 
 
 care, 
 No thought except happiness reigned ; 
 Each one satisfied with the treasure so rare, 
 The companionship pleasantly gained. 
 
 The husband, at last, lured away from his home 
 By those he believed to be friends, 
 Sought pleasure in drink, in the bibulous foam, 
 Where happiness too often ends. 
 
 The rest of the story why should I relate, 
 Why hold up such sorrow to view ! 
 The fond loving wife and her sad ending fate, 
 Such stories are never more new. 
 
 THE MORNING GLORY 
 
 Oh, the glory of the morning, 
 What an awe-inspiring sight ! 
 
 80 
 
When the sun in all his splendor 
 Forms the daybreak from the night. 
 
 When there are no clouds to hinder, 
 Not a thing to intervene, 
 Then is when the perfect morning 
 In its glory may be seen. 
 
 First, a little hazy glimmer, 
 Shining like a streak of rust, 
 Shows along the east horizon 
 Clinging to the world's big crust. 
 
 In the far off west horizon, 
 Clouds like snow-capped mountains seem, 
 While the black woods of the forest 
 Change their hue along the stream. 
 
 All the colors of the rainbow 
 Streak the azure of the sky. 
 Oh, the glory of the morning 
 Is refreshing to the eye. 
 
 Rouse, ye sleepers, from your slumber, 
 Get an early morning view, 
 See the gems that always sparkle 
 In the early morning dew. 
 
 Hear the lowing of the cattle 
 As they saunter to the field; 
 Hear the singing of the wild birds 
 As they sweetest music yield. 
 
 Pen cannot portray the beauty 
 Of the dawning morning light, 
 When the sun in all his splendor 
 Forms the day from darkest night. 
 
 81 
 
BACK TO THE FARM? 
 
 Harken the wild woods are calling me hence, 
 Away from the strife and the struggle intense; 
 Calling me back to the primitive days; 
 Back to the pleasures of forefather's ways; 
 Back to the woods where I once loved to roam; 
 Back to my native, my old country home. 
 
 I am weary of life full of stirring events, 
 Weary of city ways, taxes and rents; 
 Weary of struggle to earn daily bread, 
 Give me the free country air in its stead. 
 Give me the farm with its pastures and grain; 
 With its horses and cattle and hogs for my gain; 
 Give me the garden, the orchard and fruit; 
 Give me the tea from the sassafras root; 
 Give me the pleasures I had in my youth 
 Where I found enjoyment in deed and in truth ; 
 The old swimming-hole in the beautiful brook; 
 The fish that I caught with my own little hook; 
 The fun that I had in the old district school, 
 When I smiled at my girl disregarding the rule. 
 Baseball was unknown but then "three cornered 
 
 cat" 
 Was a game that we played with a ball and a bat. 
 Oh the city boy knows not the pleasures and joys 
 That we old fellows had when we were just boys. 
 
 I am back on the farm, but the pleasures forsooth, 
 Why didn't some kind friend tell me the truth? 
 The old roads are paved with the thickest of mud 
 That bring me to earth with a sickening thud. 
 The farm is worn out 'till it can't sprout a bean; 
 Not a friend of my childhood not one have I seen; 
 The fences are down, the old orchard is dead, 
 And a sassafras thicket has grown up instead. 
 'Tis plain I can't live on the sassafras tea, 
 So it's back from the farm to the city for me. 
 
 82 
 
I WISH I KNEW 
 
 I wish I knew what makes the world 
 
 Speed on in endless flight. 
 I wish I knew what makes the sun 
 
 Change darkness into light. 
 
 I wish I knew how far in space 
 
 This world might fly without a turn. 
 
 I wish I knew what makes the suns 
 Of all this universe to burn. 
 
 I wish I knew whence came the power 
 That set in motion all the worlds. 
 
 I wish I knew whence this earth came 
 
 And why through space it ceas?less whirls. 
 
 But why wish I such knowledge great. 
 
 When little things I do not know? 
 Why, I know not whence come the trees, 
 
 Nor why the grass and flowers grow ! 
 
 I know not why the leaves are green 
 While flowers are white or red or blue. 
 
 These little things I cannot know 
 But still I think, and wish I knew. 
 
 COL. R. T. VAN HORN* 
 
 (Read at a Reception to the Colonel by his friends, 
 1911,Westport,Mo). 
 
 Too often in this busy world 
 Where greed of gain has Come to rule, 
 
 Where Mammon's banner is unfurled, 
 And money makes the man a fool, 
 
 We fail to recognize true worth 
 And pay the homage that is due, 
 
 83 
 
To men whu are the salt of earth, 
 To men of honest hearts and true; 
 
 Too oft are we, in latter days, 
 
 Prone to bow down at golden shrine, 
 
 And give to men unstinted praise, 
 Whose greatest merit is their "mine." 
 
 But 'mid the struggle and the strife 
 That leads to power of wealth alone, 
 
 We honor here a man whose life 
 
 With upright acts and deeds has shone. 
 
 Nor do we wait till he is gone 
 
 To realms beyond the starry skies, 
 
 To speak the words that men are prone 
 Too oft to speak through weeping eyes. 
 
 The guest we honor, ripe in years, 
 Still lives to hear the praise we sing, 
 
 Nor have we slightest doubts or fears, 
 That long his praises still shall ring. 
 
 The men who honor him the most, 
 The men who love Van Horn the best, 
 
 Respond today to this our toast, — 
 "Van Horn, the leader of the West." 
 
 As editor and statesman great,* 
 
 He stood for everything that's good; 
 
 A pioneer of this great state, 
 Our future needs he understood. 
 
 He was not swerved from path of right 
 By lure of promised worldly gain, 
 
 But wrote and fought with all his might, 
 For principles he would maintain. 
 
 *Col. Van Horn was for many years editor of the Kansas 
 City Journal and one of the founders and builders of the city. 
 
 84 
 
He was among the first to see, 
 When this was but a little town, 
 
 A city here whose destiny 
 
 Would give the West her great renown. 
 
 Long may he live, and see each morn 
 The ripening fruit where his own hand 
 
 Has planted trees that since have borne 
 In this our own fair western land ! 
 
 THE PASSERS-BY 
 
 It's an interesting study, just to stand upon the 
 street 
 
 And to watch the coming, going, of the people 
 as they meet; 
 
 There's a study in the faces, of the passing multi- 
 tude 
 
 That is very fascinating, though but little under- 
 stood. 
 
 There's the upright man of business, with a firm 
 
 and steady tread, 
 Followed by the unsuccessful, who has never 
 
 earned his bread; 
 Then a proud and haughty fellow, who would 
 
 fellow mortals spurn 
 If he didn't want to borrow, rather than to work 
 
 and earn. 
 
 There is Mr. Parsimonious, who would rob his 
 
 mother's grave, 
 With his head bowed down and thinking how he 
 
 may a nickel save. 
 Then comes Mr. Jolly Spendthrift with a lot of 
 
 father's cash 
 That he spreads around quite lavishly for beer 
 
 and sour mash. 
 
 85 
 
Next, a tiny little newsboy who may one day be 
 
 a Sage, 
 And is earning lots of money for a fellow of his age ; 
 Then you see an aged woman with a look of sad 
 
 despair, 
 Struggling hard to earn a living in a world that 
 
 seems unfair ; 
 
 Then a rich and gaudy "lady" who walks care- 
 fully around, 
 
 Lest she brush against the woman with the poverty 
 profound. 
 
 She is followed by another with a sweet and smil- 
 ing face 
 
 Who hands the poor some money then resumes her 
 rapid pace. 
 
 So all day a mighty concourse "many men of 
 
 many minds," 
 If you count how many people you will know how 
 
 many kinds, 
 For although they may resemble, yet no two are 
 
 just alike, 
 And a student of the faces can the differences 
 
 strike. 
 
 A LITTLE HEROINE 
 
 Many stories of heroes are written and told, 
 
 Of valorous deeds on the field 
 Where men have braved danger by courage so 
 bold, 
 
 That, to the whole world, they appealed. 
 
 But looking more closely we often may find 
 A purpose that's hidden from view, 
 
 Of the man or the woman in helping mankind 
 In a fire or a perishing crew. 
 
 86 
 
But the dear little sister who fought for the child 
 
 Her mother had placed in her care, 
 Had a heart that was true, which no motive 
 defiled, 
 
 And a presence of mind that was rare. 
 
 When Katie discovered her dress was on fire, 
 She rushed to the dear baby's side, 
 
 With only one thought and a single desire- 
 Save baby, she would, though she died. 
 
 The flames were extinguished and Mollie was 
 saved 
 By the sweet little heroine bold, 
 Who fought, without thinking the danger she 
 braved, 
 Being only herself, five years old. 
 
 Then hastening to mamma, to tell their distress, 
 
 Poor Katie discovered too late, 
 The fire had ignited her own little dress 
 
 And she was soon fighting 'gainst fate. 
 
 At the hospital, treated with tenderest care, 
 
 "I saved little baby," she cried, 
 Then closing her eyes, little Katie so fair, 
 
 As a genuine heroine died. 
 
 THE STOVE PROBLEM 
 
 There are troubles that come all through a man's 
 
 life, 
 Some less and some greater, 'twixt husband and 
 
 wu?e ' 
 But one I shall mention (now don't think it small) 
 
 It is getting the stove to its place in the fall. 
 
 The very first trouble is getting it black, 
 87 
 
Then in lifting it 'round you will sprain your old 
 
 back; 
 The grate you will find is as rotten as eggs, 
 And to make the pipe fit you must prop up the legs. 
 
 Then in propping it up you will let a block slip, 
 And down comes the pipe, lighting square on 
 
 your lip, 
 Now when the black soot scatters over the floor, 
 Your wife, though an angel, will make a loud roar. 
 
 But in placing the pipe your worst trouble begins, 
 When you fall from a chair and 'bark' both of 
 
 your shins, 
 You give a wild kick at the tottering chair, 
 And though you're a saint, you'll at least think a 
 
 swear. 
 
 One joint is too big and the other's too small, 
 And you can't make the pipe fit the hole in 
 
 the wall; 
 So take our advice, save an annual row 
 By getting a man in the trade who knows how. 
 
 THE GALVESTON STORM 
 
 (Written in 1898 a day or two after the great Tidal- 
 Wave swept over the city, destroying over five 
 thousand lives.) 
 
 On the sun-kissed coast of the southern sea 
 Where the children bathed in merry glee 
 As they watched the heaving waves roll in; 
 They heard in the distance a roaring din. 
 
 Higher and higher the white-caps rolled, 
 Yet, fearing no danger, the bathers strolled 
 On the sparkling beach where they oft had 
 played, 
 
 88 
 
Where storms had seldom their hearts dis- 
 mayed. 
 
 Still higher and higher the billows came 
 
 As a roaring lion pursues his game, 
 
 Till one by one the victims fell 
 
 And were swallowed up by that watery hell. 
 
 Onward it rushed, the maddening flood, 
 As a beast impelled by the taste of blood ; 
 And, not content with lives a score, 
 It swallowed up a thousand more! 
 
