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IsARIATTES 
 
 A Book of Poems and Favorite 
 Recitations. 
 
 BY 
 
 CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD 
 
 "the poet scout." 
 
 The Devil has sport 
 
 With the long-faced sort, 
 That BAW'Slike a motherless calf: 
 
 But the Devil will beat 
 
 A hasty retreat 
 When you open your face and laugh. 
 
 WILLIAM A. BI^U- 
 
 PtJBLISHER. 
 
 SIGOURNEY, IOWA. 
 1U04. 
 

 P. 
 
i 
 
 A STARTER. 
 
 For several years, often without the least provocation, I have 
 been in the habit of reciting my poems and singing my songs 
 whenever I could corral a squad of friends and my old comrades 
 yet possessing vitality enough to survive the affliction. So far 
 I have escaped with my life, and with but few bruises, for 
 which I am truly grateful to the kind providence which has stood 
 by me. 
 
 Often after reciting some of the crude offspring of my some- 
 what erratic brain, I have been besieged by comrades and friends 
 who desired to secure copies of them, and on innumerable occa- 
 sions I have been urged to group them together in a little book, 
 so that all might secure them. Yielding to these many impor- 
 tunities, and since my first book is out of print, I have selected a 
 few that I regard as the best of my poems and songs, and I now 
 send them forth under the title "Lariettes," with a brief sketch 
 by John G. Scorer. If I can Lariette your affections for this 
 little volume, is it possible you may wish to secure an autograph 
 copy of my forthcoming book which will be elegantly bound and 
 profusely illustrated, "Dot Leedle Cripple Boy," alone, having 
 five excellent pictures by a well known artist. Should you desire 
 a copy with autograph send me your name. The price will be 
 $1.25 or $1.50. 
 
 Yours In Clouds or Sunshine, 
 
 "CAPT. JACK" CRAWFORD, 
 
 Press Club, N. Y. 
 
♦•i^* •{•♦♦•i- •{•♦•i'* ♦♦♦J'* •I'*** •{••$••§•+ ♦♦•J'* *•{••{♦♦ 4.^^^ *^*4 ♦♦♦•i' 
 
 * DEAR READER--JUST ANOTHER WORD: % 
 
 t t 
 
 * As was stated on the foregoing page, that since * 
 
 ? my first and last book has been out of print thous- ^ 
 
 * ands of people, mostly young people, have asked -f 
 
 J* T 
 
 iji me where they could secure copies of poems which T 
 
 they have heard me recite, and as I have written + 
 
 * 
 
 t 
 
 * hundreds of copies, or dictated them, for friends, 
 ^ I finally consented to allow my friend, William A. i| 
 
 * Bell, to put these poems and sketches together in * 
 ^ his own way, in order that those who desired so to * 
 A do could secure a copy at a reasonable price. As ^ 
 
 * my duties have prevented me from giving this my •§• 
 ^ . personal attention I would simply ask the critics * 
 4. to spare the author and the printer as this is just 4. 
 t a makeshift, and, yet there are bits of soul and ♦ 
 || sunshine herein which will make you forget its | 
 
 * crudeness. 1 
 
 t ? 
 
 X Yours in Clouds or Sunshine, "^ 
 
 X "*" 
 
 I CAPT. JACK CKAWFORD. t 
 
 ± * 
 
 i t 
 
A UNIQUC CHARACTER IN AMEHiCAN LITERATURE. 
 
 CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD, " THK POKT SCOUT," 
 By John G. Scorer. 
 
 " THE POET SCOUT." 
 
 CAPT. Jack Crawford is a 
 iriost remarkable man, and 
 'dtie of America's few re- 
 maining picturesque characters. 
 He is not a church man, yet he is 
 accomplishing a Christian work 
 which will certainly secure for him 
 a very light cros^-examination when 
 
 called r.p for a final 
 disposition of his case 
 at the bar of heaven. 
 He is a most eloquent 
 preacher, yet not an 
 expounder of the gos- 
 pel as interpreted by 
 any creed or sect. I 
 "hink he has read the 
 Bible a little, for I have 
 heard him quote or en- 
 deavor to quote pas- 
 sages of Scripture to 
 sustain a point of argu- 
 ment or clinch an asser- 
 tion, yet candor com- 
 pels me to say that ii. 
 several instances he 
 gave credit to Shake- 
 speare for the utter- 
 ances of the New Testa- 
 ment apostles. 
 
 Captain Crawford is 
 a self-made man, a:id 
 he has no reason to 
 feel ashamed of the job. 
 In gleaning for the 
 golden grains of knowl- 
 edge in the great field 
 of education, he never 
 had the assistance of a 
 ' school teacher or a 
 school book. Until he 
 reached the age of fif- 
 teen, the English alphabet was as 
 meaningless to him as is the Chinese 
 alphabet to the average schoolboy. 
 When, as a boy soldier, he was 
 borne away from the bloody field of 
 Spotsylvania with a hip shattered 
 by a rebel bullet, and was sent to a 
 northern hospital, he knew as little 
 
of books as the modern policemaL 
 knows of the majesty of the law. 
 
 While lying upon a cot of pain in 
 the Saterlee hospital at Philadel- 
 phia, one of the attending Sisters of 
 Charity learned of his illiteracy and 
 asked him if he would not like to 
 learn to read and write. He 
 grasped at this proffered key to the 
 door of knowledge with an earnest- 
 ness which startled the black-robed 
 sister, and in an hour she was seat- 
 ed by his cot patiently pointing out 
 to him the different formations of 
 the letters of the alphabet. He 
 proved an apt scholar, and in a very 
 short time after taking his initial 
 lesson, he was able to " print " with 
 a pencil and make some very com- 
 mendable efforts at spelling some of 
 the simpler words. While lying 
 upon his cot he wrote the first let- 
 ter of his life, a printed epistle to 
 his mother, and although he began 
 it " Deer Mother " and closed with 
 'J Yure woonded Sun," it is safe to 
 assume that no mother ever more 
 highly prized a missive from her 
 soldier boy than did Mrs. Crawford 
 that crude, uncouth, misspelled 
 letter which came from the field of 
 war to her cottage home amid 
 Pennsylvania's coal-bowelled hills. 
 He soon learned to read, and when 
 able to again join his regiment at 
 the front astonished his father, a 
 soldier of the same company, by 
 reading to him a letter received 
 from his mother on the day he left 
 the hospital. 
 
 Shortly after the close of the war, 
 young Crawford sought for a more 
 stirring life than a dull eastern vil- 
 lage could afford, by going to the 
 far western frontier. And here, in 
 this connection, is a bit of informa- 
 tion which I believe has never be- 
 fore appeared in print. He was 
 one of the first party of seven in- 
 trepid men to enter the Black Hills 
 country in defiance of the lurking 
 red men and the warnings of the 
 
 military authorities. While Custei 
 City was being built, the Indians be- 
 came unpleasantly aggressive, and 
 a company, known as " the Black 
 Hills Rangers," was formed to 
 scout the surrounding country and 
 protect the workmen from at»tack 
 by meeting and beating back ad- 
 vancing bands of savages. At the 
 organization of the company. Craw- t 
 ford was unanimously elected its 1 
 captain, and, with the well-known J 
 antipathy felt by frontiersmen '^ 
 toward family names, he was known 
 throughout the hills as he has since 
 become known all over the land as 
 " Captain Jack." That appellation, 
 fastened to him by his dashing 
 comrades of the Rangers, will stick 
 to him through life, and if his pres- 
 ent advancement can be taken as 
 an evidence of his future triumphs 
 in the fields of literature and ora- 
 tory, the name will live long after 
 his body has crumbled into dust. - 
 
 The story of his great work as a 
 scout and as chief of scouts for the 
 armies of the frontier in desperate 
 and exciting Indian campaigns ha,, 
 been rehearsed in the public prints 
 again and again. His admirable 
 record in that perilous calling 
 stands resplendent on the pages ol 
 the history of Indian campaigning . 
 in the West. The excellent creden- [ 
 tials he bears from military com- 
 manders establish the fact that he 
 stands second to no man since the 
 days of Kit Carson in intelligent 
 guiding, fearless scouting and deeds 
 of personal daring in the field of 
 Indian warfare. Go through the 
 military posts of the far West and 
 ask the older soldiers of him, and 
 the utterances of the superior offi- 
 cers will be fully corroborated. 
 Talk to the old-time frontiersmen 
 who toiled and battled with the ad- 
 vance in the great march of progress 
 and civilization, and they will bear 
 willing and earnest testimony to his 
 gallant services in the trying davs 
 
 \ 
 
when almost every bush concealed 
 a painted foeman, and danger lurk- 
 ed behind almost every rock near 
 the trail. Draw the distinguished 
 scout himself into conversation re- 
 s^arding the days when the savage 
 Indians pursued the shaggy buffalo 
 over the ground now brought to 
 fruitfulness by the gleaming plow 
 of the farmer, and in unguarded 
 jnoments (for modesty is a marked 
 trait of his character) he will let 
 fall hints of daring deeds, of desper- 
 ate adventure, which leads the 
 listener to eagerly long' for a feast 
 of recital of which li£ has given but 
 a taste. He will with fervid elo- 
 quence relate the daring deeds of 
 comrade scouts, will depict in glow- 
 ing word pictures the gallantry of 
 officers 'and enlisted men in desper- 
 ate situations, but when his own 
 acts in such warlike affairs are 
 touched upon he modestly belittles 
 them or becomes as dumb as the 
 proverbial oyster. 
 
 " If all this be true," you ask, 
 " why is it that while the praises of 
 a few other scouts have for years 
 been sung all over the land, Craw- 
 ford was but seldom heard of until 
 brought into prominence by his elo- 
 quence, his literary work and his 
 wonderful powers of entertain- 
 ment?" 
 
