... ' . .' 
 
 OWAANEO 
 
 PALE FLOWER 
 
 CUMMINS 
 
OWAANEO 
 
 PALE FLOWER 
 
 BY SCOTT CUMMINS 
 
 THE PILGRIM BARD 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 MUSINGS OF THE PILGRIM BARD 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 WINCHESTER, OKLAHOMA 
 
 RENFREW PRINTING COMPANY 
 
 1913 
 

 Copyright 1913 by Scott Cummins 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 >Ci.A346893 
 5 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The foundation of this poem is laid in the village of Quasqueton, 
 on the Wapsipinecon river in Buchanan county. Iowa, during the Pike's 
 Peak gold excitement. The ill-fated family alluded to who were massa- 
 creed by the Indians, consisted of James McPee, his wife and two chil- 
 dren, a boy and the little girl Ida. The bodies of Mr. McFee and his 
 wife and little boy were found in a horribly mutilated condition; but the 
 little girl was carried away by the blood-thirsty wretches and her where- 
 abouts was shrouded in mystery. AUTHOR. 
 
As a token of sincere respect and esteem for one of marked ability 
 as an elocutionist, as well as lady-like refinement, I have dedicated 
 this little poem to my friend, Miss Maude A. Drake, Professor of Read- 
 ing, Northwestern State Normal School, Alva, Okla. 
 
 THE PILGRIM BARD. 
 Winchester, Okla., Feb. 3, 1913. 
 
OWAflNEO— PALE FLOWER 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 Long, long ago; 
 
 How wearily time's pendulum swings to and fro, 
 
 The shadows of the past come trooping near, 
 
 Shadows from memory's mist e'en reappear, 
 I sec them, though I know to mortal ken 
 As 7nortals they will ne'er return again; 
 
 And yet they pass before my wistful eyes, 
 
 I see their smiles, nigh; hear their deep drawn sighs, 
 Imagination, aye it may be more, 
 That life's sweet childhood scenes again restore, 
 
 They come in answer to the fitful muse, 
 
 And with new fire my fagging brain infuse. 
 And 'mid the silence, 'neath the lamp light's glow, 
 I'll tell my story of the long ago. 
 
 * * * # # * * * 
 
 Yes it is long ago and the dust and cobwebs of ages, 
 
 Have stifled and clogged the brain cf many a statesman and scholar, 
 
 Yet there are indelible themes and bygones that I forget not, 
 
 But as the sun recedes, and the twilight of life approaches, 
 
 The past rises vividly up and unfolds as a panorama. 
 
 So is engraven this story, engraven its sorrowful finale. 
 
 Beginning w^ien life was young, its tendrils have e'er grown stronger, 
 
 Till it has become at last a part of my finite being, 
 
 Serving to demonstrate, how truth may be stranger than fiction. 
 
 Near the banks of a beautiful riVer.T dwelt in the days of my childhood, 
 
 Graceful and clear it flowed, down through the valley in summer, 
 
 Thickly the crystal ice lay on its bosom in winter, 
 
 Down through the valley it flowed, through forests of stately timber, 
 
 Down through forests of oak and sugar orchards of maple, 
 
 Elm and walnut and lind and the tall white trees of poplar, 
 
 Even the shaggy birch, with loose hanging bark like paper. 
 
 Scattered along a slope, near the beautiful river's margin 
 All in the opening mesa, nestled the village of Quasque, 
 Builded of logs in main, and roofed with the riven clap-board. 
 Some more pretentious fronts were fashioned of native lumber, 
 
For by a dam on the stream creaked the up and down strokes of a 
 
 sawmill. 
 Logs lay thickly around waiting their turn into lumber, 
 Creaking and jarring and jerking, steadily on went the sawmill, 
 One might have counted the strokes as it haggled its way through the 
 
 sawlog, 
 Yet every board that it cut was used without waiting for shrinking. 
 
 Hammer and saw and plane made a soul-cheering sound late and early 
 
 Sheltering shelterless heads of the pioneers of the village. 
 
 Nearby the old creaking saw, grumbled a ponderous millstone, 
 
 Run by the self same power, the old fashioned wheel in the water. 
 