 Now thoroughly frightened, the people 
 
 screamed, 
 And through the streets they wildly streamed : 
 "Oh God, will this fury never abate 
 In its onward march of fiendish hate?" 
 
 One thousand, two thousand, three, four, five! 
 Will any in mercy be spared to live? 
 Strong men, mothers and babes are torn, 
 Yes all alike, from their loved ones shorn. 
 
 Four thousand dwellings from moorings rent 
 E'er the terrible storm its fury spent; 
 Five thousand lives in a single day 
 Were swallowed up in Galveston Bay. 
 
 WASHINGTON 
 
 Was first in war because he fought 
 
 For principles of right; 
 Was first in peace because he knew, 
 
 That mankind should not fight. 
 
 Was first in all the loyal hearts 
 
 That loved their country well, 
 And knew how hard their leader fought 
 
 That they in peace might dwell. 
 
He stands like some great beacon light 
 As onward speeds the race; 
 
 We pause each year for retrospect, 
 To gaze upon his face. 
 
 Not space nor age can dim the rays 
 That light his life sublime, 
 
 But brighter grow his living acts 
 Throughout the years of time. 
 
 Let those who would the leaders be, 
 
 In Nation or in state, 
 Read, ponder and reflect on deeds 
 
 That made this leader great. 
 
 No act of his can be construed 
 
 To selfishness and greed; 
 His aim to benefit mankind, 
 
 Is what gave him the lead. 
 
 No children liv( d to bear his name, 
 
 But all are proud to own 
 That this grand country we possess 
 
 Was sired by Washington. 
 
 KANSAS AT FIFTY 
 
 Really are you only fifty? 
 Is this true yout rightful jage? 
 For so young you're mighty thrifty 
 With the wisdom of a sage. 
 
 From a country wild and lonely 
 With its prairies bleak and bare. 
 Habited by Indians only, 
 You have grown and now are fair. 
 
 Early settlers^ caught the spirit, 
 Indigenous to Kansas soil, 
 
 90 
 
Cowards learned to dread and fear it, 
 Shrinking from the conquerors' toil. 
 
 But that spirit never faltered 
 Th)rdugh the dark and stormy days, 
 With high purpose, never altered, 
 Through the rifts it saw bright rays. 
 
 Though it sometimes met disaster, 
 It has never known defeat; 
 Took new courage, grew the faster, 
 Never knew how to retreat. 
 
 Rich in horses, swine and cattle, 
 Rich in wheat and oats and corn; 
 In the foremost of life's battle, 
 Growing richer night and morn. 
 
 Kansas in her banks has millions 
 That her great resources earn, 
 And she yet will reach the billions, 
 For this goal her people yearn. 
 
 Only one thing yet is needed, 
 (Relic of dark ages past) 
 Woman's voice is not yet heeded, 
 But her rights will come at last. 
 
 Men in ignorance have voted 
 To maintain unequal rights; 
 But this age for progress noted, 
 Quick should end these ancient slights. 
 
 Legislators do your duty 
 To relieve this mighty wrong, 
 Then will Kansas shine in beauty, 
 Hitherto unknown in song. 
 
 January, 1911. 
 
 91 
 
THE GRAY AND THE BLUE 
 
 (Written for a reunion of the Gray and the Blue) 
 
 We meet in common fellowship, 
 The Blue meets with the Gray 
 To talk of days long past and gone 
 On this — our banquet day. 
 
 No discord mars the happiness, 
 
 Old Time hath had full sway, 
 
 Our ranks that once were well filled up, 
 
 Grow thinner day by day. 
 
 In war we had one common thought, 
 It was to save our home, 
 Thank God, the end for which we fought 
 To both alike has come. 
 
 Two flags we had, we now have one, 
 But it has all the stars, 
 And strange to say, with order changed, 
 It also has the bars. 
 
 Some one has said that "war is hell, " 
 To this all must agree, 
 To read of battles may sound well, 
 'Twas hell to you and me. 
 
 The Blue won laurels on the field, 
 But all things earthly stop, 
 By looking at their heads today 
 You'll see the Gray's on top. 
 
 JOHN BROWN 
 
 (Read at the unveiling of a marble statue by Negroes 
 at Western University, Kansas City, Kan., 1911) 
 
 We meet on freedom's ground today 
 To celebrate the deeds 
 
 92 
 
Of one who gave his life to show 
 Devotion to our needs. 
 
 No monument was needed here 
 In honor of his name; 
 In story and in song are told 
 His glory and his fame. 
 
 The story of John Brown is known 
 Wherever freedom reigns, 
 His deeds of valor fire the blood 
 In every freeman's veins. 
 
 The cruel hand of fate decreed 
 That Brown should lose his life, 
 But his example set the pace 
 For freeman's greater strife. 
 
 The soul of Brown goes marching on, 
 His body in the grave, 
 Recalls the sacrifice he made 
 To free his friend, the slave. 
 
 When future generations see 
 The marble statue here, 
 They will not fail the memory 
 Of John Brown to revere. 
 
 TRIBUTE TO WOMAN 
 
 Oh beautiful woman, with heart that is pure. 
 What has God ever formed that is nobler and 
 
 truer? 
 E'en the look of her eye and the smile of her face. 
 Speak in eloquent praise of her beauty and grace. 
 
 With devotion and love she is passing thru life, 
 
 A beautiful girl or a dutiful wife; 
 
 A doting companion who clings until death, 
 
 93 
 
And beams still her love with the last passing 
 breath. 
 
 A sister, a daughter, whatever her sphere, 
 She is ours to love and our own to revere. 
 The higher man honors her true womanhood, 
 The higher he soars toward all human good. 
 
 Her great heart of love that embraces the earth, 
 Forgetting not even the lowly of birth, 
 Reaches out to uplift and respond to the call, 
 For humanity's sake, both the great and the small. 
 
 Pray who would deny to these angels of light, 
 A voice and a vote in a citizens' fight, 
 Where men without morals now freely partake, 
 Where the welfare of children and home is at stake. 
 
 The fathomless depth of a woman's true love 
 Is recorded alone by the angels above; 
 Then restrict not her sphere in the land of the free, 
 Lest we fail to attain the great goal, Liberty. 
 
 A SONG OF PEACE 
 
 "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 
 
 the Lord" 
 When Peace shall rule triumphant over bullet and 
 
 the sword, 
 When men by arbitration shall confirm a Nation's 
 
 word, 
 
 As Peace goes marching on. 
 
 Glory, Glory, etc. 
 
 In the halls of arbitration I can hear the willing 
 
 sound 
 That shall echo thru the nations as it spreads the 
 
 world around, 
 
 94 
 
"No war is necessary and our Peace is held pro- 
 found" 
 
 As we go marching on. 
 Cho. 
 
 I can hear the emissaries, that shall settle all dis- 
 putes. 
 
 Talking freely with each other, without emulating 
 brutes, 
 
 I can see their kindly actions bearing earth her 
 choicest fruits 
 
 As Peace goes marching on. 
 
 Cho. 
 
 I can hear the ringing anvil beating spears to 
 
 pruning hooks, 
 I can see the swords in plow shares by the side of 
 
 babbling brooks 
 I can read of warfare's glory only in the ancient 
 
 books, 
 
 As Peace goes marching on. 
 Cho. 
 
 I can see the smile in heaven, on our God the 
 
 Prince of Peace, 
 Who has told us in His Record that on earth all 
 
 war shall cease, 
 Whose power and whose kingdom shall forever 
 
 more increase 
 
 As we go marching on. 
 Cho. 
 
 "In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across 
 
 the sea 
 With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you 
 
 and me" 
 Peace and good will was the motto by which all 
 
 should be made free 
 
 Our God is marching on. 
 Cho. 
 
 95 
 
JUSTICE AND REASON 
 
 (Suggested by a Supreme Court Decision, 1911.) 
 
 In the bountiful realms of this beautiful world, 
 There is air for us all to breathe, 
 And the water that falls from the heavens above, 
 Quenches thirst for the people beneath. 
 
 There is labor for all in this beautiful world; 
 There is pay for the people who toil; 
 Why should any go hungry that others may gorge 
 From the bountiful crops of the soil. 
 
 The robber, who stealthily steals in the night 
 Would be quickly deprived of his gain, 
 By the schemer who robs us in open daylight, 
 Under guise of the law, it is plain. 
 
 When the people shall learn that all robbers alike 
 Whether "chartered" or not must be caught, 
 Then the bountiful crops of this beautiful world 
 Will not be found growing for nought. 
 
 When the toiler shall get every thing that he earns 
 
 And protection be made to protect, 
 
 Not the few but the many, for whom laws are 
 
 made, 
 Then the law will command more respect. 
 
 When "justice" and "reason" shall go hand in 
 
 hand, 
 And judges shall treat them alike, 
 Restraining oppression wherever it's found 
 There will then be no cause for a "strike." 
 
 THE MORNING FLY 
 
 Of all the pests that roam the earth, 
 The mountain, sea or sky, 
 
 96 
 
The meanest one that ever breathed 
 Is the early morning fly. 
 
 He moves around at early dawn 
 When you are in repose, 
 And scorning every other place 
 He lights upon your nose. 
 
 You 'waken with a sudden start, 
 And aim the pest to swat, 
 When to the ceiling straight he flies 
 To view some other spot. 
 
 Again in slumber you relapse 
 To finish up your dreams, 
 That fly comes buzzing back to you 
 On mischief bent, it seems. 
 
 He lights upon your nose or ear 
 And tickles with his feet, 
 Determined he will drive away 
 Your morning nap, so sweet. 
 
 The early bird may get the worm 
 Not so the early fly, 
 He gets the dearest thing on earth, 
 The slumber from your eye. 
 
 Give me all bugs of every kind, 
 All pests beneath the sky, 
 But save me from that horrid thing, 
 The early morning fly. 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 We meet on this Memorial day, 
 To scatter flowers on the grave 
 
 Where comrades sleep beneath the sod 
 W r ho fought the union cause to save. 
 
 97 
 
Like-wise the friends of those we fought, 
 Are gathered on the sacred field, 
 
 Where sleep the loved ones they have lost, 
 Who in that struggle had to yield. 
 
 One common country now is ours, 
 No malice harbored in our thought ; 
 
 We love the glorious stars and stripes, 
 The union we have dearly bought. 
 
 The men who fought are falling fast, 
 Each year we see our ranks decrease, 
 
 And as we yearly older grow 
 
 We more revere our land of peace. 
 
 Our every wish and hope and prayer, 
 
 Is that no war will e'er again 
 Bestrew our country's sacred soil 
 
 With blood of fellow mortals slain. 
 
 And, as we gather year by year, 
 To thus commemorate our dead; 
 
 We know not who will be the next 
 
 To sleep where we have flowers spread. 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 Scatter flowers for the soldier, 
 Keep his memory always dear, 
 
 He it was who fought for country, 
 Drop for him the silent tear. 
 
 Scatter flowers, scatter garlands, 
 Keep the memory ever green, 
 
 Of the friends who have departed 
 To the land beyond, unseen. 
 
 Let the thought be not forgotten, 
 We are passing one by one, 
 
 98 
 
And another year may witness 
 That our race on earth is done. 
 