 The question is easily answered. 
 Its solution lies in the sense of mod- 
 esty referred to above. While a 
 very few other scouts and a large 
 number of " fakirs " who never saw 
 a day's Indian service courted the 
 novelist and the untruthful sensa- 
 tional correspondent, Crawford com- 
 batted them and bitterly denounced 
 their gross exaggerations and un- 
 truthful pictures of frontier life and 
 character. While other border char- 
 acters have been known to pa\- 
 handsome sums of money to these 
 vultures which hover o\er the field 
 of literature to make them the lieroes 
 of mythical adventures and hold 
 
 them up to public view as dashing, 
 fearless men who laughed at peril 
 and who on the least provocation 
 slaughtered Indians with ruthless 
 hand, Crawford warned the con- 
 scienceless warts on the face of jour- 
 nalism or the vipers who scattered 
 their venom to the youth of the land 
 through the pages of the flash novel 
 that should any of them use his 
 name in their unnatural and un- 
 truthful stories, he would call them 
 to account in a most vigorous man- 
 ner. By this conscientious course 
 he gained the warmest commenda- 
 tion of the officers of the army, and 
 of all the truth-loving men of the 
 West. Subsequently when other 
 scouts and would-be scouts sought 
 to bolster up the questionable fame 
 given them by the writers of fiction 
 by posing as dashing Indian slayers 
 and cut- throats in the arena of the 
 wild west show or on the stage in 
 the vile blood-and-thunder border 
 drama, Crawford quietly and mod- 
 estly worked his way to the front 
 in the higher field of literature and 
 platform entertainment. And note 
 the result. The better classes of 
 people have become sickened of 
 men who call attention to their 
 prowess by the wild whoop of de- 
 fiance and the crack of the blank 
 cartridge charged six-shooter until 
 one of these buckskinned frauds on 
 the streets of a city now attracts less 
 attention from the general public 
 than a slant-eyed Chinaman. The 
 so-called cowboys in the wild west 
 show and in the wild west adjunct 
 to the circus and the bogus scouts 
 who figure in the same ridiculous 
 imitations of western scenes draw 
 less pay than the " nigger singers " 
 who appear in the concert which 
 follows the big show, and wor"-; 
 chiefly for the false standing as 
 heroes which they attain in the 
 eyes of the inexperienced village 
 youth and the more ignorant serv- 
 ant girls of the larger cities. Like 
 
'"Xhello, they will soon be out of a 
 job, for the attractiveness of the 
 wild west extravaganza is waning, 
 and has become uninteresting if not 
 obnoxious to the better classes of 
 people all over the land. 
 
 On' the other hand, Jack Craw- 
 ford is but entering the precincts of 
 public admiration. As the fading 
 star of the over-drawn bloody side 
 of border life pales and sinks into 
 obscurity, his sun is rising and 
 shedding the light of truth upon the 
 habits and customs of the great 
 west land which he loves so well, 
 and blotting from the minds of the 
 people of the East the false impres- 
 sions planted there by the howling 
 terrors of the show arena. While 
 the delineators of impossible and 
 improbable scenes of border life 
 now cater only to depraved tastes 
 and are not recognized save by the 
 lower strata of society, Captain 
 Crawford is held in esteem by the 
 brightest minds of the age, his 
 friendship is prized by artists, au- 
 thors and refined people generally, 
 and he has entree into social circles 
 which must remain forever barred 
 to those whose reputations have 
 been made by the fiction writer, 
 "..nd who aspire only to be looked 
 upon as men who love blood and 
 warfare. His words regarding the 
 border land bear the golden stamp 
 of truth, and the people believe 
 them. They banish from their 
 minds the false, blood-bespattered 
 pictures planted there by the wild 
 west showman and sigh with rcliet 
 as they do so, and welcome, with 
 unbounded satisfaction, the pictures 
 of the romantic, beautiful West as 
 dep^'cted by this true scout and 
 boraerman. When the transitory 
 fame of the score of buckskinned 
 characters now before the public 
 has faded'into nothingness and their 
 names are recalled with feelings 
 akin to disgust, the name and fame 
 o" this true son of the border, this 
 
 scout-author, frontier orator and 
 gallant soldier, will be held in es- 
 teem in the great East^s it is now 
 honored and beloved in his own 
 West. 
 
 And now I come to the; great 
 work referred to in the opening 
 lines of this article. During his 
 long experience in the West, Captain 
 Crawford has seen painful evidences 
 of the results of dime novel reading 
 on the part of the young boys of 
 America. In western jails and pen- 
 itentiaries, in the slums of western 
 cities, in western hotels and res- 
 taurants, washing dishes for their 
 food, and in a few instances on beds 
 of death in western hospitals he has 
 met with poor, unfortunate, deluded 
 boys and young men led thither in 
 search of adventure through reading 
 the debasing border literature with 
 which the land is flooded. On his 
 eastern visits, scarcely a day passes 
 without some novel-crazed youth 
 seeking him out to ask his advice 
 as to which portion of the West of- 
 fers the most fruitful field for heroic 
 adventure, and as to the proper out- 
 fit which one should secure who 
 purposes to go into the hero busi- 
 ness. On such occasions, no matter 
 how busy he may be, and he is a 
 very busy man, he lays all else aside 
 and delivers the deluded youth a 
 lecture which shatters his idols and 
 scuds him away frightened at his 
 near approach to the precipice of 
 ruin and degradation. At his every 
 public entertainment he devotes ? 
 portion of his time to a talk to boys 
 on this line, and at the close fathers 
 and mothers crowd forward to take 
 him by the hand and thank him for 
 opening the eyes of their children 
 to the baneful results of reading 
 that class of literature. But recent- 
 ly he was sent by a lyceum bureau 
 to give an entertainment in one of 
 Chicago's most prominent churches. 
 There were many boys in the audi- 
 ence, and he pain<^?d the evils of 
 
 i 
 
novel reading in words so bmniug, 
 so earnest and so convincing, that 
 many of the young victims, of that 
 vice sat trembling in tlieir seats.. It 
 was a presentation of the case which 
 they never can forget. At the close 
 of the entertainment, a royal ovation 
 was tendered the eloquent scout, 
 and the honored pastor, Rev. Mar- 
 tin, of Grace M. E. Church, thrilled 
 Inth. pleasure at what he pronounced 
 most eloquent sermon, asked the 
 •ptain to occupy his pulpit on the 
 Allowing Sunday evening and 
 _ preach condemnation of vile litera- 
 ture and depict the beauties of tem- 
 perance as he did on that occasion. 
 The iinusual invitation was accept- 
 ed, and a very large congregation 
 came but to listen to the gifted wesl;- 
 ern'er and he was warmly congratu- 
 lated on his pure, grand utterances. 
 A few weeks since, at Whitewater, 
 Wisconsin, on invitation of Rev. 
 Mr. Cole, pastor of the M. E.. 
 Church, he filled the pulpit and ad- 
 dressed an audience which filled ev- 
 ery seat and many chairs placed in 
 the aisles, and more than three hun- 
 dred persons were turned away un- 
 able to gain admission. This seems 
 wonderful in light of the fact that 
 Captain Crawford is not a professed 
 Christian, not a member of any 
 t rch, and was but a short time 
 ' ■ a warrior battling with hostile 
 I 4- Jians on the western frontier. In 
 ^-litroducing him, the Whitewater 
 pastor explained that the Captain 
 was not a church man, and added : 
 " I am glad he is not. He is doing a 
 grauder work outside of the church 
 than he would be able to accomplish 
 if within. He reaches those whom 
 the church cannot reach." 
 
 A few weeks ago Captain Craw- 
 ford went to Pontiac on invitation 
 of I^Iajor McClaughty, Superintend- 
 ent of the State Reformatory, and 
 addressed the boys confined in that 
 institution. Hjs youthful audience 
 was moved to tears as in his phras- 
 
 ing, musical voice he pointed out to 
 them the beautiful paths of moral- 
 ity every one of them could tread: 
 after leaving the institution, and in- 
 vivid colors depicted the shame and 
 suffering consequent upon a life of 
 immorality. He told them stories 
 of the West, uprooted from their 
 young minds the ideas planted there 
 by dime novel reading, a habit 
 which was the cau.se of many of 
 them being there as prisoners. The 
 superintendent did not hesitate to 
 say that the talk did more real good 
 to the unfortunate boys than would 
 all the sermons that could be 
 preached to them. The Y. M. C. 
 A.'s have sought him out. He has 
 frequent calls to visit Sabbath 
 Schools, and responds in every in- 
 stance when it is possible to do so. 
 With an enthusiasm born of a pure 
 heart and a great fund of sympathy 
 and love for the young people of 
 the land, he labors tirelessly in this 
 new field, and the heartfelt ble.'^sings 
 of grateful parents and the benedic- 
 tions of good people ever}-where 
 come to him as a reward for his 
 most effective missionary, work, If 
 he were as well known in his efforts 
 to combat the pernicious influences 
 of lurid fiction as other western 
 men are known in the debasing 
 blood-and-thunder drama and the 
 contaminating wild west arena, both 
 of which fill the minds of boys with 
 false and dangerous ideas of the 
 West and its romances, he would be 
 able to respond to but a very small 
 percentage of the • calls for him 
 which would come in from every 
 portion of the broad land. 
 
 Captain Jack Crawford's star i.^ 
 in the ascendant. It grows bright- 
 er and brighter, and ere another 
 5 ear has been stricken from the 
 calendar of time the " Poet Scout" 
 vnll be known and honored, every- 
 where within the limits of Amer- 
 ica. Such a light cannot be hidden 
 Wilder a bushel. 
 
10 
 
 The following extracts from recent 
 testimonials will show that Mr. 
 Scorer's predictions regarding the 
 "Poet Seout", are coming true. He is 
 recognized to-day, as one of the great- 
 est Lyceum and Chautuaqua attrac- 
 tions in America, while in the sunny 
 South, he is rated only second to Gov- 
 ernor Bob Taylor. He appeared on 
 the same platform, week of May 4th 
 this year, at Hawkinsville, Georgia, 
 Chautauqua with Bob Taylor, Sam 
 Jones and Tom Watson; and after 
 acting as substitute for Georgia's 
 favorite son and famous orator, Gen- 
 eral John B. Gordon, at Albany, 
 Georgia, April 28th last. The mayor 
 of Albany and Superintendent of the 
 Chautauqua wrote to Captain Jack's 
 manager:— "I wish to thank you for 
 having suggested and supplied Cap- 
 tain Jack Crawford as a substitute 
 for General Gordon. They differ from 
 each other only as stars differ in glory. 
 As an entertainer "Captain Jack" is 
 a "sui generis," and altogether unique 
 and I commend him to any who wish 
 strength combined with gentleness, 
 poetry with eloquence, and the truly 
 artistic in a picturesque setting." 
 
 Governor Terrell, who with his staff 
 sat on the platform, wrote on the same 
 day:— "Having to-day heard Captain 
 Jack Crawford, the Poet Scout, lec- 
 ture before the chatauqua assembly, I 
 voluntarily bear testimony to the 
 picturesqueness of his personality, 
 the earnestness and eloquence of his 
 address and the fine moral tone of all 
 he said. His patriotic sentiments and 
 fraternal devotion to the future unity 
 of heart and a purpose in our native 
 land deserve to be heard and applaud- 
 ed by men and women of all politics, 
 religions and national ambitions of 
 the best character." 
 