 Slowly the upper stone turned, resembling the earth on its axis, 
 
 Made of flint it was gritty withal, and as soon as a grain was demolish 
 
 ed, 
 The burr never stopped for a rest but instantly tackled another. 
 The good miller bended with years, one day at his task fell to napping, 
 Full soon was he roused from his dreams, by the sound of the toll bell 
 
 fierce ringing, 
 And rising he rushed with alarm, not wishing the burrs to run empty, 
 And there sat a mouse catching grains, one by one as they fell from the 
 
 hopper. 
 The varmint was quickly dispatched and the toll bell at once ceased its 
 
 ringing 
 
 Yet why this digression to tell of a long ago wilderness village, 
 Far from the busy marts and remote from the steamboat landing, 
 Many such villages sprung up in the pioneer's pathway, 
 Marking the places where now stands many a populous city. 
 
 'Tis of a sweet, little playmate, tenderly now I am speaking, 
 Dark was her eye and her ringlets seemed like tresses of midnight, 
 'Mong all the rest she was peer, cared I a fig for none other; 
 She was the joy of my life, I seemed her unclouded sunshine. 
 Often her father and mother smiled when they saw us together; 
 Said what a sweet little couple, and how like a man and a woman. 
 
 One day in beginning of spring, as the ducks and geese wended north- 
 ward 
 
 And the snow was vanishing fast 'neath the warming rays of the sun- 
 shine, 
 Seemed the village agog and given away to excitement, 
 Wondrous stories were told of a mountain of ftold in the Rockies, 
 Gold in the sandy streams, gold in the roots of the grasses, 
 All were anxious to go to the fabulous region of fortune. 
 
Seemed the village would soon of inhabitants all be deserted. 
 
 One poor son of Erin seized with the golden fever, 
 
 Grasping the forelock of time, a wheelbarrow started to trundle 
 
 Bearing his earthly all, a pan and a pick and shovel, 
 
 But alas, for his over zeal, in the way he soon grew weary, 
 
 Weary and sore of foot, he branded it all a humbug. 
 
 But alas I saw with regret, the parents of sweet little Ida, 
 
 Were present to join the band that would go on the perilous journey. 
 
 Away o'er the desolate plains to the foot of the mighty Rockies, 
 
 Away o'er the desolate plains where wandered the merciless savage. 
 
 May was the time to start and all was hurry and bustle. 
 
 At last came the parting hour, though the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
 Darker yet were the clouds that fell on my youthful pathway. 
 
 We watched the caravan leave, till the last of the tented wagons 
 
 Passed from view o'er the ridge out of our sight forever. 
 
 So the incident passed and the daily routine of the village 
 
 Was broken ever anon by the creak of the emigrant wagon, 
 
 All through the summer time and almost into the winter, 
 
 Crazed with the thirst for gold, seemed people were reft of reason. 
 
 Days passed on into weeks, weeks into months in succession, 
 Still came no tidings back from the ill-fated train from Quasque. 
 One day the last of July, a message was brought to the village 
 Telling the direful fate, all had been brutally murdered, 
 FoiithI by a cavalry squad, murdered and scalped by the savage. 
 All of the bodies were there, all save the sweet little Ida; 
 She alone had been spared, sadder her fate than the others. 
 Sadly T wept the fate of my first fond childhood's idol. 
 
 Years passed slowly away, like a dream passed the days of my child- 
 hood, 
 Varied and shifting the scenes, and fortunes of life that I followed, 
 E'en in the days of my youth, war spread its desolation 
 Over our native land and threatened its dire destruction. 
 Sounded the fife and drum, calling to arms the loyal. 
 Sounded the bugle's blast, calling the hosts to assemble, 
 Herdsmen quitted their flocks, mechanics their shops deserted, 
 Husbandmen left their plows midway in the furrow standing, 
 Donning the coats of blue, grasping the sword and musket, 
 Leaving the peaceful homes for the ramn and the field of battle, 
 Mothers gave up their sons, wives bid adieu to husbands. 
 And many a maiden fair, bade a sad farewell to her lover. 
 Sad were those parting scenes, sad were those fond embraces, 
 
All seemed to realize that the parting might be forever. 
 
 Grasped by the maelstrom dire, carried away in the frenzy, 
 
 I, though a beardless boy, stockings and knee pants discarding, 
 
 Crawled in a suit of blue, but the sleeves of both coat and trousers 
 
 Not yet in battle worn, yielded to amputation. 
 
 As I mounted my prancing steed that fretted and champed his bitting, 
 
 Pistol and sabre in belt and slung with a ponderous carbine, 
 
 Never did knight of old, clad in redoubtable armor, 
 
 Peel as important as I, swelled till the brazen buckle 
 
 Clasping my sabre belt, clicked with the ponderous pressure. 
 