 Like the grasses we must wither, 
 Like the flowers we must fade, 
 
 Time for us is only borrowed, 
 Death for us is but delayed. 
 
 THE STRENUOUS LIFE 
 
 The strenuous life is the one you should lead, 
 If you would get every thing that you need, 
 Go on in the world with vigor and dash 
 And you may be certain of landing the cash. 
 
 Boosting your town and booming your land, 
 In everything going just take a full hand, 
 Drive your own business, making things go, 
 Running a bank or wielding a hoe. 
 
 Never look backward but always ahead, 
 
 With nothing to fear and with nothing to dread; 
 
 Pushing or pulling, but not holding back, 
 
 Keep everything moving, and stay on the track. 
 
 Your bones may all ache, and your body be sore, 
 The sweat may be oozing from every pore, 
 But keep up the gait till you land at the goal, 
 It is better for you both in body and soul. 
 
 These are strenuous times and the strenuous man 
 Will do everything on the strenuous plan, 
 Working or playing, whatever you do, 
 Be earnest and active and you will pull through. 
 
 THE WIND 
 
 The wind bloweth where it listeth; Thou hearest 
 the sound thereof but canst not tell whence it cometh 
 nor whither it goeth. — Bible. 
 
 99 
 
"The wind blows where it listeth," 
 An ancient prophet wrote. 
 He could not tell just where it went 
 For dust his eye then smote. 
 
 It has been so until this day, 
 The wind produces sound, 
 But we can't tell just where it goes 
 For dust that's flying round. 
 
 But curious man will never stop 
 Until he learns the truth, 
 He'll take an aeroplane and go 
 To where it ends, forsooth. 
 
 A KANSAS CYCLONE 
 
 A severe windstorm at Cleveland, Ohio, hilled 
 four people, wounded twenty more, upset boats on the 
 lake and destroyed many buildings, May 31, 1911.- — 
 News Item. 
 
 A "Kansas cyclone" got away 
 When no one watched the other day, 
 And landed out at Put-in Bay, 
 And Cleveland in Ohio. 
 
 It killed a few and wounded more, 
 And made Lake Erie fairly roar 
 As onward in its course it tore, 
 At Cleveland in Ohio. 
 
 It bounded on to good old Penn. 
 And swept the mountain, dale and glen, 
 Before it left the earth again 
 Near Cleveland in Ohio. 
 
 My eastern friends, it will not do, 
 Our cyclones must not visit you, 
 
 100 
 
To wreck your boats and drown your crew, 
 At Cleveland in Ohio. 
 
 You call it "windstorm, " it is true, 
 But houses wrecked, its pathway strew, 
 And high in air the victims flew, 
 At Cleveland in Ohio 
 
 Out here in Kansas we are prone 
 Ohio winds, to call "cyclone," 
 When there is no more damage done, 
 Than Cleveland in Ohio. 
 
 MONEY MATCHES 
 
 The man with the money, gets many a girl 
 With an automobile and a boulevard whirl; 
 Her cheeks with a rapturous ecstacy glow 
 As she sees herself in for a glittering show. 
 
 A trip to the ball room or theatre's made, 
 And she wonders how easy the money is paid ; 
 She lives on excitement, with life's buoyant hope, 
 Meanwhile the young moneybags "tightens the 
 rope." 
 
 He feeds her on bon bons and "taffy" galore, 
 Never gives her a chance to e'en wish for more; 
 At a critical time she will yield to his will, 
 His wooing words winning her heart with a thrill. 
 
 Announcement is made that a wedding's to be, 
 And a furor is raised with the girl in her glee. 
 "What a beautiful match" all the gossips declare, 
 "How lucky is Elsie, her capture is rare." 
 
 The wedding day comes, what a glorious sight, 
 The bride fairly beams in her perfect delight, 
 The presents she gets are a joy to behold, 
 And she revels in treasures of silver and gold. 
 
 101 
 
Having captured his "beauty," the groom is con- 
 tent, 
 And again on the club-life his mind becomes bent ; 
 The bride in her confidence, would not complain 
 And hides from his lordship her heartache and pain, 
 
 She lingers alone till away in the night 
 And wonders perchance if "he's" doing just right, 
 Then "willing ear" comes for a brief little call 
 And to tell of a festival, party or ball. 
 
 The wife then remembers the happy old days, 
 The parties, the balls, and the theatre plays. 
 She sighs to herself for the days that are past, 
 And wonders how long her condition will last. 
 
 The gossip is quick to perceive her distress 
 And drop a remark that will cause her to guess : 
 "Can the vows he has taken so soon be forgot, 
 An affinity? Oh no, I know he has not!" 
 
 But the truth becomes known for a "murder will 
 
 out," 
 And knowledge soon comes in the place of a doubt; 
 The sequel comes swiftly, — the court like a mill, 
 Grinds out the divorce, having found a "True 
 
 bill." 
 
 The wives who are happy did not marry in haste, 
 Nor in money alone is their confidence placed. 
 They waited in patience and found a true heart, 
 And such when united, why, never can part. 
 
 THE SAVAGE 
 
 " The only good Indian is a dead Indian. 
 
 The Indian is known as a savage, 
 And you would be savage too, 
 
 102 
 
If your every thought and action, 
 Your enemy did misconstrue. 
 
 If your lands had been taken from you, 
 And your herds of game destroyed ; 
 If your wife and your children were hungry, 
 Your stomach an aching void. 
 
 If the crime that another committed 
 You were made to suffer for, 
 You would learn in course of a life time, 
 The guilty one to abhor. 
 
 Could the savage man tell his story, 
 And give the whole truth to you, 
 You would better be able to judge him 
 And give credit where credit is due. 
 
 PLUG TOBACCO 
 
 Despised above all earthly things 
 
 By women who eschew it, 
 Who beg their husbands not to chew, 
 
 And yet their husbands do it. 
 
 All other things the women ask, 
 The men will do with pleasure, 
 
 Except give up the dear old plug, 
 Their nasty, dirty treasure. 
 
 At night the husband fondly yearns 
 
 For welcome and repose, 
 The loving wife prepares for him 
 
 By stopping up her nose. 
 
 When husband gives a fond embrace, 
 
 (Some people call it hug) 
 The wife accepts with seeming grace, 
 
 (Her mind is on the plug). 
 
 103 
 
TO A YOUNG LADY OF TWENTY-FIVE 
 
 A lovely girl, the poet's theme, 
 
 Is likewise too, the lover's dream ; 
 And since the day that Adam dared 
 
 To eat the fruit Eve with him shared, 
 There scarce has been a woman born 
 
 Who could not make some man forlorn, 
 If she refused the morsel sweet 
 
 He craved to make his life complete. 
 
 For woman, men have lost their farms 
 And all their wealth just for her charms; 
 
 Have sacrificed an honored name, 
 Then placed upon her all the blame; 
 
 While she, God bless her, could not help 
 Her winning ways that charmed the whelp. 
 
 The women sometimes lionize 
 
 The man who captures some sweet prize, 
 While her they view with upturned nose 
 And slyly whisper, "there she goes." 
 Thus for an hundred thousand years 
 
 Has woman striven through her tears 
 To overcome wrong prejudice, 
 
 And live with man in equal bliss. 
 
 Thank God, the day is dawning fast 
 When woman, not as in the past, 
 
 Will be thought of, not as a slave 
 To gratify inhuman knave, 
 
 But be allowed by every race 
 
 Along with man to take her place. 
 
 Such girls as you, have done their share 
 To give their sex this treatment fair, 
 
 And though you have a tender heart 
 You will not with it freely part. 
 
 The man who gets you must be brave 
 But of you cannot make a slave. 
 
 104 
 
You now have passed the giddy age 
 
 When marrying is all the rage, 
 And reached the state of womanhood 
 
 Implying everything that's good. 
 
 Fear not that you have missed your chance, 
 Your age does but your charms enhance, 
 
 And some one yet will realize 
 In you he's found a richer prize 
 
 Than silly girl yet in her teens, 
 
 Who knows not what true wifehood means. 
 
 THE MAN WITH AN AXE 
 
 "The man with a hoe" is a notable man 
 
 And does all the good that he possibly can, 
 
 But the pioneer workman who made the first 
 
 tracks, 
 Was the old fashioned fellow, the man with an axe. 
 
 With a gun on his shoulder, he braved the wild 
 
 wood 
 To hew out a home, while he well understood 
 That some sly Indian hunter might levy a tax 
 On the hair of the head of the man with an axe. 
 
 But braving all danger, this pioneer came 
 At the head of the multitude feasting on game; 
 He had the true courage that many one lacks, 
 Did the bold Indian fighter, the man with an axe . 
 
 Some think it takes pluck, on the bare grassy plain, 
 To plow up a field and then plant it with grain, 
 But when you come down to the cold barren facts, 
 He deserves the most credit — the man with an axe. 
 
 Put yourself in his place, on a farm full of trees, 
 With no music but birds and the wild bumblebees, 
 With a field full of stumps, see your courage relax, 
 But this never was so with the man with an axe. 
 105 
 
The stumps will decay and the trees disappear 
 And the farmers may plough with no Indians to 
 
 fear 
 But do not forget the logs rolled up in stacks 
 By the sweat of the brow of the man with an axe. 
 
 God bless the old man with the hoary white head, 
 Let him rest in sweet peace in a soft downy bed, 
 Let him sit in the chairs with the soft cushioned 
 
 backs, 
 The pioneer woodman, the man with an axe. 
 
 STORY OF THE CHRYSANTHEMUM 
 
 In the fall of the year when the frosts come on 
 And the flowers of summer are dead and gone, 
 There's a beautiful flower, I love it well, 
 And am asked in rhyme its story to tell. 
 
 It is said that in springtime a field was arrayed 
 With the loveliest flowers, where the children 
 
 played, 
 Where they gathered bouquets as they went to 
 
 school, 
 To give to the teacher who wielded the rule. 
 
 In the fall of the year, when they crossed the field 
 Where in springtime their merry laughter pealed, 
 They found that the flowers had disappeared, 
 And even the grass was brown and seared. 
 
 The only live thing that could be seen 
 Was a homely weed that still was green ; 
 This, the horses and cattle refused to eat, 
 And trampled it down beneath their feet. 
 
 The homely weed heard the children sigh, 
 And to gladden their hearts it thought to try ; 
 "I will grow on my branches of homely green 
 "The handsomest flowers that ever were seen." 
 
 106 
 
So it chanced as the children romped one day 
 
 Across the field in their gladsome play, 
 
 They were startled, and seemed almost struck 
 
 dumb 
 When there they espied a chrysanthemum. 
 
 And this is the story, though briefly told, 
 Of the flower that now has grown so bold 
 That it grows when no other dares to grow, 
 And gives in the winter an annual show. 
 
 Even Kings and Queens are proud to room 
 
 In a palace where lovely chrysanthemums bloom, 
 
 And all who behold their plumage bright 
 
 Are filled with amazement and delight. 
 
 DARING 
 
 A beautiful face is a dangerous thing 
 
 For a beautiful woman to wear, 
 Since men are inclined to desire to embrace 
 
 All the beautiful women they dare. 
 