 And from a member of the Gov- 
 ernor's staff :— "On behalf of scores of 
 the leading gentlemen composing the 
 staff of the Governor of Georgia, in- 
 cluding lawyers, bankers, journalists 
 and publicists, I certify that Capt. 
 Jack Crawford's lecture at Albany 
 Chautauqua to-day was one of the most 
 
 unique, pathetic and patriotic ad- 
 dreses they have ever enjoyed. We 
 earnestly commend him to the con- 
 fidence and cordial hearing of our fel- 
 low citizens throughout the Union." - 
 Rev. Sam W. Small, Evangelist and 
 Lecturer, Lieu, and Aid-de-camp of 
 the Governor of Georgia. 
 
 And just as we are going to press 
 comes this letter from the Ottawa 
 Chautauqua assembly: — "I want to take 
 this method of letting you know 
 how I appreciate you and your work. 
 Your entertainment at our assembly 
 was unique, strong and elevating. 
 None drew a larger crowd nor called 
 forth so many hearty commendations. 
 You are a whole first class show all by 
 yourself. Your address last Sunday 
 afternoon in the country was thor- 
 oughly enjoyed, and of very great prof- 
 it to the people. God bless Captain 
 Jack. Come again You are doing 
 great good. Yours faithfully, — C. S. 
 NusBAUM, Secretary." 
 
 And from the Topeka Capital of 
 July 14 th: — "The credit of drawing the 
 largest crowd in attendance at the 
 Assembly belongs to the 'Poet Scout' 
 and he entertained his hearers most 
 excellently." 
 
 "The entertainment given by Captain 
 Jack Crawford, the poet scout, in 
 the G. A. R. Opera House, Shamokin, 
 Pa., was unique in matter, intensely 
 interesting in manner, and wholesome 
 in tone and moral effect, Captain 
 Crawford proved himself a master of 
 an art, with no superiors and few 
 equals. The facts and incidents which 
 make 'The Virginian' one of the most 
 popular and widely read books of re- 
 cent issue, will make Mr. Crawford one 
 of the most popular and most sought 
 after entertainers on the platform of to- 
 day. He has the advantage of this 
 comparison, however, in that he is not 
 a fictitious character, but one of the 
 most unique and interesting personali- 
 ties to be met anywhere. In addition 
 to these interesting settings, the moral 
 tone and elevating character of his en- 
 tertainments are much higher and 
 more clearly defined and applied than 
 can be said of the popular book re- 
 ferred to " 
 
 "Captain Crawford is a practical 
 champion of total abstinence and pure 
 literature. He has a mission and a 
 message both of which are most worth- 
 ily filled and conscientiously spoken." 
 
 Jas D. Gilland, 
 Pastor Presbyterian Church, Shamo- 
 kin, Pa., Sept. 4. 1903. 
 
11 
 
 THE REAL WILD WEST. 
 
 The true boy, and nearly every true girl, has a period in life 
 of "Wishing to get away from civilization and strike out in an in- 
 dependent existence. It is a perfectly natural and healthy wish; 
 but like all of the best impulses of life, it has to be tempered 
 with judgment and guided by experience To boys this wild 
 longing generally takes the form of a desire to get out on the 
 plains, to seek the frontiers of civilization, and carve out fame 
 and fortune from the conditions supposed to prevail there. Yel- 
 low-covered fiction and the sensational nickel literature of the 
 day have pictured the possibilities of frontier life in glowing 
 colors. They are probably responsible for the ruin of many a 
 life that might have been saved to society but for their baleful 
 influence upon the young imagination . The dime novel and the 
 nickel story paper do not tell the truth about the "Wild West." 
 The boy who pins his faith to them makes a mistake. 
 
 There is one man today who knows all about frontier life, 
 He is trying to make people in the East understand something 
 of its realities Capt. Jack Crawford went out to the frontier 
 when a young man. He had no money, he had no friends who 
 had any influence. His sole available moral asset was a promise 
 which he had made to his mother that he would never drink a 
 drop of intoxicating liquor so long as he lived "Captain Jack," 
 as he is nearly always called, believes that this- promise has been 
 the basis of all the success that he has ever had in life. He has 
 kept the promise faithfully. He has lived in Mexico, Arizona, 
 Wyoming and all through the cattle country in the West through 
 its very wildest period. From 1879-1885 he was Chief of Scouts 
 during the Indian campaigns. He was with General Hatch, 
 Buell, Lawton, Miles and Chaffee, and he was afterwards ap- 
 pointed Post Trader by Eobert Lincoln, who was then Secretary 
 of War. He has acted, too, as Sheriff and Deputy Sheriff through 
 different parts of the great Western territory, and in all the 
 years of roughing it in the wilds he has never tasted any kind of 
 iij^xicating liquors, and kept his promise to a dear mother, 
 which is the search-light of the world, for any boy who loves his 
 
mother and obeys her wishes can conquer. "Hasn't it been hard 
 not to?" I asked him, as we sat chatting together one day. 
 "Why, yes," he said; "nothing that is worthwhile comes easy. 
 I have had a man pnt his rev-.lver to my head and tell me I had 
 to drink, it you call that hard, but I never drank, and for all 
 of the threats that have been made me on that account I have 
 never had a bullet in my head yet. You people in the East do 
 not know our "Western country," Captain Jack continued, "and I 
 wish you did. I wish I could get a million boys and young men 
 together and tell them the truth about it. If I could climb to 
 the top of the ladder of fame and society, I would want to get 
 right back into the slums among the boys and tell them what I 
 know about the real wild West. I would tell them that what 
 they have been reading about it and what they have seen repre- 
 sented as scenes and characters from the Wild West are simply 
 the outcome of the imagination of people who ^re trying to in- 
 jure the boys instead of to do them good. There are no such 
 scenes enacted as these boys read of in the dime-noyel literature 
 and the dime-novelist's dreams that are presented to them: but 
 many of the brightest and best boys are induced to leave good 
 homes and run away into the West by these same dime novels." 
 Captain Jack is a most interesting personality. Even as a 
 boy his ability to tell a good yarn to make the time pass pleas- 
 antly caused him to be entertained around the officers" camp- 
 fires He got, he says, his first glimpse of a better sort of life 
 than the average frontier boy falls into by listening to the taik 
 of the officers around these same campfires. He made lip his 
 mind that he liked that sort of thing better than the talk and 
 the associations of the frontier saloon and the dance house, which 
 were the common gatliering places of his k^nd and he set himself 
 to become fit for it He learned to read and to write. He formed 
 his manners from the best of what he saw about him. He saved 
 his money, and gradually, by sheer force of right living and his 
 own charming personality, he gained entrance into the best of 
 frontier circles Then he went to London: was well received 
 there. From San Francisco to New York, and in London he is 
 
known as the prince of companions— a man who can make a 
 speech, or write a poem or tell a capital story at a moment's 
 notice. And he has accomplished all this without breaking his 
 promise to his mother. It has taken grit, but Captian Jack had 
 grit. He has ability too. but as he said himself when we talked 
 with him, '-The ability that I have is of the sort that, if I were 
 a drinking man, I might be using today as a bar room entertain- 
 er, instead of among my dear and delightful friends in their 
 homes the world over. But, oh, I wish I could get ar the boys- 
 all those dear boys that swarm the streets of New York and who 
 are going to be men one of these days. 1 never see a lot of them 
 that I do not wonder what sort of men they are going to be 
 
 '•I was coming from my iiotel on Christmas Day when a little 
 urchin ran up to me with a newspaper. As he ran he fell, and 
 some other boys got ahead of him and tried to sell me a paper- 
 but 1 refused to buy until the little fellow came up, half crying, 
 with liis papers I handed him half a dollar, and when he reached 
 in his pockets to get me the change I said, 'Never mind, sonny, 
 Keep the change ' He looked up in my face and said, 'Say Mis- 
 ter, you're a torobred.' Now that was the only Christmas pres- 
 ent that 1 had that day, biit to my mind it was the best I could 
 have had." 
 
 Such is Capt. Jack Crawford— Cowboy, Scout, Frontiersman 
 and lover of boys. There is a lesson in his life for every boy who 
 reads about him.— Household Ledger, New York. 
 
 Captain Jack is of Scotch-Irish parentage and was a child 
 when brought to this country. As a boy he was put to work as a 
 slatepicker in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. 
 
 When the civil war broke out Crawford was sixteen years old. 
 With his father he joined the famous "Miner's regiment" and 
 began his military career. He was wounded twice and saw hard 
 service at Spottsylvania, in the Wilderness and elsewliere. While 
 he was lying in a hospital after receiving his second wound, at 
 Spottsyhania, a Sister of Charity taught him to read and write 
 That was the only "book-learning" lie ever had. All the rest of 
 his information was gained in the hard school of experience. 
 
 CAPTAIN JACK'S PROUD RECORD. 
 
 At tlie conclusion of the civil war Captain Jack scouted for 
 Custer, Crook, Lawton and a dozen other famous generals of the 
 frontier wars. As chief of scouts during the Sitting Ball cam- 
 paign he made a notably daring ride through the Indian . ountry 
 carrying concealed despatches to the nearest telegraph office 
 four hundred miles distant, for the Herald. He rode all night 
 and hid in the thickets all day, liable to be captured and tor- 
 tured by the savages at any moment. 
 
 He said that one of the bravest men he ever saw in an Indian 
 fight was "Kube" Davenport, the Herald correspondent with Gen- 
 eral Crook, who stood his ground with a little band who refused 
 to retreat when the order to fall back was given That valiant 
 stand saved the day and a massacre was prevented. A Califor- 
 nia newspaper observed the other day that captain Jack Craw- 
 ford, with "Buffalo Bill" Cody, is about the last of the band of 
 Heroes represented by Kit Carson, Reynolds, Muggins and other 
 famous frontiersmen 
 
 Turning from bygone days to the nearer war scenes, Craw- 
 ford asked (General Chaffee what he thought of lighting in Asia 
 and t he Philippines. Even among his old associates he felt diffi- 
 dent about talking of his own exploits, but, spurred on by ques 
 tions as to resemblances between the Apaches and Sioux and the 
 Filipinos, he finally talked as he fought— straightforwardly 
 
A VISIT TO GENERAL CHAFFEE. 
 
 It was a busy time for the new commandant of the Depart- 
 ment of the East. He had scarcely "found himself" as yet. 
 Mrs. Chaffee was indisposed. Routnie military matters must be 
 attended to, and with natural responsiveness to social amenities, 
 it seemed like an intrusion to plan a peaceful invasion. 
 