 Alas for the fires of youth, self valued youthful importance. 
 
 After many a weary march, and many a hard-fought battle 
 
 Charging a desperate foe, where men fell like leaves in autumn, 
 
 Needless it were to tell, the lot of a common soldier, 
 
 And when the war had ceased and peace returned to the nation, 
 
 I could have easily crawled into my little knee breeches, 
 
 And kneeling at mother's knee, my evening pray'r have repeated. 
 
 'Tis written that war is hell, but hell with its brimstone and lava 
 
 Would be like a spark from a flint compared with a warfare of brothers'. 
 
 Back from the tented field, begat of a wandering spirit, 
 
 Westward I wandered afar, where the pioneer vanguard assembled, 
 
 Where the buffalo roamed at will, and the red and the white hunter 
 
 followed. 
 Numberless were the herds that roamed o'er the short grass prairie. 
 Fat and juicy the steak, as the corn-fed steer of the butcher, 
 Soft were the shaggy robes we sold in the distant market. 
 Devious paths have I trod, and followed full many vocations, 
 But never a life I loved, as the life of a reckless hunter. 
 Shorn of profit withal and fraught with many privations, 
 Still in my dreams I follow the trail of the prairie monarch. 
 
 One day wandering far, I was caught in a fearful blizzard, 
 
 Merciless howled the wind, and shotted with ice seemed laden, 
 
 Out on the desolate plains, far from shelter or timber, 
 
 Naught could I do but drift, drift with the storm fiends fury. 
 
 Giving my pony the rein, swiftly he cantered onward. 
 
 Mile after mile I traveled, going I knew not whither, 
 
 Hour after hour the storm ever grew wilder and fiercer, 
 
 Yet the abiding faith, something I cannot account for, 
 
 Something within my soul, something that never deserts me, 
 
 Oft when there seems but a step 'twixt me and the gruesome monster, 
 
 Cometh a soothing balm, like a ray through a desolate storm cloud; 
 
 Well I knew and believed I would withstand the fury, 
 
 Outride the stormy blast, and the howl of the western blizzard. 
 
Call ye it superstition, call it predestination, 
 
 Wisdom is often warped, when grappling a difficult problem, 
 
 I know not, I care not, whence cometh this soul-cheering, faith-giving 
 
 comfort, 
 Welcome, thrice welcome, its presence, dark is a pathway without it. 
 
 Darkness came suddenly on, twilight being omitted, 
 Still the force of the maddening storm rather increased than abated. 
 Mile after mile I traveled, helpless as ship on the ocean 
 When caught in a dreadful typhoon, dismantled and reft of her rudder. 
 All at once through the darkness ahead, I saw a dim light in the dis- 
 tance, 
 Maybe some wanderer's camp, maybe the net work of fancy, 
 For oft doth a feverish brain, when nearing the reefs of destruction, 
 See the object it fondly desires, a vivid hallucination. 
 At times the light would flash upward, as if someone were stirring tbe 
 embers, 
 
 Then sink to a glimmering ray, like a spark in the gloomy surrounding. 
 
 Oft in the days gone by, in the swamps and southern morasses, 
 
 Had I seen the will-o-the-wisp, the mythical Jack with his lantern, 
 
 I have witnessed the meteor's glow, and the Aurora borealis, 
 
 Yet never before nor since, have I seen in a raging blizzard, 
 
 the ghastly, glimmering rays of a veritable ignis fat'uus. 
 
 Yet had I known the light were a gleam from the courts of Heaven, 
 
 Or a glimmer from hell's retort, all gladly would I have approached it. 
 
 Yet as hope was beginning to wane the way began to be rougher, 
 
 I might be nearing the hills, abounding in sheltering canyons, 
 
 Where deep in the rugged depths, I could baffle the storm fiend's fury. 
 
 At once the far away light drew nearer and nearer and nearer, 
 
 Till it lighted the landscape 'round like the flash from a locomotive. 
 
 Welcome the phantom light, coming from whence I knew not, 
 
 It lighted my perilous way down the side of a rugged canyon, 
 
 Where deep in the lonely gorge, I landed at last in safety, 
 
 Safe from the stormy blast, safe from the blizzard's fury. 
 