 And a woman with beauty of face and of form, 
 Charms which, it is true, are not rare, 
 
 Is so constituted she hates to resist 
 The fellow who dares make a dare. 
 
 Especially so, if the fellow, by chance, 
 
 Has a manly and dignified air; 
 The woman will think, with a sly roguish glance, 
 
 From him I would not take a dare. 
 
 Now some may deny what I say to be true, 
 
 But just look around anywhere, 
 And think of the men who in person you knew 
 
 Who would not make some lady a dare. 
 
 And then try to think of a beautiful maid 
 Who, knowing no other was there, 
 
 107 
 
Would scream and would flee from a fellow who 
 said 
 "I dare you, will you take a dare?'* 
 
 It is true she might pout and might try to look 
 mad, 
 
 Might the maiden with features so fair, 
 But down in her heart, would the lady be glad 
 
 That the fellow had made her a dare. 
 
 A PANSY 
 
 Close to mother earth you nestle, 
 In your little bed of green, 
 Drawing from her every color 
 That the world has ever seen; 
 Whence such beauty, is a marvel 
 That no one can understand, 
 God alone effects such wonders 
 With His skillful unseen hand. 
 
 CRAB-APPLE BLOSSOMS 
 
 O beautiful, fragrant and delicate flowers, 
 Pray who would suspect that you grew 
 
 On a crab-apple tree, with its thorny rough 
 limbs 
 Presented in winter to view? 
 
 Pray why are your limbs covered over with 
 thorns, 
 So repulsive to boys who would climb 
 And whence do you get in the spring of the 
 year 
 Your beauty and fragrance sublime? 
 
 The wise robin knows that in you she will find 
 A protected and lovely retreat, 
 
 108 
 
Where her young she may rear, 'mid your 
 blossoms and thorns, 
 Surrounded by odors so sweet. 
 
 Perhaps it is true that you love the sweet 
 birds, 
 
 With their songs of innocent glee, 
 For this, we forgive you for growing the thorns 
 
 Dear homely, sweet crab-apple tree. 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 (Written in memory of my beloved mother, Rachel 
 
 Stubbs. Born December 7, 1827. Died 
 
 November 7, 1893.) 
 
 Mother is the theme of thousands 
 Who have written of her charms, 
 
 But no one perhaps, has told you 
 Of her who held me in her arms. 
 
 Was there ever such devotion 
 As my mother dear displayed? 
 
 Always finding some new duty, 
 Seeking not to be repaid. 
 
 She was not alone my mother, 
 Others called her mother too, 
 
 Even strangers whom she sheltered, 
 Serving them as best she knew. 
 
 To know mother, was to love her, 
 
 Ever gentle, loving, kind, 
 Modest with her many virtues, 
 
 Weak in body, strong in mind. 
 
 Many times she neared the border 
 
 Of life's rolling, fitful sea, 
 But was spared for useful purpose 
 
 Until eighteen ninety -three. 
 
 109 
 
At three-score and six she yielded 
 Life and all its pleasures here, 
 
 And we trust her sainted spirit 
 Revels in a brighter sphere. 
 
 She is gone but not forgotten, 
 Oft she visits me in dreams ; 
 
 Visit never was more real 
 
 Than her dreamland visit seems. 
 
 Mother dead is worth a thousand 
 Selfish friends we meet on earth, 
 
 Mother's is the truest friendship 
 
 Ever formed from childhood's birth, 
 
 Other friends desert and leave you 
 In your hour of greatest need, 
 
 Mother's love and mother's friendship 
 Is the kind that's true indeed. 
 
 Mother, be my guardian angel 
 
 Mother, let me never stray 
 Where thy loving dreamland visits 
 
 Will not come to cheer my way. 
 
 TO THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 Majestic heights, your lofty peaks 
 O'er looking valley, hill and plain, 
 
 Surpass imagination's flights 
 
 And fill with awe our wondering brain. 
 
 How came you thus to rear aloft 
 
 Your rocky crags and rugged peaks? 
 
 Whence came the seed of sturdy pine 
 That silently your grandeur speaks? 
 
 From 'neath your granite walls sublime. 
 Your wealth of copper, silver, gold, 
 
 110 
 
You yield unstinted at our call, 
 And yet your riches are untold. 
 
 Your sparkling waters, flowing down, 
 To gladden valley, slope and plain, 
 
 Bespeak for you our gratitude, 
 
 And constitute great source of gain. 
 
 At first your rugged heights repelled 
 The onward march of iron and steel; 
 
 But like the lower hills and plain, 
 
 You have been made man's power to feel. 
 
 The iron horse, your solitude 
 
 Is penetrating far and wide, 
 And from your slopes reverberate 
 
 His thrilling notes from side to side. 
 
 We bow before your hoary heads 
 At this, the close of one more year, 
 
 Well knowing that though we depart 
 You will forever still be here. 
 
 TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 (On learning he had published another book, 1900) 
 
 Dear Riley, you have "gone and done" 
 The very thing that I would do 
 
 If I knew how to write a book 
 
 That folks would read as they read you. 
 
 I, too, am from the Hoosier state 
 But left when I was just a boy; 
 
 The things you write recall to mind 
 My happy days of childish joy. 
 
 The woods in which I hunted squirrels, 
 And rabbits too, and ripe pawpaws, 
 
 111 
 
Or ate ripe beechnuts to my fill 
 
 And feasted on the sweet black haws. 
 
 How well do I recall the days 
 
 Of childhood pleasures you describe 
 
 Before my parents moved out west 
 To educate the Kon-za tribe. 
 
 My playmates changed from white to red. 
 But mind you I had lots of fun 
 
 For Kansas has her squirrels too, 
 And I knew how to use a gun. 
 
 I had my pony all the time 
 
 And herded cattle on the green, 
 
 I gathered more and prettier flowers 
 Than Hoosier boys have ever seen. 
 
 I had my bows and arrows too, 
 
 Like Indian boys with whom I played, 
 
 And often on the rabbits shy, 
 We'd make a regular Indian raid. 
 
 When I grew up to man's estate 
 I chased with them the buffalo. 
 
 Exciting scenes no Hoosier boy 
 Again will ever see or know. 
 
 The noble animals are gone, 
 The Indian, too, will disappear, 
 
 He thinks a happy hunting-ground 
 Will be for him the future sphere. 
 
 God bless you, Riley, and your work, 
 I love to read your every page, 
 
 Still may your days be lengthened out 
 Until you reach a ripe old age. 
 
 112 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 In the depths of the ocean a meeting was called 
 
 Of the animals dwelling at sea, 
 To determine what course to pursue, towards man 
 
 And his ultimate destiny. 
 
 The whale, being largest, was called to the chair, 
 
 He spouted it made his blood boil 
 To have a biped come out from the shore 
 
 And harpoon him just for his oil. 
 
 Years ago my ancestors, he said with a smile, 
 
 Found Jonah out swimming alone, 
 And swallowed him just to see what he would do, 
 
 It was then he discovered whale bone. 
 
 The shark, being called upon, made the next 
 speech, 
 
 Said that men are just awfully sweet, 
 And for his part to please let them alone 
 
 As they furnish the finest of meat. 
 
 The octopus said, that in speaking his mind, 
 
 He was angry at man it is true, 
 The way he was held to the scorn of the world, 
 
 Couldn't help but to make him feel blue. 
 
 The mackerel said he conducted a school, 
 
 And he never had liked it a bit 
 When man, swooping down, took his children away 
 
 And boxed them all up in a kit. 
 
 The salmon said he was against the whole race, 
 
 And would readily join in a plan 
 To keep him from sailing the ocean at all, 
 
 He'd seal him tight up in a can. 
 
 The walrus said he had the utmost contempt 
 For a man who could not find the pole, 
 
 113 
 
And the seal said that woman, by wearing his skin, 
 Was putting the men in a hole. 
 
 The tarpon admitted that he was to blame 
 
 For many of man's greatest sins, 
 In giving my weight he tells fabulous lies, 
 
 Then the shark ate him down to the fins. 
 
 The crocodile wept and the whale blubbered too, 
 And the frog almost croaked in his glee, 
 
 As he sat on the shore and witnessed the fight 
 Over troubles 'twixt land and the sea. 
 
 When the speeches were over, an awful uproar, 
 
 Sad ending it is to this tale, 
 The chairman still ruled with a strong iron hand, 
 
 And the meeting adjourned in the whale. 
 
 TO A NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS 
 
 Oh thou modest, brilliant beauty, 
 
 Fearing e'en a single ray 
 Of the glorious radiant sunlight, 
 
 That makes up the light of day. 
 
 Like some queen in Sultan's harem, 
 With thy form and feature veiled, 
 
 Destined that but few shall see thee, 
 None thy beauty has assailed. 
 
 Clothed for days with royal purple, 
 Pending from perpetual green, 
 
 'Till at last thy days are numbered, 
 Only once thou mayst be seen. 
 
 Native of the sandy desert 
 
 Whence thy matchless beauty grows, 
 Whence thy pearly perfect splendor 
 
 None but God eternal knows. 
 
 114 
 
I LOVE TO LIE AND STEAL 
 
 I love to lie 'neath the cooling shade 
 Of the sheltering friendly trees, 
 
 Where the scorching heat of summer sun 
 Is tempered by southern breeze. 
 
 I love to steal from the busy throng 
 That swarms the sweltering street, 
 
 And spend the days of sun's hot rays 
 In country and mountain retreat. 
 
 I love to lie in the morning hour, 
 Refreshed from an all-night-sleep, 
 
 And steal the stillness most profound 
 Before the day dawn's peep. 
 
 Yes I love to lie, and I love to steal 
 When rest for my nerves I need, 
 
 From the noise and strife of city life, 
 Do you think it is wrong indeed? 
 
 UNWRITTEN POEMS 
 
 It is not the poems we've written 
 
 That are gems of most beautiful thought, 
 
 'Tis the ones that we see in dreamland 
 That the world beholdeth not. 
 
 They come to us in the night time, 
 
 When they know that we cannot write; 
 
 They awaken us out of our slumber, 
 Then vanish quite out of our sight. 
 
 They linger, 'tis true, in the morning, 
 
 As lingers the fragrant flower 
 That fills the room with sweet fragrance 
 
 In its fading and vanishing hour. 
 
 115 
 
Pray where do our dream thoughts come from? 
 
 And why do they come in rhyme? 
 And whither pray tell are they going? 
 
 Perhaps they'll return in time. 
 
 THE SANTA FE TRAIL 
 
 (The old trail is now marked throughout its course 
 with granite rocks from Kansas City to Santa Fe, 
 New Mexico.) 
 
 In the great onward inarch of the civilized race, 
 The making of trails is the pioneer's place, 
 And none but the brave ever dare to embrace 
 This work, fraught with peril and danger. 
 The men who first dared to cross over the plain, 
 Where game and wild horses, at will o'er the main, 
 Roamed over the fields, now dotted with grain, 
 Were to fear, nor to hardship, a stranger. 
 