 But several gray haired veterans recognized the "Poetbcout 
 and the news of his presence quickly spread around the tight 
 little isle. "Say, Bill, yonder goes th' chap that trailed that old 
 Apache devil Victoria cl'ar into Old Mexico," cried one. "Yep, 
 that's Captain Jack Crawford. Bet he's goin, t' see th' old man. " 
 
 "Well, I want to be on hand when the General meets him. 
 They're two of a kind." 
 
 None could have a keener appreciation of both men than 
 these few remaining comrades who had participated in the never 
 to be forgotten Indian campaigns on the plains or the scorching 
 alkali deserts and theiugged canyons further north, or their 
 newer messmates who had been with Chaffee at Caney, Manila 
 and Pekin. Several had ugly scars as permanent mementos or 
 still carried bullets as concrete reminiscences of frontier warfare 
 in which "Captain Jack" had figured conspicuously. 
 
 After the General and the Captain had concluded their scene 
 these "vets" clamored for a barrack talk with the "Poet Scout," 
 whom all, down to the merest "rookey," evidently held in high 
 esteem. Some of them had attended army reunions and post 
 camp tires where Crawford had evoked ringing laughter with his 
 droll stories and shed a few tears with vivid rehearsals of run- 
 ning fights with the redskins and midnight burial parties and 
 starvation days when hope and ammimition both ran low. 
 
 PAST SEEMED LIKE A DREAM. 
 
 Chaffee had stuck to the arm'y and step by step had risen 
 higher and higher, always idolized by his men, like that other 
 commander of the Indian outbreaks, the brave and tender Law- 
 ton. Chaffee's memory, like his service record, was unbroken. 
 With his first glance at the "Poet Scout" a flood of recollections 
 welled up. Instead of the green lawns, wind swept of snow, 
 there seemed to stretch before his eyes a wilderness of alkali and 
 sage-brush. The big sky-scrapers athwart the northern sky 
 seemed to melt into shadowy outlines of frontier forts and hud- 
 dled plainsmen's huts Crawford was again chief of scouts for 
 the United States Army in the Southwest in the campaign of 
 1880 and 1881, and he, Chaffee, was a captain in the Sixth cavalry, 
 unwearied by harassing attacks and trying forays for grub and 
 water in the Arizona deserts. 
 
 Even General Custer's heroic stand in the Yellowstone, when 
 the famous Seventh cavalry was carved to mincemeat, seemed 
 but yesterday. The slightly raucous tones of Crawford's voice 
 recalled him to the present. 
 
 RED VS. BROWN SKINNED FOES. 
 
 "Couldn't beat these Apaches for treachery and cunning, 
 now could you. General, even with your brown Tagalogs, Igorroti 
 or Mindanao devils? Why, you remember that time after more 
 than five hundred men, women and children had been massacred 
 along the Rio Granae and in the mountains of Arizona, New 
 Mexico and Texas'? Wasn't It like hunting a million wasps at 
 onceV 
 
 "Tell you what General, it does me good to see you so straight 
 and natural looking all these years aft«r those forced marches in 
 that infernal sun, those Eastern horses shipped out to us a drop- 
 ping like flees and whole squads a toiling along on foot through 
 that heavy, blistering sand. ^ 
 
"And yoti've been through the paddy rice fields along the 
 Pang River and floundering through the mud of Chinese roads, 
 and yet you're looking tip top and hearty as a drum major." 
 
 "Oh, it's when tlie heart gets old that we get out of step, 
 Jack. Do you remember wlien the Apaches were down in old 
 Mexico that General George Buell, commanding the department, 
 detailed you to get a line on the redskins and you finally located 
 them in the Canaleria Mountains and then rode sixty miles to 
 El Paso to telegraph the news to headquarters'?" 
 
 Indeed, he did. Then began a terrible march under a blind- 
 ing sun to capture the marauders. Some fifteen hundred men, 
 with 47 wagons, 2 water tanks and a solitary ambulance irade 
 up the avenging force. Jack Crawford rode at their head. It 
 was then the acquaintance of these two men began. There was 
 a reward of $2,000 for the capture of Victoria, the Apache chief, 
 dead or alive, and $500 for each copper hued warrior. 
 
 Just when victory seemed won at last the Mexicans, who liad 
 invited the co-operation of the Americans, forbade their further 
 advance southward, and; themselves surrounding the squaws and 
 the old men, killed Chief Victoria with the rest. Among those 
 who escaped was a young warrior, Geronimo, who joined the 
 Apaches in Arizona, became their chief and spread terror 
 throughout the Southwest far more thoroughly than Victoria 
 had ever done Once more a renewal of the tireless chase that 
 ended only when Miles and Lawtun forced him- to bay, and 
 Lieutenant Gatewood had the honor of personally capturing 
 Geronimo.— New York Herald. 
 
16 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 NOT A SIN TO LIE THAT WAY 
 
 The old vets uow will often sit, and tell their loving wi ves 
 
 Of many stirring iucidents that crossed their soldier lives^ 
 
 The mnrches, camps and sieves, the battles hard they fought, 
 
 And how they stood up gallantly amid the storms of shot; 
 
 Bat raids on chicken rendezvous they'll swear they never made 
 
 Nor ever help d assassinate a hog in Southern glade; 
 
 Nof ever "beat" the Sutler whe-i they drew their monthly pay— 
 
 They seem to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
 They'll talk of great privations they were called on to endure. 
 And how r.hey'd laugh at hardships which their "kicking" couldn't 
 
 cure— 
 The beating rains, the driving snows, and-many a dire distress 
 They will relate in sentences of growing vividness. 
 They'll scowl with indignation at hint of how they shirked. 
 And how the many 'soldier'' games successfully they worked; 
 They never dodged guard duty, but were always prompt, they'll 
 
 say. 
 And seem to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
 They'll tell of how from blanket beds their truant thoughts 
 
 would roam 
 Unto the dear, good, loyal girls they left in distant home. 
 An 1 ho<v their martial hearts would throb with rapture at the 
 
 thought 
 Of sweethearts" loving welcome when the battles all were fought. 
 Just hint to one that he was sweet on some fair Southern girl. 
 He 11 shake his head emphatic, and his lip will scornful curl: 
 He'll say that to his own love he was loyal every day, 
 And seems to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
 With faces tinged with sorrow as memory takes them back. 
 They'll tell of pangs of hunger when the rations would get slack, 
 And how the corn from mules they'd filch, so desperite did they 
 
 grow, 
 While staring in starvation's face in chase of Southern foe. 
 And then, with look of innocence they'll tell of many a raid 
 >'heir more ungodly comrades on the big plantations made; 
 But raiding was a crime which at their own doors didn't lay— 
 They seem to think it not a sin to lie that way. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN BOY'SRETTER 
 
 Soon after Geaeral Graat Idudod iu 3au Francisco, on his 
 tour around tlie world, Lincoln Post. G. A. R., presented the 
 "Color Guard," a military drama, in which Captain Jack Craw- 
 ford played the leading role (a Tennessee scout), supported by 
 T. W. Keene and the California Theatre Company. During the 
 performance Captain Jack recited the -'MouDtain Boy's Letter," 
 amid great enthusiasm, it was highly appreciated by the gener- 
 al, who, being "corralled,'" as Jack expresses it, by "big bugs" and 
 Sunday soldiers, could not reach the boys: 
 
 Who followed him into the battle 
 And gallantly guarded the flanks. 
 The poem was telegraphed across the continent^ and appear- 
 ed in Grant's "Tour of the World," published in Chicago, and 
 with the exception of Bret Har&e's "Heathen Chinee," is the only 
 poem ever wired from ocean to ocean, — Will L. Fischer, in Denver 
 Tribune. 
 
 Dear Giner'l: 
 
 I arn't no great schoUar, 
 
 An' I never done nbthin' to brag, 
 'Cept this — 1 was one o' the outfit 
 
 As fought for our Star Spangled Flag. 
 An' to-day, while yer toasted by schollars, 
 
 An' big bugs as make a great noise, 
 Why, I thought it the square thing to write yer 
 
 An' clip in a word for yer boys. 
 
 Cos, yer see, we ain't got the collat'r'l, 
 
 Nor the larnin' to dish it up right; 
 But ye'll find should thar be any trouble. 
 
 Our boys are still ready ter fight. 
 As for you, if they didn't corral yer, 
 
 You'd shake comrades' hands that yer seed, 
 An' that's why I wanted to tell yer. 
 
 We'll jest take the will for the deed. 
 
 But y're back, and the men of all nations 
 
 War proud to do honor to you, 
 An' I reckon, Ulysses, yer told 'em, 
 
 Ye wor proud o' yer comrades in blue, 
 For youi we are sure, of all others. 
 
 Remembered our boys in the ranks. 
 Who follor'd ye inter the battle, 
 
 And gallantly guarded the flanks. 
 
 So, welcome, a thousand times welcome, 
 
 Our land is ablaze with delight; 
 Our people give thanks for yer safety. 
 
 Your comrades are happy to-night. 
 We know you are wearied and tuckered. 
 
 But seein' as you're a new-comer. 
 You'll Grant us one glance on this line if 
 
 In reading, it takes yer all summer. 
 
i8 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 t 
 
 
 •M-^^ ><•♦ **+*+ *«M'* •}««J^«i» •§.•1.^* ^^^^ *.§^^ 4.^** +.1^* ^^^..^.j.* 
 
^ 
 
 THE BEST RELIGION 
 
 ^ 
 
 ...SUNSHINE... 
 
 By "The Poet Scout" 
 
 I never like to see a man a-rastlin' with the dumps. 
 
 'Cause in the ^''aiiie of life he doesn't always catch the trumps; 
 
 But 1 can always cotton to a free and easy cuss 
 
 As he takes his dose, and thanks the Lord it isn't any wuss. 
 
 There ain't no use o' kickin' a,iA swearin' at your luck, 
 
 Yer can't correct the trouble more'n you can drown a duck. 
 
 Remember, when beneath the load your sufferin' head is bowed, 
 
 That God'U sprinkle sunshine in the ferail of every cloud. 
 
 If you should see a fellowman with trouble's flag unfurled. 
 An' lookin' like he didn't have a friend in all the world, 
 Go up an' slap him on the b:ick an' holler '-how d' yju do?" 
 And grasp his hand so warm he'll know he has a friend in you. 
 Then ax him what's a-hurtin' 'im, and laugh his cares away, 
 And tell him that the darkest night is just before the day. 
 Don't talk in graveyard palaver, but say it right out loud, 
 That God'll sprinkle sunshine in the trail of every cloud. 
 