 Strangely as it had come, the magical light had vanished, 
 
 But soon a welcoming blaze, from lighted fagots of cedar 
 
 Lighted the rugged depths, as seldom 'twas wont to be lighted, 
 
 Doubtless disturbing the lair of loafer and mountain lion. 
 
 Turning my pony loose, I knew he -would never desert me, 
 
 For he lingered close to the fire, showing how well he enjoyed it, 
 
 I drew from my pockets a lunch that I had prepared in the morning. 
 
 I was weary and hungry and faint with battling the terrible blizzard, 
 
 Not a morsel had passed my lips since the long ago yesterday morning. 
 
 Dinner, supper and breakfast, three meals in one compounded. 
 
Then I filled and lighted my pipe, and gave myself over to study 
 My thoughts were of other days, and years that are gone forever 
 What a_ changeable, roving life I had led from the days of my childhood 
 Aandermg hither and thither, no wonder they call me Pilgrim 
 Yet at every shrine I kneel, to dust turns my fondest idols. 
 The first of my blasted hopes came in the days of my childhood; 
 Time failed to obliterate the image of sweet little Ida; 
 Oft of her fate I had pondered, oft for her fate had I shuddered 
 Carried away by a band of murdering, blanketed Indians, 
 Leaving no track or trace, or sign to identify them 
 
 I had wellnigh fallen asleep, and my pipe was beginning to smoulder 
 And as by instinct I raised my eyes from the firelight's gleaming 
 I beheld what caused me to start as though from a dreadful nightmare 
 Standing beyond the fire, as one who had just intruded, 
 The form of a man I knew so well in the days of my childhood 
 Just as I saw him last, as he left the village of Quasque 
 And down through the rocky ford, where rippled the beautiful Wapsi 
 Surely it was no dream, 'twas the father of sweet little Ida 
 Sudden I rose to my feet, extending my hand in greeting- 
 Sadly he waved me back and bade me again be seated 
 "Mortal I am no more," slowly the words he uttered, 
 "I am a wandering spirit, come to fulfill a mission. 
 All you know that happened, needs not that I recall it 
 Well could I rest in peace, my last fond mission accomplished 
 Ida, my beautiful child, lost to the earth is living- 
 Three days' journey from here, she rules as an Indian princess 
 Loved and revered by all the hordes of wild Comanches 
 None has she ever wed, not one ere essayed to woo her ' 
 Oh if you would only go and restore her once more to her people 
 Then could my spirit rest, my fondest mission accomplished. 
 Vanished the ghostly form, e'en as I would have spoken 
 Naught could my eyes discern but the form of m/ faithful broncho. 
 Perchance twas a vision wrought by vivid imagination, 
 I rose and replenished my fire, unfolded and spread my blankets, 
 Soon I was wrapped in their folds, wearily fell into slumber 
 In dreams again I'm a child on the banks of the rippling Wapsi, 
 pandering hand in hand with the beautiful, sweet little Ida 
 Sudden I sit upright, for the howling like fiends incarnate 
 Of wolves by hundreds, 'twould seem, were closing around to destro, 
 
 me. 
 
 My pony quaking with fright, was standing almost above me 
 
 I could see their glaring eyes, and could hear their fiendish snapping 
 
 Quicker than I can tell, I stirred the embers to blazing 
 
 Scattered the hungry pack with missies of lighted fagots 
 
 Then by the blazing fire, T wearily waited the morning 
 
 Soon o'er the canyons brink came the glimmering rays of twilight, 
 
 Peacefully rose the sun, for the blizzard had spent its fury 
 
And mounting my faithful broncho I turned my face to the eastward. 
 
 Over the gray grass plain, we joyfully bounded homeward. 
 
 Never a soul I told of the visiting apparition, 
 
 Yet oft I ponder and think of that night and my perilous journey, 
 
 Swept, as it were, on the wings of a howling, merciless blizzard, 
 
 Following a phantom light into a haven of safety, 
 
 All that to me appeared exceeding my comprehension, 
 
 Firmly I still believe, that truth is stranger than fiction. 
 
 Days went evenly by, and I tried to forget the occurrence, 
 I tried to persuade myself 'twas naught but a fitful vision 
 Wrought by the strain on my nerves, while wrestling the perilous bliz- 
 zard, 
 But by night and by day, my finer feelings were goaded, 
 'Twas an inert whisper of fate, or failing to do my duty, 
 Till at last came the resolution to follow fate's uttermost dictum. 
 Why should I hesitate, I who had never faltered, 
 Even courted the shades and halo of superstition. 
 Peril, perchance in store, but firmly as ever I trusted 
 To an Alwise Ruler on high, who notes e'en the falling sparrow. 
 