 Day after day, in the boiling hot sun, 
 
 Their hearts full of hope and their hand on the gun, 
 
 No matter what danger, they never would run, 
 
 But pressed bravely on to the mountains; 
 
 Not contented to drink from the slow, sluggish 
 
 streams 
 That course through the sands, reflecting sun- 
 beams, 
 Bright glittering gold in their visions and dreams, 
 They saw, higher up near the fountains. 
 
 Thus the brave pioneers of the Santa Fe Trail 
 Marched onward and thought not to doubt or to 
 
 fail, 
 Though for months they received neither message 
 
 nor mail, 
 From the world they were hidden completely. 
 No white man preceded to mark out the way. 
 The compass and sun were their guide night and 
 
 day; 
 
 116 
 
They dared not alone from their party to stray, 
 Lest their scalps should be taken quite neatly. 
 
 The Indians around them continued to prowl; 
 By night the coyotes made a hideous howl, 
 And the bark of the dog and the screech of the owl 
 Was the music to which they must listen. 
 They rumbled along with a great wagon train, 
 While famished for water and praying for rain, 
 And chasing mirage — they chased it in vain, 
 'Twas only the sand and its glisten. 
 
 The fleet-footed antelope, bison and deer, 
 Dashed away from the strangers, with trembling 
 
 and fear, 
 Little dreaming although, that their doom was so 
 
 near 
 And would follow the trail and its winding; 
 But the Iron horse came in the wake of the trail 
 On its parallel beds made of polished steel rail, 
 Leaving steam in its path, like a white ribbon sail 
 And a great cloud of dust that was blinding. 
 
 With this conquering monster of iron and steel, 
 The Indian is conquered for woe or for weal, 
 And crushed 'neath the weight of the civilized heel 
 Of the pale-face, the trail-making stranger; 
 The bison and deer and the antelope, too, 
 With the coyote and wild-horse, have vanished 
 
 from view 
 And the waving grain grows where the wild grasses 
 
 grew, 
 On the plains of the once fearless ranger. 
 
 1905 
 
 THE SUMMER RAIN 
 
 When the summer is dry and the fields are parched 
 
 And clouds obscure not the sky, 
 
 The farmer feels that his hopes are gone, 
 
 For nothing will grow when it's dry. 
 
 117 
 
But he toils along from morning to night, 
 Still hoping for showers to come 
 To stop the blight of the withering heat, 
 And bring him a harvest home. 
 
 At last, in the far distant west, a cloud 
 
 Peeps over, as much as to say : 
 
 Be patient dear farmer and keep down the weeds 
 
 For I am now coming your way. 
 
 As the clouds roll higher and higher, they sing 
 
 To the farmer a marvelous tune, 
 
 'Tis the voice of the lightning that's thundering 
 
 'round 
 In the early days of June. 
 
 No music so sweet to the farmer's ear, 
 No sight he has ever beheld, 
 So dear to his heart as the thunder's roar 
 And the rain that has drought dispelled. 
 
 TRIBUTE TO ROOSEVELT 
 
 Piiblished in 190 % 
 
 Oh, matchless man of many parts, 
 Well skilled in letters and the arts. 
 Of science too a marv'lous store, 
 Equipped as few who've gone before. 
 By cruel accident, though raised, 
 Thou art by all good people praised. 
 Thy friends are legion in the land 
 That's ruled by thee with steady hand. 
 Not fear nor favor hast thou shown, 
 In saving what was but thine own. 
 Thy gentleness with conquered foe 
 Does but inherent manhood show, 
 And proves to all the world around 
 Love for humanity profound. 
 
 118 
 
The color line thou hast not drawn, 
 But men hast judged by brain and brawn. 
 Worth makes the man and not the skin, 
 An empty drum makes loudest din, 
 And those who would thy acts deride 
 Have greater faults they do not hide. 
 This is an age when things do move, 
 The man who moves them, people love. 
 
 To irrigate, demand was made, 
 Great Western plains in desert laid. 
 "They should be watered," was the word 
 That, from the White House, people heard. 
 The congress moved, the act was done, 
 A million homes for people won. 
 Ripe grain will grow where cactus grew 
 In lands that only coyotes knew. 
 
 A great coal famine in the land 
 Brought by monopolistic hand, 
 Made countless thousands suffer cold, 
 Who could not buy with glittering gold. 
 Again the people found a friend 
 In time of need, strong help to lend. 
 The famine broke and warmth returned 
 Where cheerful embers had not burned. 
 
 " We need, must have, a great canal 
 Through which our ships can lightly sail, 
 Competing with the iron rail," 
 The masses cried, "We must not fail," 
 And to the White House, thoughts were 
 
 turned, 
 Where never good wish had been spurned. 
 Once more the man of action moved, 
 And by his acts his wisdom proved. 
 Postoffice frauds without reserve, 
 Were probed by him who has the nerve 
 To uphold law supreme above 
 All other objects of his love. 
 
 119 
 
The railway mergers, too, were brought 
 By his command to come to naught. 
 The men who many millions own 
 Were at his hands no favors shown. 
 But why repeat in rambling mode 
 A story that's well understood? 
 Strong nations need strong men to hold 
 The people's rights 'gainst greedy gold. 
 Roosevelt's a man both tried and true 
 From every honest point of view. 
 He knows no East, he knows no West, 
 His country all to him is best. 
 
 TWO OF A KIND 
 
 A dude and dudess met one day 
 
 Along the line of the King's highway. 
 
 He smiled at her, she smiled at him, 
 
 They smiled and smiled till their eyes were dim, 
 
 Said the dude to the dudess, "My pretty 
 
 Miss, 
 I have longed for a meeting just like this, 
 Where my soul might feast on your loveliness, 
 Say, won't you come my life to bless?" 
 
 Said she to him of the sterner sex, 
 
 "A dual life is most complex, 
 
 But since you've mentioned the matter now 
 
 I'm ready to join you in marriage vow. " 
 
 The soul of the dude was glad that day, 
 For the girl of his choice had said her say : 
 She had promised him that she'd be his wife 
 And share with him the joys of life. 
 
 The happy couple went home that day 
 And told the people along the way, 
 The news that made them feel so good — 
 A smile swept over the neighborhood. 
 
 no 
 
Alas for the dude, alas for the Miss, 
 The sequel to my song is this; 
 He hadn't the brains to keep a wife 
 And she couldn't cook to save her life. 
 
 So they worried along from day to day, 
 He grew quite thin while she grew gray, 
 They learned that life was something more 
 Than a smile and a grin, as they thought be- 
 fore. 
 
 Now these people twain, who met that day, 
 Are learning to work instead of play, 
 But if they live till they grow old 
 They'll never forget how both were sold. 
 
 PATRIOTISM 
 
 (Published in 1898) 
 
 Can it be that patriotism, 
 That for which our fathers died, 
 
 In this greedy generation 
 Shall be rudely pushed aside? 
 
 Shall our children be taught money, 
 Money, money, greed for gold, 
 
 Shall we sell our blood-bought birthright, 
 As our bonds and stocks are sold? 
 
 Shall our nation born for freedom, 
 Builded as the freeman's home, 
 
 Saved by crimson blood of patriots, 
 Perish like the ancient Rome? 
 
 Shall the stars and stripes, our banner, 
 Under which those patriots fought, 
 
 Lose the power to stir to action 
 The privilege so dearly bought? 
 
 121 
 
Shall the trusts and combinations 
 Be allowed to have full sway, 
 
 Blighting individual effort 
 Like a mighty beast of prey? 
 
 Shall this modern moneyed Baal 
 Force this nation to bow down, 
 
 Force our seventy million freemen 
 To submit to such a crown? 
 
 Is there not yet left a Daniel, 
 Who will brave the lion's den, 
 
 Throwing open wide his windows, 
 Pray to save his fellow men? 
 
 "Ah" you say "'tis pessimistic, 
 Evil tidings to forbode, 
 
 Bravely stand up for your party, 
 Keep the middle of the road. 
 
 Let the bosses do your thinking, 
 Follow meekly all their schemes, 
 
 They are born to be the rulers, 
 Fears you have, are idle dreams." 
 
 Shame for sentiments so cruel, 
 Lulling innocents to rest, 
 
 While a stealthy, greedy monster, 
 Coils around the slumbering breast. 
 
 Rouse ye patriots from your slumber! 
 Know the men you place in power, 
 
 Let love of country, patriotic, 
 Be the watchword of the hour. 
 
 Vote for neither man nor party 
 That will yield to mammon's greed, 
 
 Men who love their home and country 
 Are the men the people need. 
 
 122 
 
MOSES AND BOB 
 
 Says Moses to Bob, 
 
 How are you, my friend, 
 
 Our troubles on earth 
 Are all at an end. 
 
 You saw my mistakes 
 And pointed them out, 
 
 You caused the whole world 
 To wonder or doubt. 
 
 But now that our work 
 On earth has been done, 
 
 Our battles been fought, 
 And our victories won, 
 
 We find that we both 
 Had plenty to learn 
 
 Respecting the future 
 For which people yearn. 
 
 The seed we have sown 
 
 For evil or good, 
 We gave to the world 
 
 As we understood. 
 
 But now that we know 
 How the infinite mind 
 
 Overlooks the mistakes 
 Of poor feeble mankind, 
 
 We both might recall 
 
 Many things that we said, 
 With profit to living 
 
 As well as the dead. 
 
 Commandments I wrote, 
 Still the law of the land 
 
 123 
 
You tried to enforce 
 
 With a right willing hand. 
 
 Said Bob unto Moses, 
 
 Your welcome is great, 
 The words you have spoken 
 
 I appreciate. 
 
 The mistakes that I made 
 
 I would gladly recall 
 And I now realize 
 
 That they were not so small. 
 
 But since I am here 
 
 I most earnestly pray 
 That friends who are left 
 
 Will accept the right way. 
 
 THE FARMER'S GEMS 
 
 I am as rich as Vanderbilt and Morgan too, com- 
 bined, 
 I have more gems than ever yet have from the 
 
 earth been mined; 
 As I walk out at early morn, they sparkle bright 
 
 and clear, 
 And though they glisten everywhere, no theft 
 
 of them I fear. 
 No safety vault do I possess, to lock them in at 
 
 night; 
 Assured am I, that in the morn, they'll be there 
 
 just as bright. 
 On cloudy days they are not seen, but then, if it 
 
 should rain, 
 I know the sun is sure to shine and they will come 
 
 again. 
 My wife and friends enjoy the gems, that sparkle 
 
 in my fields, 
 Where health and luxury abound and where rich 
 
 treasure yields. 
 
 124 
 
My diamonds fertilize the soil and help the grass 
 
 to grow ; 
 Unlike those worn around the neck, they're not 
 
 alone for show. 
 But still my gems are just as pure and are as 
 
 brilliant, quite, 
 As those they wear for ornament, that glisten in 
 
 the night. 
 With topaz, rubies, emeralds, my verdant pasture 
 
 strewn, 
 My cattle trample under foot, these gems from 
 
 morn till noon. 
 I envy not the wealth of those who in rich cities 
 
 dwell. 
 My jewels are the dew-drops I love but cannot 
 
 sell. 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 There's no other heart like mother's, 
 
 Sharing with us every care, 
 Bearing with us every burden, 
 
 Always with us everywhere. 
 