 This world at best is but a hash of pleasure and of pain, 
 Some days are bright and sunny, and some all sloshed with rain. 
 And that's just how it ought to be, for when the clouds roll by 
 We'll know just how to 'preciate the bright and smilin' sky. 
 So learn to take it as it comes, and don't sweat at the pores 
 Because the Lord's opinion doesn't coincide with yours. 
 But always keep rememberin', when cares your path enshroud 
 That God has lots of sunshinb to spill behind the cloud. 
 
20 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD AND LEONARD 
 CODY BELL 
 
 MY LITTLE PARD AND I 
 
 •'I want to be a manly man," 
 
 Said little pard to me, 
 "I want to do the best I can, 
 
 And ever truthful be; 
 I want to be my father's pride. 
 
 My mother's hope and joy, 
 And love the flag for which men died 
 
 When you were yet a boy." 
 
WHAR' THE HAND 0' GOD IS SEEN 
 
 Do I like the city? Stranger, 'tisn't likely that I would; 
 'Tisn't likely that a ranger from the border ever could 
 Git accustomed to the flurry an' the loud unearthly noise — 
 Everybody in a hurry, men an' wimmin, gals and boys, 
 All arushin' like the nation 'mid the rumble an' the jar, 
 Jes' as if their souls' salvation hung upon their gittin' thar. 
 
 Like it? No. I love to wander 
 
 'Mid the vales an' mountains green, 
 In the border land out yonder, 
 
 Whar the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 Nothin' har' but bricks an' mortar, towerin' overhead so high 
 That you never see a quarter o' the overhangin' sky. 
 Not a tree or grassy medder, not a runnin' brook in sight, 
 Nothin' but the buildin's shadder makin' gloom of Heavea's light. 
 Ev'n the birds are all imported from away acrost the sea — 
 Faces meet me all distorted with the hand o' misery. 
 
 Like it? No. I love to wander 
 'Mid the vales an' mountains green, 
 In the border land out yonder, 
 Whar the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 Roarin" railroad trains above you, streets by workmen all defaced. 
 
 Everybody tryin' to shove you in the gutter in their haste. 
 
 Cars an' carts an' wagons rumblin' through the streets, with defenin' 
 
 roar, 
 Drivers yellin' swearin', grumblin', jes' like imps from Sheol's shore 
 Factories j'inin' in the chorus, helpin' o' the din to swell; 
 Auctioneers in tones sonorous, lyin' 'bout the goods they sell. 
 
 Like it? No. I love to wander 
 
 'Mid the vales and mountains green. 
 In the border land out yonder, 
 
 Whar the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 Yes, I love the Western border; pine trees wavin' in the air, 
 Rocks piled up in rough disorder, birds a singin' everywhere; 
 Deer a playin' in their gladness, elk a feedin' in the glen; 
 Not a trace o' pain or sadness campin' on the trail o' men. 
 Brooks o' crystal clearness flowin' o'er the rocks, an' lovely flowers 
 In their tinted beauty growin' in the mountain dells an' bowers. 
 
 Fairer picture the Creator 
 
 Never threw on earthly screen 
 Than this lovely home o' Natur' 
 Whar the hand o' God is seen. 
 
THK FOET SCOUT 
 
 AT THE MISSION DOOR 
 
 A little newsboy, weeping, stood 
 
 Outside the Waif s Reireai; 
 A shaggy dog, his only friend, 
 
 Was crouching at his feet 
 With attitude of perfect trust, 
 
 And tender, lovelit eye. 
 1 saw the boy bend over him 
 
 With tear-wet cheelt and eigh. 
 
 I asked him why those bitter tears; 
 
 He turned away his bead, 
 And answered; "Dere's me only frien' 
 
 Since dad and mam' is dead. 
 An' dose folks in de Mission say 
 
 Dat Tip — he can't come in; 
 Dat lovin' of a dog like dis 
 
 Ain't notin' but a sin 
 
 •'Well, boss, 1 don't know notin' much 
 
 But say, when mudder died 
 Tip foun' me at her grave at night, 
 
 An' laid down by me side; 
 An' when I cried dere all alone 
 
 His head was on me knee. 
 An' sometin' in his eyes ]es' said 
 
 He'd be a frien' to me." 
 
 "Now, boss, you look into dera eyes 
 
 An' say if he can't speak. 
 I tells yer, Tip'8 a gentleman 
 
 If he ain't nice and sleek. 
 He don't snap like no low-down cur, 
 
 His ways is high an' fine; 
 An' when I tink how good he is 
 
 I'm mighty proud he's mine." 
 
 Tip seemed to feel his master's praise, 
 
 He looked so very wise. 
 As though some sad, imprisoned soul 
 
 Were shining through his eyes. 
 I took the boy's brown hand in mine 
 
 And wiped his tears away; 
 I told him that co nobler friend 
 
 Had man on earth to-day. 
 
 Both boy and dog crept to my heart, 
 
 And they have now become 
 The sunshine on my cheerless hearth, 
 
 The blessings of mv home. 
 And all that T .-ahall ask of Him. 
 
 Who keeps the heavenlv log — 
 May T be worthy that boy's love, 
 
 The friendship of his dog. 
 
 — Success. 
 
23 
 
 WHO THE HEROES WERE 
 
 You "never was scared in battle?" Here, 
 
 Old cotnr-ide, don't make a break like that! 
 The man don't live who was free from fear 
 
 When the vicious bullets began to spat; 
 And the cannons belched from their iron throats 
 
 The deafening notes of the song of w-ir— 
 The frightful, terrible thundering notes 
 
 That caused the eternal earth to jar. 
 
 I've heard men say they were just as cool 
 
 In the heat of battle as they would be 
 In a quiet seat in a Sabbath school, 
 
 But they couldn't find a believer in me. 
 I never flinched, never shirked a call, 
 
 But several times in the war swept South, 
 If I'd been shot through the heart, the ball 
 
 Would have had to hit me square in the mouth! 
 
 It's the silliest sort of talk we hear— 
 
 And hear from soldiers of solid worth- 
 That they stood in the front and felt no fear 
 
 When the rumbling of battle convulsed the earth. 
 I hold that our bravest men were those 
 
 Who felt alarm at the cannons roar. 
 Yet never rearward turned their toes. 
 
 But stood like men till the fight was o'er 
 
 KIT CARSON. 
 
 (Adio.s. Cumpanera.) 
 
 Adios, dear old hero, in peace may you slumber, 
 Adown near the banks of the old Kio Graude; 
 
 We think of your daring with awe and with wonder, 
 As near to your tomb now uncovered we stand. 
 
 A rude, simple tablet, a plain slab of marble. 
 Is all that your comrades have placed o'er your grave. 
 
 Sleep on, loyal heart, while the wild song-birds warble 
 An anthem of praise to the deeds of the brave. 
 
 The veil of the future your brave soul has riven. 
 
 To drink in the sweetest, celestial joys; 
 Iq advance you have taken the trail up to heaven 
 
 To locate a camp for the rest of the boys. 
 
24 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 THE WELCOME NOME 
 
 Home again ! Each stalwart comrade 
 
 Breathes his honest welcome back. 
 "Dog my cats, we's glad to see you, 
 
 Laws-ee! Whar ye bin to, Jack? 
 Why, old pard, we've been a thinkin', 
 
 Somdhow, we had lost yer ha'r, 
 An' yoa bet yer life, we missed ye 
 
 At our meetin's over thar." 
 
 Not one buckskin boy among them— 
 
 Not a man in all that throng- 
 But was glad to gaze upon me, 
 
 I had been away so long. 
 How my heart, with fond emotion, 
 
 Beat that night at Modie's store, 
 When the boys, with pure devotion, 
 
 Gathered round their chief once more ! 
 
 There was Bob and Jule and Franklin, 
 
 Bill and California Joe — 
 Every man an Indian fighter. 
 
 Knowing all a scout should know. 
 But my songs and acts had won them. 
 
 And amid their merry shouts, 
 In the Buffalo Gap entrenchments, 
 
 1 was hailed their chief of scouts. 
 
 Whether in the years succeeding 
 
 I deserved the name or not, 
 By our pioneers and miners 
 
 I shall never be forgot. 
 Never did the wily redskin 
 
 Find me napping by the way. 
 And I tried to do my duty 
 
 In the camp or in the fray. 
 
 CcsTEB City, D. T. 1876. 
 
t^ 
 
 ONLY A MINER KILLED. 
 
 While in Virginia City, in 1877, a wagon passed up Main 
 street, with a soiled canvas thrown over it. Some curbstone 
 brpkers rushed out to investigate, and when they returned were 
 asked what was the matter. "O", replied one, "It's only a miner 
 killed." Old Commodore Vanderbilt died on the same day and 
 the papers were full of accounts concerning this multi-millionaire. 
 A paragraph in the Virginia City Chronicle, referring to the above 
 incident, suggested the following verses: 
 
 Only a miner killed— oh! is that all? 
 
 One of the timbers caved, great was the fall, 
 Crushing another one shaped like his God. 
 
 Only a miner lad— under the sod. 
 
 Only a miner killed, just one more dead. 
 
 Who will provide for them— who earn their bread 1 
 Wife and the little ones: pity them, God, 
 
 Their earthly father is under the sod. 
 
 Only a miner killed, dead on the spot. 
 Poor hearts are breaking in yonder lone cot. 
 
 He died at his post, a hero as brave 
 As any who sleeps in a marble top grave. 
 
 Only a miner killed! God, if thou wilt, 
 Just introduce him to Vanderbilt, 
 
 Who, with his millions, if he is there, 
 Can't buy one interest— even one share. 
 
 Only a miner, bury him quick; 
 
 Just write his name on a piece of a stick. 
 Though humble and plain be the poor miner's grave 
 
 Peyond, all are equal, the master and slave, 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL. 
 
 (To C/iarhy Utter— Colorado Charley) 
 
 Under the sod in the prairie-land 
 
 We have laid him down to rest, 
 With many a tear from the sad, rough 
 throng. 
 
 And the friends he loved the best; 
 And many a heartfelt sigh was heard 
 
 As over the earth we trod, 
 And many an eye was filled with tears 
 
 As we covered him with the sod . 
 
 Under the sod in the prairie-land 
 
 We've laid the goorf and the true— 
 An honest heart and a noble scout 
 
 Has bade us a last adieu. 
 No more his silvery laugh will ring, 
 
 His spirit has gone to God; 
 Around his faults let Charity cling 
 
 While you cover him with the sod. 
 
 Under the sod in the land of gold 
 
 We have laid the fearless Bill; 
 We called him Wild, yet a little child 
 
 Could bend his iron will. 
 With generous heart he freely gave 
 
 To the poorly clad, unshod— 
 Think of it, pards— of his noble traits — 
 
 While you cover him with the sod. 
 