 Yet as I rode away, from my home in the western village, 
 
 I turned in my saddle to look a silent farewell of parting, 
 
 Well knew I 'twould be the last sight of human habitation 
 
 On which my eyes might rest till I saw it upon returning, 
 
 Weeks hence perchance even months, who could divine the sequel, 
 
 Yet 'twas no time to debate, westward the trail I must follow, 
 
 Follow the phantom of fate, and quiet my troublesome conscience. 
 
 Soon o'er the western divide, alone on the rolling prairie. 
 
 Spring, with her balmy breath, had started the flowers and grasses. 
 
 The killdee piped his lay, like a screech from a fife or bag pipe. 
 
 If there is a sound on earth, by a lonely traveler detested, 
 
 Tis the shrill, uncanny note of the spindle-shanked, whistling kildee. 
 
 'Twilight was coming on, the sun in the west had receded, 
 
 On the banks of a treeless stream, that wended its way through the 
 
 valley 
 I made my camp for the night and soon had a chip fire blazing. 
 Welcome its genial glow, for the night without was chilly. 
 Frugal my supper withal, short in its preparation, 
 Cold boiled beef and bread, and the indispensable coffee. 
 Weary, I soon was wrapped in my blankets in peaceful slumber, 
 Slept till the morning star, the (plainsman's "Joker") had risen. 
 Rising I stretched my limbs, and drew in the breath of a bellows. 
 Breath, of malaria void, breath by microbes untainted. 
 
So wore the days away. Veering my course southwestward, 
 
 The third night I camped again, in my former haven of safety. 
 
 Bounded my heart with joy as I wended my way down the canyon, 
 
 Down to the very spot where I stood off the merciless blizzard. 
 
 Even my faithful pony seemed in his way delighted, 
 
 It seemed home-like to me, and it seemed like home to my broncho. 
 
 Soon of the fagots dry, a cheerful fire I lighted, 
 
 Driving away the chill, making the scene right cheerful. 
 
 After my supper I gathered fuel to last till morning, 
 
 Of bloodthirsty, prowling wolves I had a faint recollection, 
 
 And as I laid me down twixt the folds of my blankets to slumber, 
 
 Chico, my faithful bronk, came up and lay down beside me. 
 
 Though not a word he spoke, I knew he had not forgotten 
 
 The night of our former stay, neath the sheltering trees of the canyon. 
 
 But the night sped peacefully by minus wolf or ghost or goblin, 
 
 Though ever anon afar the dismal howl of the loafer 
 
 Called up the vivid past, but they kept a respectful distance, 
 
 And as the dawn approached, and the wild birds' twittering carol 
 
 Called us to life again, called me again to the saddle. 
 
 Day after day passed by. passed without interruption 
 'Till the fourth day's sun in the west was scarcely above the horizon. 
 Weary as even approached, I was casting my eyes for a camping, 
 When all without warning came a change in the panorama. 
 My broncho sniffed the air, and pricked his small ears forward, 
 As if he were ill at east, or scented approaching danger. 
 It might be some prowling beast, or may hap a form less welcome, 
 Yet I swerved neither right nor left, regardless of what might follow. 
 Ere this I had counted the cost, even weighed my life in the balance. 
 As I neared the brink of a gulch, from which scraggy treetops protrud- 
 ed, 
 My Pony snorted aloud, and threw himself back on his haunches 
 As up from the canyon arose two score or more of dark vultures. 
 Flapping their sable wings on a summit hard by, alighted. 
 Casting my eyes adown, their gruesome prey I detected, 
 There in the ditch below, all swollen, a putrid carcass, 
 There lay a pony above the motionless form of his rider. 
 Face down and to all intents as dead as the horse above him. 
 Though the features I could not see, no index to aid I needed, 
 The horse was an Indian horse, the hapless rider an Indian. 
 
 Dismounting, I dropped my rein, approaching the scene with caution, 
 
 Yet who can imagine the thrill, my very being pervaded. 
 
 When the face turned slowly up and he opened his eyes upon me. 
 
 He moved his lips to speak, but only the faintest gurgle, 
 
 Naught could he even whisper, all in vain was the effort, 
 
Quickly I threw my rope o'er the neck of the putrid pony. 
 