 There's no other eye like mother's, 
 Watching every act and deed, 
 
 Guiding closely all our footsteps, 
 Seeing quickly every need. 
 
 There's no other hand like mother's, 
 
 Doing for us all through life 
 Willingly and with such pleasure, 
 
 Tasks that make up daily strife. 
 
 There's no other name like "mother," 
 
 Ever reaches human ear; 
 How we should so fondly cherish 
 
 Mother, always near and dear. 
 
 Mother's heart is always open 
 To her children's every cry, 
 
 125 
 
Who is there but loving mother 
 That for us would even die? 
 
 When her eyes are closed forever, 
 Still we see her in our dreams, 
 
 Always kind and sympathetic, 
 Watching o'er us still it seems. 
 
 IRONQUILL 
 
 (Lines affectionately inscribed in memory of my 
 friend, Eugene F. Ware, 1911.) 
 
 How beautiful the death of those 
 Who fear not death's cold hand! 
 
 Ware was preparing for repose 
 When came his last command. 
 
 "I fear not him nor yet defy," 
 
 This brave old soldier cried; 
 'He could harm me but will not try' 
 
 Ware wrote before he died. 
 
 "The soul of justice must be just," 
 
 In confidence he said, 
 'And trembling not with no distrust,' 
 
 He bowed his aging head. 
 
 The things he could not comprehend 
 
 He did not claim to know, 
 But humble, faithful to the end, 
 
 He was prepared to go. 
 
 His pleasant smile and stately tread 
 
 We shall no longer see; 
 His works, however, are not dead 
 
 But bless his memory. 
 
 126 
 
MARK TWAIN 
 
 (The following lines were written in 1902 upon 
 seeing a notice in the Washington Times, to the effect 
 that the now lamented Clemens desired to have 
 obituary notices, that had been prepared ready for 
 use in the event of his demise, sent to him for cor- 
 rection and revision.) 
 
 Obituary Extraordinary 
 
 St. Peter stands at open gate 
 
 To welcome our lamented friend, 
 
 Who died about the very date 
 His life came to a sudden end. 
 
 The reason of his sad demise 
 
 Will always be a mystery; 
 We only know he closed his eyes 
 
 And passed beyond to history. 
 
 The funny sayings he has left, 
 
 Encircle all the globe around; 
 His taking-off leaves us bereft 
 
 And we are filled with grief profound. 
 
 No more will heaven be a place, 
 
 Where sombre scenes pervade the air, 
 
 For Mark will see Bill Nye's dear face, 
 And there will be some fun up there. 
 
 These twain will see the funny side 
 
 Of everything that is to see, 
 And cause the angels to divide 
 
 Their time with them in revelry. 
 
 Then farewell, Mark, your work's well done, 
 You've scattered sunshine far and near; 
 
 We only hope you'll have more fun 
 In that bright heavenly atmosphere. 
 
 127 
 
A TRANSFORMATION 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe added "t" unto his name, 
 And straightway was admitted to the hall of end- 
 less fame. 
 For a Poe became a poet and the envy of his race 
 Who delight to do him honor and accord him 
 highest place. 
 
 With a brain that worked like lightning when 
 
 inspired by liquid fire, 
 He transferred his thoughts to paper with a 
 
 feverish desire. 
 From the dull croak of the raven to the burning 
 
 fires of hell, 
 He let soar imagination where his mind e'er 
 
 chanced to dwell. 
 
 His pathetic thoughts when written, brought the 
 
 bravest heart to tears, 
 His foreboding of the future awed the stoutest 
 
 soul with fears. 
 What a mighty transformation did that little letter 
 
 "t", 
 When it caused a prosy writer to produce such 
 
 poetry. 
 
 SANTA CLAUS 
 
 When Santa Claus comes whirling by 
 On cold and stormy night 
 And leaves the rich the finest things, 
 It doesn't seem just right. 
 
 'Cause Santa Claus, he ought to know 
 That poor folks need the most, 
 The rich can buy things anyway 
 And care not for the cost. 
 
 128 
 
Now Santa Claus, if I were you 
 And had so many toys 
 I'd give the nicest ones I had 
 To poor girls and poor boys. 
 
 A LETTER 
 
 {To J as. Whitcomb Riley on learning he had suffered 
 a paralytic stroke) 
 
 Dear Jim, I hear you are ailin', 
 
 That you're partly paralyzed; 
 That somehow your health is f ailin'; 
 
 At the news I am surprised. 
 Bu1 we all are growin' older 
 
 And with age diseases come, 
 Yet when this one called to see you 
 
 I am sorry you were at home. 
 
 Jim, you've caused a lot of laughter 
 
 By the things that you have writ, 
 It's pleasure that we are after 
 
 And we don't want to spare you yit, 
 Cause there isn't no other'n like you 
 
 Has showed up to take your place, 
 And the stroke that came to strike you 
 
 Ought to hide its sneakin' face. 
 
 Though the frost is on your whiskers, 
 
 And the silver on your hair, 
 You must battle with dame nature 
 
 And make her treat you fair, 
 'Cause we know you have been a fighter. 
 
 Now just fight the old disease, 
 Be assured if you but conquer 
 
 'Twill a world of people please. 
 129 
 
Like yourself, I am a Hoosier, 
 
 But I grew up in the west 
 And I thought it might amuse yer 
 
 While not feelin' at your best. 
 Please accept this hasty letter 
 
 From an old admirin' friend 
 Who is hopin' you are better 
 
 And a great ways from the end. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S CORN PONE 
 
 As I sit in the corner and smoke my old pipe, 
 My memory reverts to the years that are gone, 
 
 In the Fall of the year, when the apples were ripe 
 And Mother made for us — the first new corn 
 pone. 
 
 As soon as the blades on the corn were turned 
 brown, 
 My mother would send us down into the field, 
 To gather a grist for the old mill in town, 
 
 And, oh, such corn pone as that first grist 
 would yield ! 
 
 We would first spread the corn in the attic to dry, 
 Or hang it up there by the husks 'neath the 
 cone, 
 
 And every few days up the ladder we'd fly, 
 To see if 'twas ready to make a corn pone. 
 
 When it was dry and would easily shell, 
 
 My mother called out when the chores were all 
 done, 
 "Come boys, we must send that corn down to the 
 mill, 
 Better shell it to-night if you want a corn pone. " 
 
 The meal that we got in those good olden days, 
 Was not ground with rolls, but between two 
 great stones, 
 
 130 
 
And, although our new mills have improved many 
 ways, 
 They can't turn out meal that will make such 
 corn pones. 
 
 By our great fire-place with a " skillet and lid," 
 How brightly the embers all over them shone, 
 
 My mouth fairly watered, for mother had hid, 
 Beneath those hot embers the first new corn 
 pone. 
 
 When at last it was ready, all steaming and hot, 
 And we always had with it spare ribs or back- 
 bone, 
 There was no other bread that went right to the 
 spot, 
 And tasted so sweet, as my mother's corn pone. 
 
 Corn pone and molasses, and good home-made 
 butter, 
 With nice juicy spare ribs or a hunk of back- 
 bone, 
 Methinks 'twould have helped the great feast of 
 Belshazzar, 
 If he could have had some of Mother's corn 
 pone. 
 
 GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC 
 
 (Written in Washington, D. C, during G. A. R. 
 Encampment, 1902,) 
 
 Veterans, as we view you marching, 
 
 Marching on the Avenue, 
 Where in Sixty -five we saw you 
 
 Passing here in grand review. 
 Oh, what changes we may witness 
 
 In the almost two score years, 
 Oh, how many thousand hearthstones 
 
 Have been bathed in bitter tears. 
 
 131 
 
Then your features, worn and haggard, 
 
 From exposure hard and sore, 
 Yet your step was firm and steady 
 
 And the flag you proudly bore; 
 Then your clothes were worn and tattered 
 
 And your feet were almost bare, 
 You were weary, tired and hungry 
 
 From a scanty bill of fare. 
 
 Yet the greatest war in history 
 
 You had fought and finished well, 
 Braving every form of danger, 
 
 Passing safe through literal hell. 
 Even then you bore no malice 
 
 Toward a stricken conquered foe, 
 Knowing well that they had suffered 
 
 Bitter agony and woe. 
 
 Then you marched in perfect order, 
 
 Full of hope with nought to dread, 
 Though there lingered in your bosoms 
 
 Sorrow for the absent dead. 
 Now we view your tottering footsteps 
 
 And your ranks are growing thin; 
 Year by year a larger number 
 
 Pass death's unknown gates within. 
 
 You have lived to see the grandeur 
 
 Of the country you sustained 
 And to see that those who fought you 
 
 Too, are glad that they remained. 
 You have been important factors 
 
 Adding to our country's worth, 
 From a weak and struggling nation 
 
 To the richest on the earth. 
 
 Had you failed to do your duty 
 
 Bravely, fearlessly and true. 
 You would not have seen the glory 
 
 That has since befallen you. 
 132 
 
Hail, old soldiers, you are passing; 
 
 But you leave an honored name 
 That all men of future ages, 
 
 Will, with one accord proclaim. 
 
 TRUSTS AND COMBINES 
 
 What's all this "fuss and feathers " about gigantic 
 
 trust, 
 You'd think to read about 'em, this country's 
 
 goin' to bust, 
 Why I am not so very old, and I remember well, 
 A few things on the subjec' I hadn't thought to 
 
 tell, 
 But 'fore the men's elected to choke the monsters 
 
 down, 
 I thought that I'd come over here and see this 
 
 mighty town. 
 
 We moved 'way out in Kansas in eighteen sixty- 
 three, 
 From good old Indiany, where I was born you see, 
 And sure as I'm a livin' it took us then ten days 
 To make that trip across two states now just a 
 
 little ways. 
 Why here I am down in New York and just two 
 
 days ago, 
 I dressed myself in Kansas to come and see the 
 show. 
 
 The railroad combination, connected up by steel, 
 Brought me down here a fly in' and never broke a 
 
 wheel. 
 The sugar trust's another thing that's not so 
 
 awful bad, 
 When I recall the kind we got when I was but a 
 
 lad, 
 A pound then cost a quarter and it was black and 
 
 wet, 
 And had a nasty sour taste, why I can taste it yet. 
 
 133 
 
And as for coal oil in them days, we never saw the 
 
 stuff, 
 We had old tallow candles and thought them good 
 
 enough. 
 Electric lights ! my gracious, man, we never hoped 
 
 to see 
 The night converted into day, nor that such 
 
 things could be, 
 But capital combinin' with the genius of man 
 Seems now can do most anything that they're 
 
 amind to plan. 
 
 The men who make these combines and furnish all 
 
 the brains 
 Are entitled to some credit for their labor and 
 
 their pains; 
 And although I am from Kansas, I'm not the one 
 
 to balk, 
 When I see it is my duty to get right up and talk. 
 In fact we have a fashion of doin' things out west, 
 And we're ready to applaud the man, who does 
 
 his very best. 
 
 New York City, 1903. 
 
 BABY'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 I wonder now whose girl I am 
 
 If I'm a girl at all, 
 For months I've tried to find my name 
 
 To answer to a call. 
 