 Under the sod in Dead wood Gulch 
 
 You have laid his last remains; 
 No more his manly form will hail 
 
 The red man on the plains. 
 And, Charley, may Heaven bless you! 
 
 You gave him a "bully good send:" 
 Bill was a friend to you, pard, 
 
 And you were his last, best friend. 
 
 You buried him 'neath the old pine tree, 
 
 In that little world of ours. 
 His trusty rifle by his side— 
 
 His grave all strewn with flowers: 
 His manly form in sweet repose, 
 
 That lovely silken hair— 
 I tell you, pard, it was a sight, 
 
 That face sq white ancjl ifa,ir! 
 
And while he sleeps beneath the sod 
 
 His murderer goes free,* 
 Released by a perjured, gaming set, 
 
 Who'd murder you and me — 
 Whose coward hearts dare never meet 
 
 A brave man on the square; 
 Well, pard, they'll find a warmer clime 
 
 Than they ever found out here. 
 
 Hell is full of just such men; 
 
 And if Bill is above to-day, 
 The Almighty will have enough to do 
 
 To keep him from going away — 
 That is, from making a little scout 
 
 To the murderers' home below; 
 And if old Peter will let him out. 
 
 He can clean the ranch, I know 
 
 *Tried anrt released by a lot of petty gamblers, 
 but afterwards arrested at Laramie City, and 
 taken to Yankton, Dakota, tried and hanged. 
 
 AN EPITAPH ON WILD BILL. 
 
 The following epitapli on J. B. Hitclicnck 
 (Wild Bill) was written while sitting on his errave 
 near Deadwood, on the tenth of September. 1876. 
 
 Sleep O'l, brave heart, in peaceful slumber. 
 
 Bravest Scout in nil the West; 
 
 Lightning eyes and voice of thunder, 
 
 Closed and hushed in quiet rest. 
 
 Peace and rest at last is given; 
 
 May we meet again in Heaven. 
 
 Rest in peace. 
 
28 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 BURN'S ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Virginia City, Nov. 1877 
 To Ye Sons o' Caledonia 
 
 Awa', ye brawny sons o' Scotland! 
 
 Up the banks and doon the braes, 
 Through the Hielands o' Nevada, 
 
 Sing yo'r songs o' ither days; 
 Yet it's no rich gowrey's valley, 
 
 Nor the Forth 's dear sunny side; 
 Nor the wild and mossy mountain, 
 
 Fether of the placid Clyde. 
 
 Yet jist for the while imagine 
 
 Ye are back on Scotia's shore, 
 'Mong the braes and grouse and heather 
 
 Where the Highland waters roar; 
 'Mong the groves "o' sweetest myrtle. 
 
 Or perhaps aside the Doon, 
 Thinking o' young Bobbie's courtship 
 
 By the light o' bonnie moon. 
 
 Noble, brave, unselfish poet! 
 Dina forget him 'mid yo'r joys; 
 
 Fill and drink to him a bumper- 
 He was nature's bard, my boys. 
 
 One o' Scotland's noblest freemen. 
 Spurning lords and lairds and crown! 
 
 Here's to Scotia's bard and poet- 
 Bobbie Burns— boys, drink her down. 
 
 Up in Heaven wi' Highland Mary, 
 
 Burns now sings a sweeter song. 
 He is wearing brighter laurels 
 
 Than the men who did him wrong. 
 "Scots wha hae," me thinks I hear it— 
 
 "Bonnie Doon," ah! how sublime; 
 At yo'r picnic drink this bumper: 
 
 "Bobbie Burns and Auld Lang Syne!' 
 
''GOD BLESS YE, GENER'L CUSTER." 
 
 "By gosh, I ar' as hungry 
 
 As a prairie wolf, you bet! 
 Au', pards, I won't forget ye, 
 
 An' am mighty glad we met. 
 Yer see, I've been ter prospec'. 
 
 An' I lost my latitud'. 
 Laws'ee; but I war hungry. 
 
 Them beans war mighty good. 
 
 "I've see'd that face afore, pards — 
 
 Can't say as how I know, 
 My eyes ain't wot they us' ter war 
 
 'Bout fifteen year ago. 
 But, dog my cats, I'll swar it. 
 
 Let's take a closer sight — 
 Blest if it arn't the Gener'l! 
 
 I know I must be right." 
 
 And then a pearly tear-drop 
 
 Stood in the old man's eye. 
 "Yer know I've pray'd ter see him 
 
 Jist once afore I'd die; 
 He saved my wife and baby 
 
 Ween the reds began to muster." 
 With outstretched hand he, sobbing, said: 
 
 "God bless ye, Gener'l Custer!" 
 
 "I reckin ye don't remember 
 Old Bill as run the mail 
 
 From Sidney up to Red Cloud, 
 When ye war on the trail; 
 
 An' how that frosty mornin' 
 Yer saved my Tommy's life, 
 
 An' took a heap o' chances- 
 She told me — Jane, my wife. 
 
 "I warn't thar to thank yer 
 
 When I heerd the story through, 
 'Cause that wor all I had ter give, 
 
 An' all as I could do; 
 An' Gener'l, if yer wants me, 
 
 'Tain't much as I kin do, 
 But, dog my cats, I'm ready 
 
 To trump death's ace for you!" 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 MOTHER'S PRAYERS 
 
 Written under a Pine tree ia the Black Hills in June, 1876. 
 
 In the dreary hours of midnight, 
 
 When the camp's asleep and still, 
 Not a sound, save rippling streamlets, 
 
 Or the voice of Whippoorwill, 
 Then I think of dear, loved faces. 
 
 As I steal around my beat — 
 Think of other scenes and places. 
 
 And a mother's voice so sweet. 
 
 Mot.her, who in days of childhood, 
 
 Prayed as only mothers pray: 
 "Guard his footsteps in the wild wood. 
 
 Let him not be led astray!" 
 And when danger hovered o'er me. 
 
 When my life was full of cares. 
 Then a sweet form passed before me, 
 
 And T thought of mother's prayers. 
 
31 
 
 Mother's prayers! Ah! sacred memory, 
 
 I can hear her sweet voice now, 
 As, upon her death-bed lying, 
 
 With her band upon my brow, 
 Calling on a Savior's blessing. 
 
 Ere she climbed the Golden Stairs. 
 There's a sting in all transgressing, 
 
 When I think of mother's prayers. 
 
 And I made her one dear promise — 
 T lank the Lord, I've kept it, too: 
 
 Ves, I promised God and mother 
 I'o the Pledge I would be true. 
 
 Thc)agh a hun Ired times the tempter 
 Every day throws oijt his snares, 
 
 I can boldly answer, "No, sir!*' 
 When I think of mother's prayers. 
 
 And while here I tell the story 
 
 Why my boyhood's days were sad. 
 Is there not some boy before me 
 
 Who will make a mother glad? 
 Swell her heart with fond emotion, 
 
 Drive away life's bitter cares. 
 Sign and keep the pledge for mother — 
 
 Heed, oh, heed her earnest prayers! 
 
 Oh, my brother, do not drink it, 
 
 Think of all your mother said; 
 While upon her deatn-bed lying — 
 
 Or perhaps she is not dead; 
 Don't you kill her, then, I pray you. 
 
 She has quite enough of cares; 
 Sign the pledge, and God will help you 
 
 If you'li;think of mother's prayers. 
 
32 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 THE OLD FORTY-EIGHTH 
 
 Odr First Reunion' and Campfiee 
 
 Published at th^ time in the Miaer's Joaraal, and 
 respectfully dedicated to surviving comrades. 
 
 With love which time can never change, 
 
 We grasp each other's hands; 
 We think of battles fought and won, 
 
 Of Burnside's stern commands; 
 Bright memories of the hallowed past 
 
 Are stealing through our souls, 
 While thinking of our noble dead 
 
 Now mustered from our rolls. 
 
 At times our hearts would almost bleed, 
 
 And angels seemed to frown; 
 But God was on the ramparts, boys, 
 
 While the mortars tumbled down; 
 And though at times a boy was hit 
 
 With a fragment of a shell, 
 We stood it— did we not, comrades? 
 
 In the ramparts of Fort Hell. 
 
 And when we went on picket. 
 
 With our blankets on our arm, 
 And each a stick of wood, comrades, 
 
 To try and keep us warm; 
 How oft we thought of homes. 
 
 Of friends and parents, too, 
 And lovely little Schuylkill girls. 
 
 Who'd die for me and you! 
 
 And often when we shouted 
 
 To Johnny Reb's, and said 
 To throw us some tobacco. 
 
 And we would throw them bread, 
 How quickly they responded! 
 
 And the plugs came thick and fast, 
 And we shared them with each other— 
 
 And shared them to the last. 
 
 But though thny gave tobacco. 
 
 And though we gave them bread. 
 Between the lines we soon must see 
 
 The dying and the dead! 
 
33 
 
 And though Mahone^defled us, 
 And though her strength was great, 
 
 Who would dare to charge them, boys, 
 If not our forty-eight? 
 
 And when our greatest generals 
 
 Defied her boys aloae, 
 To charge the enemy in front 
 
 And capture Port Mahone— 
 Oh, can you e'er forget it, boys? 
 
 The answer Go wan sent: 
 "We'll take it with the help of God, 
 
 Or die in the attempt!" 
 
 And nobly on that fatal day 
 
 He led us on so well. 
 Till fairly on their ramparts, beys. 
 
 Oar noble colonel fell. , 
 And did you mark the change, comrades': 
 
 Where was the leader now 
 Who dared to lead us on like he 
 
 Who fell with shattered brow? 
 
 I need not speak of others' deeds 
 
 Who led us on before — 
 Of Nagle and of Siefried, too. 
 
 Brave Pleasants and Gilmore. 
 Oh, no! their names are writtea 
 
 On a grateful Nation's shrine, 
 And nothing can erase them, boys. 
 
 From honor's lasting lines. 
 
 Another word— each comrade's heart 
 Is filled with gratitude 
 
 To Siegfried, Pleasants, Bosbyshell, 
 Who were so kind and good 
 
 To offer us a banquet, boys- 
 Such as we never saw; 
 
 Much better than th« hard-tack, boys- 
 Hurrah ! then, boys, hurrah ! 
 
 And don't forget, another year 
 
 Will soon pass o'er our head, 
 And then we hope to meet again— 
 
 If living; but if dead. 
 May we not meet in Heaven, boys, 
 
 And see upon the shore 
 A picket guard of angels 
 
 With Gowan and Gilmore? 
 
34 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 "CORPORAL BILL" 
 
 To the Blue aui the Gray. 
 