 And mounting my broncho's back, at once overturned the carcass, 
 
 Then I carried his helpless form ouout to the upper level. 
 
 Laying him gently down on the carpet prepared by nature, 
 
 T poured in his feverish lips, a portion of whiskey and water, 
 
 For I knew if aught would recall an Indian from death's dark portals 
 
 'Twas the drink that the red men love, whiskey, the great fire-water. 
 
 The spirits began their work, for soon he showed signs of reviving, 
 But shortly elapsed into sleep, seemingly all unconscious. 
 Oft would his muscles twitch, as though he would shortly awaken. 
 I felt that his end was near, yet fondly I hoped to revive him; 
 Much might I learn from him, to aid in my hopeless mission. 
 
 The sun had gone down in the west, twilight the scene pervaded 
 T must camp and await results, deftly by fate all hidden. 
 The moon, well nigh to the full, shone sweet in its mellow splendor, 
 And the cheerful light of my fire illumined the weird surroundings. 
 
 So wore the hours away, 'twixt dozing and meditation, 
 
 Till midnight had come and passed and I longed for a peaceful slumber. 
 
 Anon the prowling wolf, a mournful solo would offer, 
 
 While the coyotes far and near, would join the infernal chorus. 
 
 Strangely as it may seem, an irresistible stupor 
 
 Stole over my being all, and soon I was fitfully dozing, 
 
 Yet the sweet and refreshing nap was of short duration. 
 
 The sound of a human voice caused me at once to awaken. 
 
 I looked and the Indian's form to a sitting posture had risen, 
 
 His body swayed to and fro, his death chant gloomily singing. 
 
 Now was my time to work. I gave him again of the spirits. 
 
 "Good," were the words he said, and feebly his right hand offered. 
 
 And by the aid of signs, his story he thus related: 
 
 Pour days ago said he, on a journey I scarce had started 
 
 Away to the northern land started to carry a message. 
 
 Not far from this fatal spot his pony grew wild with frenzy, 
 
 Bolted and reared and pitched, till into the ditch he tumbled, 
 
 Pinioned him fast to the earth, dead lay the horse above him. 
 
 Vainly he cried aloud; naught but the wolves gave answer. 
 
 The village had moved the morn that he had started upon his journey, 
 
 Even now they were miles away toward the plains at the foot of the 
 
 Rockies. 
 I asked him the name of his tribe. Comanche! Great God! Comanche! 
 Speak to me dying wretch, where is the great Owaaneo, 
 Where is the pale face flower, the beautiful Owaaneo? 
 He buried his face in his hands, as he said in a low hoarse whisper 
 
Owaaneo no more lives in the bear skin teepe, 
 Ten sleeps ago, said he, her spirit began its journey, 
 O'er the sunless, moonless path to the red man's great hereafter, 
 Decked all in bright array and crowned with eagle plumage, 
 Wild were the mourners all, the tribe of the wild Comanches. 
 None had such cause of grief, as I for the sweet pale flower, 
 She was a daughter to me, I had her death prevented, 
 Over her fair young head stood a warrior with tomahawk gleaming, 
 When I with a frantic leap, laid him low 'mong the pale face'd stran; 
 ers. 
 
 Ever from that she clung to my strong right arm for protection. 
 All learned to love her well, her will was the law infinite. 
 
 I — but he spoke no further, backward he fell exhausted. 
 Vainly I strove to rouse him, gone was his spirit forever. 
 Entered the darksome walk, through the sunless, moonless valley; 
 Gone with his story half said, gone ere the final he uttered. 
 
 Long I sat and mused. So was my journey ended. 
 
 Ida, the sweet pale flower, was gone from the earth forever, 
 
 Gone from the ones who loved her, gone from her bearskin tepee, 
 
 Yet had I done my duty, e'en to the uttermost limit, 
 
 And as the morning dawned, sadly my pony I mounted, 
 
 Back o'er the desert waste, safe to the western village, 
 
 Yet with the thoughts imbued, truth is stranger than fiction. 
 
 Farewell, my tale is told, my story done, 
 A story tinged with sadness when begun, 
 And as the threads unravel one by one, 
 
 Still sad but true; 
 Though lightly from your minds the story pass, 
 As sun-kissed dewdrops vanish from the grass, 
 To me 'tis e'en as wormwood in the glass. 
 
 Kind friends, adieu. 
 
The Last of the Mesquoquies 
 
Arn 
 
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