 My mamma sometimes calls me pet, 
 
 And precious darling, too, 
 And then a lot of other names 
 
 I never could tell you. 
 
 My papa calls me his sweetheart, — 
 
 He calls mamma the same; 
 So I think that can scarcely be 
 
 My real proper name. 
 
 134 
 
My brother, he's a great big man 
 
 With whiskers on his chin, 
 And tells mamma 'bout his sweetheart 
 
 When no one else is in. 
 
 I toddle all around the room, 
 
 They say, see baby walk, 
 And when I jabber like the boys, 
 
 They say, hear sister talk. 
 
 So that's the way, of all the names 
 
 I ever, ever heard, 
 Nobody seems to call me twice 
 
 By any single word. 
 
 MOTHER IS DEAD 
 
 How desolate is home without a mother, 
 
 A throne without a queen. 
 How every move we make from morn till 
 evening 
 
 Reminds of things she's seen. 
 How oft the sacred name of loving mother 
 
 Springs thoughtless on our lips, 
 How oft the things she saw and handled 
 
 We touch with finger tips. 
 
 How oft we hear in our imagination 
 
 Her gentle voice once more. 
 How oft would we into her sympathetic ear 
 
 Our daily troubles pour. 
 No hand, no ear, no feet so willing as were 
 mother's 
 
 To serve our every need, 
 No prayer, no sigh, no tear will bring back 
 mother, 
 
 In vain we seek or plead. 
 For us there is but one lone consolation, 
 
 Let this our motto be, 
 When this life's fitful storm is over, mother, 
 
 We then may fly to thee. 
 135 
 
THE LOCOMOTIVE ENGINEER 
 
 As you whirl along in the dead of night 
 
 By the mighty power of steam, 
 With scarcely a thought of danger or fright, — 
 
 Perhaps you may sleep and dream, — 
 
 Does it ever occur to you, your life 
 
 Is held by a single thread, 
 Both ends of which and the keenest knife, 
 
 Are clasped by the man ahead? 
 
 As you roll through canyons dark and deep, 
 Over bridges and dangerous curves, 
 
 Do you ever think you are in the keep 
 Of a man with iron nerves? 
 
 Do you ever think that a moment's rest 
 
 By him might end your days 
 And dash your train from the mountain crest 
 
 On the rocks below to blaze? 
 
 Do you ever think of the skill he needs, 
 
 The man at the throttle bar, 
 To guide a train as it onward speeds 
 
 At fifty miles an hour? 
 
 As you tip the man, who shines your shoes 
 
 In the palace at the rear, 
 Do you ever think that a debt you owe 
 
 To the railroad engineer? 
 
 Did you ever think that a kindly smile, 
 
 Or a bow to the engineer 
 At the close of a ride of a thousand miles 
 
 Might add to his cup of cheer? 
 
 Did you ever think that a dollar or two 
 
 Tossed out to the engineer 
 Might strengthen his nerves, perchance save you 
 
 When death to you was near? 
 
 136 
 
THE KANSAS IDEA 
 
 There's nothing the matter with Kansas 
 She's "up and a coming," that's all, 
 
 She's setting the pace for the nation, 
 There's nothing about her that's small. 
 
 She took a dislike to Joe Cannon, 
 
 No, not Uncle Joe as a man, 
 But just to the way he was doing, 
 
 And voted against his old plan. 
 
 She found Uncle Joe carried muzzles, 
 
 To keep representatives still, 
 Then said to the fellows who wore them, 
 
 "You've taken too bitter a pill." 
 
 "We'll keep you at home for a season 
 
 Till you can develop backbone, 
 The fellows who represent Kansas 
 
 Must know how to stand up alone." 
 
 "There's Madison, Murdock and Bristow, 
 
 They're onto the Kansas idea, 
 So just keep an eye on Progressives 
 
 Who are making the stand-patters flee." 
 
 No, there's nothing the matter with Kansas, 
 Her crops and her people are great, 
 
 And the Rhode Island Senator Aldrich 
 Will never to Kansas dictate. 
 
 November, 1910. 
 
 THE POET'S DREAM 
 
 I wonder whence the muses come 
 That visit us in dreams, 
 
 Suggesting many pretty thoughts 
 On new and pretty themes. 
 
 137 
 
And then I wonder where they go, 
 When daylight hides the stars, 
 
 Perhaps they're midnight visitors 
 From Jupiter or Mars. 
 
 Perhaps that they are not allowed 
 
 To stay away all night, 
 And cannot come to show themselves 
 
 When it is broad daylight. 
 
 The stars that glisten in the sky, 
 Like gems so bright and pure, 
 
 Would make for poetry and song 
 A lovely home I'm sure. 
 
 STAND PAT 
 
 When Nature smiles her sweetest, 
 In the early months of spring, 
 
 When the trees are all in blossom, 
 And there's joy in every thing, 
 
 Man's ambition soars the highest 
 To the realms where he can dwell, 
 
 On the summit of the mountain 
 Far above the shady dell. 
 
 When the seasons are propitious 
 And the crops are growing fine, 
 
 Man continues his ambitions, 
 Feasting on his corn and wine. 
 
 But when skies are clear and brazen 
 And the winds are dry and hot, 
 
 When the wheat fields droop and wither, 
 For the rain that cometh not, 
 
 It is then man's courage faileth, 
 And like withered fields and brown, 
 
 138 
 
His ambition seems to falter, 
 
 And to earth comes tumbling down. 
 
 Better stay up in the mountain, 
 Where the air is pure and cool, 
 
 Let not whims of wind and weather 
 Come within your heart to rule. 
 
 For each season in succession 
 
 Has its own peculiar style, 
 And the cycles of the seasons 
 
 Will bring comfort after awhile. 
 
 HOG KILLIN' TIME 
 
 Well wife, it's gittin' closer all the time to holidays 
 
 And I cannot keep from thinkin' of the good old- 
 fashioned ways, 
 
 When we used to spend the winter choppin' wood 
 and haulin' logs, 
 
 And how just before Christmas we'd all meet and 
 kill the hogs. 
 
 We'd invite a lot of neighbors, just the ones we 
 
 liked best, 
 And then make due apologies, of course, to all the 
 
 rest, 
 And we'd have a regular frolic 'round a fire built 
 
 of logs, 
 In the fall when we got ready to kill the fattenin' 
 
 hogs. 
 
 When the hogs were killed and scalded and hung 
 
 up in a row, 
 With the skin and fat a-glistening in the sunshine 
 
 white as snow, 
 Mother called us in to dinner, to a table loaded 
 
 down 
 With hot cabbage and potatoes and the sweet 
 
 bread good and brown. 
 
 139 
 
After dinner all the men would gather out in 
 
 father's barn, 
 Where we listened to 'em spinnin' many a good 
 
 old settler's yarn, 
 While the women were a workin' 'round a kettle 
 
 in the yard 
 Fryin' out the greasy craklin's and a renderin' out 
 
 the lard. 
 
 But wife, those days are ended, even farmers buy 
 
 their meat, 
 And it somehow seems to me, it isn't half so sweet 
 As the meat we used to put up in a smokehouse 
 
 built of logs, 
 Every year before the Christmas, when we used 
 
 to kill our hogs. 
 
 When we used to do our killin' in the good old- 
 fashioned way, 
 
 There was lots of things about 'em that we used to 
 throw away, 
 
 But the packin' houses now have got the thing 
 down so genteel, 
 
 That they're savin' everything about the hog 
 except the squeal. 
 
 They say the packin' houses keep their places 
 
 nice and clean, 
 And their bacon has the reg'ler streak of fat and 
 
 streak of lean, 
 But as Christmas time approaches, it my memory 
 
 somehow jogs, 
 Of the happy days of childhood, when we killed 
 
 our fattenin' hogs. 
 
 A TALE OF THE HORSE 
 
 " Backward, turn backward, oh time in your flight" 
 And give me my long tail in which I delight. 
 
 140 
 
The flies drive me frantic with bite and with sting* 
 And yet I am helpless, I can't do a thing. 
 
 My beautiful tail that hung down to my hock, 
 Stands up like a flag, but they call it a "dock;" 
 I would that my owner might know how I feel, 
 He would haste this new order of things to repeal. 
 
 My long flowing tail was my treasure and pride, 
 
 And I had daily use for it also beside; 
 
 But alas it is gone, I can grow it no more 
 
 For they cut off the bone and it makes me feel sore. 
 
 If wishing could make them as bald as the moon, 
 The men who docked me would be bald-headed 
 
 soon, 
 I would take from their heads every hair white or 
 
 black, 
 And not let another one ever grow back. 
 
 Then I'd tie down their hands and would turn 
 
 loose the flies, 
 And sit back and laugh at their wails and their 
 
 cries. 
 My comrades and friends, it's an outrageous trick, 
 And I know you will join me in making this kick. 
 
 JULIA DENT GRANT 
 
 (Written on the day of her death in Washington, 
 D.C.) 
 
 In the presence of death will a nation pay homage 
 To one who now lies in his cruel embrace, 
 And the charms of her life will we cherish forever, 
 As we fondly recall the sweet smile on her face. 
 
 From the home of the humble she grew to distinc- 
 tion, 
 
 141 
 
As wife of the General we all now revere; 
 How fondly she loved him in all his great struggles, 
 How ready she was to both comfort and cheer. 
 
 When he held in his hand, in the war of rebellion, 
 The fate of our Nation he guided so well, 
 
 She stood by his side as a strong inspiration 
 
 To maintain the Union in which we might dwell. 
 
 And when he was called to the higher position 
 To stand at the helm of the great ship of state, 
 
 She presided, a queen, over millions of people 
 Who proudly recall Grant's achievements so 
 great. 
 
 In the tomb by the side of her honored companion, 
 Loving hands will consign to its last resting 
 place, 
 The form of the kind hearted mother and loved 
 one, 
 Whose life of devotion time cannot efface. 
 
 MY CASTLE 
 
 Build me a castle, but not out of air, 
 For such are too common — exist everywhere — 
 But build it of mortar and stone in the rough, 
 In a bold rugged place on a beautiful bluff, 
 Where the vision looks out over valley and plain 
 And a river winds inward and outward again; 
 Where its broad curving line like a ribbon extends 
 To its home where at last with the ocean it blends; 
 Where the air is as pure as the ether above. 
 It is here I would live in the world that I love. 
 
 Among grottos and dells and surrounded by trees 
 That sway to and fro in the soft sighing breeze, 
 With a carpet of green covered over with flowers, 
 It is here I would dwell in my own shady bowers, 
 
 142 
 
Looking down on the world with its groveling greed* 
 What more should I want or what more would I 
 
 need, 
 For this would be heaven on earth, it would seem, 
 Forecasting the future of which we but dream ; 
 Then build me a castle of mortar and stone, 
 On an acre or two, for my own, very own, 
 No, not for my own, but for others to share, 
 For life without love is but burden and care. 
 
 KENTUCKY 
 
 Lines suggested by a casual acquaintance with two 
 young ladies on a train between Memphis and 
 Louisville. 
 
 I have read of the fame of Kentucky, 
 Her blue-grass, her horses and belles, 
 
 Her mountains, her caves and her forests, 
 Her beautiful streams and her dells. 
 