 A camp iu the mountains. The pine-knot fire 
 Drove gloomy shadows up higher and higher, 
 Till the trees aad rocks and the curling stream. 
 And the sua taaned faces were all agleam 
 With the ruddy glow of the dancing light^ 
 That shone Uka a gem Iq a setting of night. 
 Around the fire sat a picturesque group — 
 A small detail from a cavalry troop: 
 Bronzed old soldiers, who kaew no fear, 
 Who had served as vets on that wild frontier: 
 Who were used to the fray aa 1 the night alarms 
 From painted demons, who ci,me in swarms. 
 Near by their horses were cropping the grass 
 That grew up wild in the mountain pass; 
 And near to the saddle-pillowed head 
 Of each grass-cushioned, blaaketed bed 
 Lay carbines and pistols, near at hand, 
 In easy reach of the scouting band. 
 If the picket, who up on a cliff laid low. 
 Should give the alarm of a coming foe. 
 Around the fire the warrior throng 
 Enlivened the hours with story and song; 
 And merry laughter, borne out on the breeze, 
 Went rippling, echoing up through the trees. 
 Hark! the sound of horse's hoofs were heard 
 Coming up the gulch like a fleeting bird; 
 The soldiers grasped their arms and stood 
 With eager eyes peering into the wood. 
 From the sombre shadows came dashing out 
 A steaming horse and a buckskinned scout— 
 A scout from the fort! The blue clad men 
 Laid down their trusty rifles again. 
 And stood and waited with eager ear 
 The news from the busy world to hear. 
 The scout dismounted, and bowing his head. 
 But four words whispered: "Boys, Grant is dead! 
 There were trembling lips and paiu-marked eyes. 
 And tears and mutterings of surprise. 
 But not a word was spoken, until. 
 In a trembling voice old Corporal Bill 
 Cried out, "Jack, boy, don't say it is true! 
 Don't say it is taps— it may be tattoo! 
 Maybe he's waiting for orders to go — 
 But tell us— oh, tell us it is not so! 
 Grant dead! Oh, no— come, come, old Jack, 
 
35 
 
 Jes' say it's a joke, an' take it back! 
 
 Yes, do, or pard — jes' crack a smile, 
 
 An' tell us you've galloped many a mile 
 
 To have a little fun writh the boys, 
 
 An' check fur a while their camp fire joys; 
 
 Do this, ol' pard, au' we'll laugh an' sing 
 
 Till the echo comes back with a merry ring! 
 
 Too true! Ah yes; I know by yer look 
 
 It's as true as the word in the Holy Book; 
 
 An' it cuts my heart like a knife! Why, men, 
 
 I've fought under Grant again an' again; 
 
 My ol' commauder, back in the days 
 
 When the South with the flames o' war was ablaze. 
 
 I've followed him over many a field 
 
 Whar smoke-blackened columns quivered an' reeled 
 
 With the dreadful shock of aa iron hail 
 
 That would make the face of the stoutest pale! 
 
 I have followed him through the lead blazed wood 
 
 Whar the leaves war speckled with hero blood. 
 
 An' out over many a battle plain 
 
 Whar the ground war heaped with the warriors slain. 
 
 An' the piercin' rays o' the sun war broke 
 
 An' held in check by the clouds o' smoke 
 
 That poured from many an iron throat, 
 
 An' hung overhead, an' seemed to gloat 
 
 Like black-faced demons, from realms of woe. 
 
 O'er the fearful carnage an' death below! 
 
 The upturned faces in death so pale! 
 
 The dreadful song o' the leaden hail! 
 
 The quivering, multilated flesh! 
 
 The piercin' yells o' the mad secesh! 
 
 The shriekin', howlin', screamin' shell! 
 
 Why, boys, it must 'a-looked like hell, 
 
 With a million devils, in impish glee. 
 
 Turned loose on a holiday jamboree! 
 
 An' right on the field, ridin' here an there, 
 
 His horse a-sweatin' from every hair. 
 
 Rode Grant, as cool as a mountain spriug, 
 
 His keen eye watchin' the front an' wing, 
 
 A cigar half smoked in his teeth, his face 
 
 Bearin' stern resolution in every trace. 
 
 Wharever he rode the men would cheer. 
 
 Pur it nerved 'em to think that he war near. 
 
 For they all knowed Grant, an' loved him, too. 
 
 An' the general loved his boys in blue. 
 
 An' now he is dead! The grand ol' chief 
 
 Has resigned his post to the last relief; 
 
 An' it chokes me up fur to think that he 
 
 Should be taken, an' such ol' cusses as me 
 
36 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 Are left sort o' useless, here below, 
 la the land that loved oar general so. 
 Well, pards, it war God as took him away — 
 He musters the Blue an' he musters the Gray. 
 An' I reckon he needed that warrior grim 
 To serve with Lee on the staff with Him — 
 An', comrades, who knows, in that better land, 
 But God may give each his old command? 
 
 LAUGH 
 
 Don't frown, don't growl, look pleasant; 
 
 Just coil your lariat, 
 And on the slope of Joy and Hope 
 
 Ride upward, and forget 
 Those little cares and worries, 
 
 The tailings and the chaff; 
 Join in the race, just change your face 
 And laugh. 
 
 Astride my wild Pegasus 
 
 I ride out every day; 
 I fling my rope on every hope, 
 
 Corral each tiny ray 
 And every glint of sunshine; 
 
 E'en when 1 rope a calf 
 I must reveal the joy I feel— 
 And laugh. 
 
 Just think of all the shut-ins' 
 Who pass long weary hours 
 
 In painful way, while you may stray 
 In sunshine, 'mid the flowers. 
 
 Don't pass them by, take pity— 
 Your joys were only half 
 
 If in your cheer, you taught no tear 
 To laugh. 
 
37 
 
 HOOD'S CHILDREN 
 
 [San Francisco Post. ] 
 The Blue and the Gray 
 
 When the coafederate General Hood and his wife died at 
 New Orleans from yellow fever, leaving nine children, the mem- 
 bers of the Grand Army throughout the United States were the 
 first to tender benefits and organize fairs for their relief. Lin- 
 coln Post, of San Francisco, procured the Baldwin Theatre for 
 one night, and the entire company, including James O'Neil, 
 Lewis Morrison, C. B. Bishop and others volunteered, as did also 
 T. W. Keene, then leading man at the California Theatre. On 
 the afternoon of the day preceding the entertainment. Colonels 
 Lyon, C. Mason Kinne, of Lincoln Post, G. A. R., and Fleurnoy, 
 of Texas, an ex-confederate, waited upon Captain Jack Crawford 
 and requested him to write a poem appropriate for the occasion. 
 On the next night Colonel Kinne annovinced that Captain Jack 
 Crawford was to read a poem. T. W. Keene held Jack's manu- 
 script and actually pushed him before the curtain. Jack, with 
 voice trembling with fear and emotion, stood before the grand- 
 est audience that ever sat in the Baldwin, while in the front or- 
 chestra seats sat the Blue and the Gray in uniform, above them 
 hanging a silk banner of blue and gray, and intertwined with the 
 Stars and Stripes, on which was inscribed: '■'■The Blue and the 
 Gray under one Flag^ Jack was dressed in his field buckskin 
 suit, and looking all over the great mass of humanity in the gal- 
 leries and below, his eyes resting on the Blue and the Gray, he 
 began: 
 
 "My comrades in Blue, my brothers in Gray, your committee 
 waited upon me yesterday and requested me to write something 
 worthy of this occasion. I submit the following impromptu 
 verses in Fraternity, Charity, and Loyalty: 
 
 '"Dear comrades and friends in the golden land. 
 
 You may say I'm rough, you may call me wild. 
 But I've got a heart and a willing hand 
 
 To feel and to work for a soldier's child. 
 Do you think I ask on whose side he fought, 
 
 If, man and soldier, his record was good? 
 For though our Union was dearly bought. 
 
 All hatred is buried with Hooker and Hood. 
 
 "And, comrades, I'll tell you right here to-night, 
 The men most bitter against the Gray 
 
 Are those who were never seen in a fight, 
 But who always got sick on a fighting da 
 
38 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 With soldiers, my friends, it is not so: 
 They respect each other, the Gray and the Blue, 
 
 Nor are they ashamed that the world shall know 
 How they stood by their colors, brave men and true. 
 
 "Was Jackson ashamed when he knelt to pray 
 
 For the cause he thought before Heaven was just, 
 ^ hile marching his half starved boys in Gray 
 
 On an ear of corn and a single crust? 
 Was Lee ashamed when he tendered his sword 
 
 To Grant, who refused the warrior's &teel? 
 Who said: "Your horses shall be restored. 
 
 For braver never wore spurs to his heel!" 
 
 "Oh! generous hearts in the Golden State, 
 
 You are forging the links of a Union chain, 
 That cables one end at the Golden Gate, 
 
 That will circle the States to the Gulf -swept main- 
 A chain that will bind us, the Blue and the Gray, 
 
 In a union of purpose the gods will approve, 
 In love that grows strong in adversity's day, 
 
 And hearts that will stand by the flag we love. 
 
 "The past — it is dead! But we cannot forget it. 
 
 And, comrades we wouldn't forget if we could; 
 As for myself, I shall never regret it. 
 
 This poor little service I render for Hood. 
 His loved ones will not be distressed nor discarded; 
 
 And to-night, I am proud of a share in the stock, 
 And shall feel, as a soldier, I'm fully rewarded 
 
 By one little prayer from his inaocent flock. 
 
 "One little prayer from the loved ones we foster. 
 
 His latest bequest to his comrades in peace. 
 As the pale hand of death wrote his name on the ro 
 
 And the angel on guard gave his spirit release. 
 Oh, comrades, let charity's mantle enfold them. 
 
 Old Abe had no malice, no hate in his soul; 
 On the ramparts above may we hope to behold them. 
 
 While Washington musters each name on the roll." 
 
THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON 
 
 Dedicated to CORPORAL JAMES TANNER, the best friend of the Blue and the Gray. 
 
 Hold on! Hold on! My goodness, you take my breath, my son, 
 A-flrin' questions at me, like shots from a Gatlin' gun : 
 Why do T wear this eagle an' flag an' brazen star — 
 An' why do my old eyes glisten when somebody mentions war? 
 An' why do I call men "comrade," an' why do my eyes grow bright 
 When you hear me tell your grandma ["m going to post to-night? 
 Come here, you inquisitive rascal, an' set on your grandpa's knee, 
 An' I'll try an' answer the broadsides you've been a-flrin' at me. 
 