 I have read of the fame of her statesmen, 
 Her soldiers so brave and so true, 
 
 The wealth of her mineral treasure, 
 Her flowers of delicate hue. 
 
 But not till I saw the fair landscape, 
 And traversed the valleys and hills, 
 
 And heard the sweet notes of her songsters, 
 The music of babbling rills; 
 
 Not till I was in the fair borders 
 
 Enclosing her resources great, 
 Did I realize fully the bounties 
 
 Of this beautiful, flourishing state. 
 
 "Treat kindly the stranger," is written, 
 Advice that more people should heed, 
 
 But, too scarce are the angels we meet with, 
 Is a fact on which all are agreed. 
 
 143 
 
If the ladies I met are a sample 
 Of the beautiful Kentucky belle, 
 
 No wonder their fame is far reaching, 
 Their graces, the story will tell. 
 
 A stranger, they treated me kindly 
 And helped weary hours to pass, 
 
 As on a swift journey we hurried 
 Across the fields covered with grass. 
 
 Their kindness, I'll always remember, 
 Their beauty of figure and face, 
 
 A chance to again meet such ladies 
 I would certainly love to embrace. 
 
 Their husbands, I'm certain will pardon 
 The compliment I would bestow, 
 
 For their charming young wives are a 
 treasure, 
 A fact which they already know. 
 
 O fortunate men of Kentucky, 
 Your state is not noted for pearls, 
 
 But these beautiful gems of the ocean 
 Compare not at all with your girls, 
 
 Whose modesty, virtue and kindness 
 Beaming up is a pleasure to see, 
 
 Like the flowers in springtime adorning 
 A beautiful, blossoming tree. 
 
 DECORATION DAY 
 
 Strew each grave with lovely flowers, 
 Spread with garlands every one, 
 
 Call to mind the pleasant hours 
 Spent with them e'er life was done. 
 
 All have had their fields of battle 
 Though no carnage have they seen 
 
 144 
 
All of life is full of struggle, 
 
 Till we sleep beneath the green. 
 
 Homage to the man and soldier, 
 
 Who has fought for friends and home, 
 
 Fills the great heart of the nation, — 
 And to him is homage shown. 
 
 But all others have won laurels, 
 Who have trod the path of life, 
 
 Mingled with its hopes and sorrows, 
 With its pleasures and its strife. 
 
 On this day, then, strew your garlands 
 On the graves of all who sleep, 
 
 And the lives of friends departed 
 In your memories sweetly keep. 
 
 Nor should we forget the living, 
 Whom we know have trials sore, 
 
 Flowers spread along their pathway 
 Guide them to the golden shore. 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 November, you're the kindest month 
 
 Perhaps in all the year: 
 Because you gently lead us up 
 
 To winter, cold and drear. 
 
 You seldom bring the coldest storms, 
 
 But hazy atmosphere, 
 Reminding us of fire we'll need 
 
 For winter, cold and drear. 
 
 You take from us the flowers and birds 
 
 That we have held so dear, 
 But they could not withstand, we know, 
 
 The winter, cold and drear. 
 
 145 
 
And so, 'tis better they depart 
 Than that they should stay here 
 
 To battle with the storms that rage 
 In winter, cold and drear. 
 
 That they will not return again 
 
 In spring, we do not fear; 
 They simply hide a little while 
 
 From winter, cold and drear. 
 
 Then welcome, Indian Summer month, 
 
 To us, you make it clear 
 That we will soon be visited 
 
 By winter, cold and drear. 
 
 TO A CHRYSANTHEMUM 
 
 JULY 
 
 Why, you homely growing weed, 
 
 What do you here among my flowers? 
 
 You neither bloom nor promise seed, 
 But idle all your summer hours. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 W 7 hat! still you grow without a sign, 
 While winter cold is almost here, 
 
 Do you the blast of winter deign 
 
 To meet and brave with naught to fear? 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 Oh glorious bloomer, you have seen 
 All other lovely flowers that grew, 
 
 And how determined you have been 
 
 To strew their graves with brilliant hue? 
 
 For chiding you, I was to blame; 
 You followed nature's wise behest, 
 
 146 
 
And by your brilliant face proclaim 
 That nature's plan is always best. 
 
 Throughout the cold and stormy day, 
 When timid flowers fade in fear, 
 
 Your petals with the breezes play, 
 Nor heed that chilling blasts are near. 
 
 THE "FIRST FAMILY" 
 
 What is home without a mother? 
 
 Why, there is no such a place, 
 Never has been since old Adam 
 
 First began the human race. 
 
 But with Eve and Cain and Abel, 
 Adam had a home it's true, 
 
 Soon they had a family quarrel, 
 Though 'twas not the thing to do. 
 
 Cain, like Indiana farmers, 
 Tried to live by growing grain; 
 
 Abel beat him making money 
 And thus raised the ire of Cain. 
 
 Abel's cattle tore down fences, 
 Ate his brother's growing crop, 
 
 Then said Cain unto his brother, 
 Sir, this thing has got to stop. 
 
 Abel was a little saucy, 
 
 Cain got mad and tore around, 
 And before the brothers parted, 
 
 Abel's blood was on the ground. 
 
 Eve and Adam had a picnic, 
 All the apples they could eat, 
 
 Didn't wear a stitch of clothing, 
 Still he thought her mighty sweet, 
 
 147 
 
Owner of the orchard told them, 
 
 "Let this apple tree alone," 
 'Twas the fruit of good and evil, 
 
 Eve concluded she'd try one. 
 
 When Eve tasted of the apple, 
 Though she knew it was not right, 
 
 She went straight and found her husband: 
 "Here," said she," just take a bite." 
 
 Knowing he could blame the woman, 
 Just as men have always done, 
 
 Adam took a bite of apple, 
 Then both of 'em had to run. 
 
 ANXIETY 
 
 I've studied everything in life, 
 Its joys, its hopes, its care, its strife; 
 I've watched the prattling infant grow, 
 When aught of care it did not know ; 
 I've seen the romping, careless boy, 
 When naught it seemed could him annoy, 
 I've seen him at the buoyant age, 
 When all the world was his own stage, 
 When father, mother, he forsook, 
 The things he knew would make a book, 
 And then I've watched him sober down 
 And learn what gives to man renown; 
 I've seen him in young manhood's strife, 
 The picture of strong rugged life, 
 When nothing was for him too much, 
 To conquer was for him to touch; 
 I've seen him when at middle age, 
 He took life's lessons page by page, 
 And sought in retrospective view 
 The strength of youth to still renew; 
 But of all sad things I have seen, 
 While on the stage of life I've been, 
 
 148 
 
The saddest thing, it seems to me, 
 
 Is in old age, anxiety. 
 
 A dread, a doubt, a hope, a fear, 
 
 A living in strange atmosphere, 
 
 A longing for the by-gone days, 
 
 A longing for the good old ways, 
 
 Regretting that time goes so fast, 
 
 That youthful manhood could not last. 
 
 Why will this truth man never learn, 
 
 For by-gone things we should not yearn. 
 
 TO COL. JOHN A. JOYCE 
 
 Colonel Joyce was a noted author, poet and poli- 
 tician. He spent the last years of his eventful career 
 in Washington, D. C, where his long, snowy locks 
 made him a conspicuous figure. 
 
 Sage, philosopher and poet, 
 
 I am reading with delight 
 From the pages you have written, 
 
 Seems you know just how to write. 
 
 Mingled mirth and wit and pathos, 
 
 Sparkling gems on every leaf, 
 Thoughts resplendent with their beauty, 
 
 Glittering hope and line of grief. 
 
 Life to you is mingled pleasure, 
 One can read between the lines, 
 
 You have chosen from life's treasure 
 Princip'ly the choicest wines. 
 
 Though your head is whitened over 
 With the locks of ripened years, 
 
 Nought is there in life's long future 
 That should fill your mind with fears. 
 
 You have scattered by the wayside 
 149 
 
Rays of sunshine bright and warm, 
 Which reflected on your pathway 
 Will but shield you from the storm. 
 
 You have gathered from the flowers 
 
 Sweetest nectar by the way, 
 May you live now on the honey 
 
 You have garnered day by day. 
 
 Washington, D. C, 1902. 
 
 THE PALMETTO STATE 
 
 Oh, fortunate land of the sunny south, 
 'Mong the hill-tops covered with pine, 
 
 Your beauty out-rivals by far the scenes, 
 On the banks of the famous Rhine. 
 
 Your beautiful streams flowing down to the sea, 
 
 Over gravelly beds so clean, 
 Wind in and out through the fields of wheat, 
 
 With their verdure rich and green. 
 
 What a pity that water so sparkling pure, 
 Has been stained by human gore; 
 
 But let us forget those painful days, 
 That have passed forever more. 
 
 Let the willing hands of the north and south, 
 
 Be clasped in a firm resolve, 
 To restore every long neglected waste, 
 
 As the wheels of time revolve. 
 
 Building up new homes in the happy land, 
 Where the sweet magnolia grows, 
 
 Where the holly thrives in its native state, 
 And the lovely scented rose. 
 
 Then forward, march, in the battle of life, 
 W T ith courage true and bold, 
 
 150 
 
Till with every comfort your homes are filled, 
 As they were in the days of old. 
 
 Bennettsville, S. C, 1903. 
 
 THE MINER'S LAMENT 
 
 Way back in the summer of '56, 
 I crossed the plains with shovel and picks, 
 In search of the gold around Pike's Peak, 
 But I failed to stop at Cripple Creek. 
 
 I washed the sands of the Arkansaw 
 
 And scanned the boulders of Cheyenne "draw," 
 
 I feasted on bear and deer so sleek, 
 
 But I failed to stop at Cripple Creek. 
 
 I climbed the summit of Cameron's Cone, 
 Through canyons where sun had never shone, 
 And though I was hungry, tired and weak, 
 I failed to rest at Cripple Creek. 
 
 When I reached the summit of old Hog Back, 
 I gave my mule such a terrible whack 
 That he went down hill like a lightning streak, 
 And he failed to stop at Cripple Creek. 
 
 Since then I've wandered o'er mountain bold, 
 Still searching for that glittering gold, 
 My limbs are worn, my body weak, 
 Why didn't I stop at Cripple Creek? 
 
 'Tis forty years since I came to seek, 
 The gold that's hidden around Pike's Peak, 
 Since I made of myself an awful freak 
 By failing to stop at Cripple Creek. 
 
 I might have been a "Stratton" now, 
 
 With a golden wreath upon my brow 
 
 But instead, for a drink, I must "run my cheek," 
 
 'Cause I didn't stop at Cripple Creek. 
 
 151 
 
Alas for the words "It might have been," 
 The saddest they say of tongue or pen, 
 But the saddest words that I can speak, 
 Are, "I didn't stop at Cripple Creek." 
 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 I would not wish to have my name 
 Emblazoned in the "Hall of Fame;" 
 My memory I do not care 
 To have preserved in statues rare; 
 Let me but live in children's hearts, 
 Where all inherent goodness starts; 
 Let them all kindly think of me, 
 This would be immortality. 
 
 152 
 
DEC ? 1912 
 
iBjisa