 Away back there in the sixties, long afore you were born, 
 The news come a-flashin' to us, one bright and sunny morn. 
 That some of our Southern brothers, a-thinkin*, no doubt, "twar right, 
 Had trained their guns on our banner, and opened a nasty fight; 
 The great big guns war a-boomin', an' the shot flyin' thick and fast. 
 An' troops all over the south'and were rapidly being massed; 
 An' a thrill went through the nation, a fear that our glorious land 
 Might be split, divided an' ruined bj mistaken brother':^ hand. 
 
 T^ord! but wa'n't there excitement, an' didn't the boys' eyes flash! 
 An' didn't we cuss our brothers for being so foolish and rash! 
 An' didn't we raise the neighbors with loud an' continued cheers 
 When ol' Abe sent out that dockument a callin' for volunteers! 
 An' didn't we flock to the standard when the drums began to beat— 
 An' didn't we march with strong, proud step along the village street! 
 An' didn't the people cheer us when we got aboard the cars, 
 With the flag, a wavin' o'er us, and we went away to the wars! 
 
 I'll never forget your grandma as she stood outside o' the train. 
 
 Her face as white as a snowdrift, her tears a-faUin' like rain — 
 
 She stood there quiet and deathlike, 'mid all o' the rush and noise, 
 
 For the war were a-takin' from her, her husband and three brave boys — 
 
 Bill, Charley and little Tommy— just turned eighteen, but as true 
 
 An' gallant a little soldier as ever wore the blue; 
 
 It seemed almost like murder for to tear her poor heart so. 
 
 But your grandad couldn't stay, baby, an' the boys war determined to go. 
 
 The evenin' afore we started she called the boys to her side. 
 
 An' told 'em as how they war always their mother's joy an' pride; 
 
 An' though her soul was ia torture, an' her poor heart bleedin' an' sore. 
 
 An' though she needed her darlings, the country needed 'em more. 
 
 She told 'em to do their duty, wherever their feet might roam. 
 
 An' to never forget in battle their mother war prayin' at home; 
 
 An' if (an' the tears nigh choked her) they should fall in front o' the foe. 
 
 She'd go to hor blessed Savior an' ax Him to lighten the blow. 
 
40 
 THa POET SCOUT 
 
 Bill lays an' awaits the summons 'neath Spottsylvania's sod, 
 
 An' on the field of Antietam Charley's spirit went back to God; 
 
 An' Tommy, our baby Tommy, we buried one starlit night 
 
 Along with his fallen comrades, just after the Wilderness fight. 
 
 The lightnin' struck our family tree, an' stripped it of every limb, 
 
 A-leavin' only this bare old trunk, a-slandiu' alone an' grim. 
 
 My boy, that's why your grandma, when .aou kneel to the God you love. 
 
 Makes you ax Him to watch your uncles, an' make 'em happy above. 
 
 That's why you sometimes see her with te ir-drops in her eyes; 
 That's why you sometimes catch her a tryin' to hide her sigh ; 
 That's why at our great reunions she looks so solemn and sad; 
 That's why her heart seems a-breakiu' when the boys are jolly and glad; 
 That's why you sometimes find her in the bedroom overhead, 
 Down on her knees a prayin', with their pictures laid out on the bed; 
 That's why the old-time brightness will light up her face no more. 
 Till she meets her hero warriors in the camp on the other shore. 
 
 An' when the great war was over, back came the veterans true. 
 
 With not one star a-missin' from that azure field of blue; 
 
 An' the boys, who on field o' battle hid stood the fiery test. 
 
 Formed posts o' the Great Army in the Vorth, South, East an' West. 
 
 Fraternity, Charity, Loyalty is the motto 'neat h which they train — 
 
 Their object to care for the helpless, an' banish sorrow an' pain 
 
 From the homes o' the widows an' orphans o' the boys who have gone before 
 
 To answer their name at roll-call, in God's Grand Army Corps. 
 
 An' that's why we wear these badges, the ea*:le, an' flag an' star. 
 Worn only Ijy veteran heroes who fought ia that bloody war; 
 An' that's why my old eyes glisten while talking about the fray, 
 An' that's why I call men "comrade" when I meet 'em every day; 
 An' that's why I tell your grandma, "I'm going to post to-night" — 
 For there's where 1 meet the old boys who stood with me in the fight. 
 And, my child, that's why I've taught you to love an' revere these men 
 Who come here a-wearin' badges, to fight their battles again. 
 
 For they are gallant heroes who stood 'mid shot an' shell. 
 
 An' follered those fiying colors right inti the mouth o' hell; 
 
 They are the men whose valor saved this land from disgrace an' shame, 
 
 An' lifted her back in triumph to her perch on the dome o' fame; 
 
 An' as long as you live, my darling, till your lips in death are mute. 
 
 When you see that badge on a bosom, take off your hat an' salute; 
 
 An' if any ol' vet should halt you, an' question why you do, 
 
 Just tell hina yoa've got a right to., for your grandad's a comrade, too. 
 
41 
 
 IF I BUT COULD. 
 
 "Captaiu Jack" Crawford ia Central Magazine. 
 
 Recently "Captain Jack" Crawford, the Poet Scout, had the 
 peculiar duty of introducing the mayor o£ Chicago to the waifs 
 and newsboys of that big city. It was on the occasion of the 
 dinner that chai-ity had provided for these little waifs, and it 
 remained for the Poet Scout to quell the uproar which the 
 youngsters were making, long enough to make them listen to the 
 Mayor. 
 
 After he had left this scene, with its pictures of ragged little 
 ones almost fighting for food, hiding some of it to give to others, 
 and ravenously devouring all they could. Captain Jack was 
 touched by the sorrow of it all, and wrote the following verses: 
 
 Orphans we're most of them— 
 Oh! such a host of them. 
 
 Wretched and glad. 
 
 If I could clothe each jeweled thought 
 
 That comes to me in Nature's bowers. 
 In classic language such as taught 
 
 Away from Western woods and flowers,— 
 If I could sing the sweet refrains 
 
 That in my soul in silence cluster. 
 From many a heart I'd strike the chams. 
 
 And give the star of hope new luster. 
 
 If I could scatter all the gems 
 
 That light my soul in darkened places, 
 Could pluck the hope-buds from their stems 
 
 And wreath them o'er despondent faces: 
 If I had but the power to stay 
 
 The b'ighting hand of pain and sorrow, 
 The human flowers that wilt to-day. 
 
 Would raise their heads and bloom to morrow. 
 
 If from the master hand above 
 
 To me the longed-for power were given, 
 To change all bitterness to love. 
 
 Of every earthly hell make heaven. 
 The lowering clouds w^ould quickly flee 
 
 Before the light that followed after, 
 And every wave of life's broad sea. 
 
 Would gleam with Love and Song and Laughter, 
 
42 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 To Miss Helen Gould 
 
 And yet before my eyes had closed 
 That night when thus I bared my soul, 
 
 And ere my wandering Sf-nses dozed, 
 I felt the tepid tear-drops roll 
 
 Adovvn my cheeks, because I knew 
 That I was but a fl^ayward stray. 
 
 Heart sore, because I could not do- 
 Yet hoping that I could some day. 
 
 And wisely thus the Master ruled 
 
 Between us bits of mortal clay: 
 He gave to you, sweet Helen Gould, 
 
 The will, and with it seemed to stay 
 The blighting hand. Ah, God is good; 
 
 I caught a glimpse of Heaven's scroll 
 The night I wrote "If I But Could," 
 
 And joy bucked in my broncho soul. 
 
 My wild Pegasus broken in. 
 
 Mid scenes of bitterness and woe. 
 Was lean, and lank, was starved and thin, 
 
 But blood was blue and all aglow 
 With God's aristocratic tire— 
 
 The only aristocracy 
 The kind true, noble men desire, 
 
 The only emblem of the free. 
 
 Inspired by such a thought, I dare 
 
 Assert that I am rich indeed. 
 Nor would I change with millionaire 
 
 Whose God is Gold, whose soul is Greed; 
 I'd rather have a Mother's smile 
 
 Than winning hand at Plutarch's euchre 
 That robs the man who knows no guile, 
 
 And murders innocence for lucre. 
 
 But few the years to come and go, 
 
 .\nd you and I will sleep apart; 
 I, where the thorny cacti gr'^w, 
 
 You, where the flowers will crown your heart; 
 Loved ones will deck your sacred tomb. 
 
 And thank the Christ, the master who 
 Sent such a woman flower to bloom. 
 
 With wealth of love and gold to do. 
 
To May Cody Bradford 
 [President, Crittenton Home, Denver, Col. 
 
 May Cody Bradford, you and I 
 
 Are poor in purse, and yet I ween. 
 If Christ should come again to die 
 
 For us and save a Magdalene, 
 His kindly eyes w luld rest on you. 
 
 Because you follow in his wake, 
 By saving fallen women too; 
 
 Then keep right on, for Jesus' sake. 
 
 And if I ever strike it rict. 
 
 Before I hit the gates ajar, 
 I'll help you if I have to hitch 
 
 My wild Pegasus to a star. 
 
 THE FIRST FLOWER OF MAY. 
 
 In May, 1876, a band of Sioux drove off fourteen head of 
 our horses, and after two days' chase we regained seven of 
 them; but, owing to the Indians having a change of horses, 
 we failed to secure any scalps. On the first evening, after 
 a hard day's ride, we camped in a pleasant valley near a 
 cooling spring of water. Frank Smith (Antelope Frank, 
 as we called him) and myself had ridden about three miles 
 further, in hopes of getting a sight of the Indian camp, and 
 it was on our return to the valley mentioned above, and a 
 venison supper, that we laid down to rest under a spreading 
 pine, when the incidents occurred which called forth the 
 following verses: 
 
 A Daisy! the first I had seen in the spring 
 
 Was peeping from under the sod; 
 The air was so chilly, the wind was so cold 
 
 That I fear'd the fair daisy had made rather bold 
 To ascend from the earth's warmer clod. 
 
 Just then a fair skylark flew heavenward to sing 
 Sweet anthems, m praise to his God. 
 
 How sweet to the traveler those soul-stirring notes. 
 
 When weary with riding all day! 
 Indeed, it was joy to my comrade and me— 
 
 The lark in the sky, and the flower on the lea, 
 And our weariness soon passed away. 
 
 That night round the camp-fire we tuned up o'lr throats. 
 And sang of the first flower of May. 
 
44 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 LITTLE ONES PRAYING AT HOME. 
 
 On the fifteenth of September, 1880, I was camped at Lake Goozman, •'•Lagui 
 fic Goosinan, " in the State of Chihuahua, Old Mexico. I had been sent out by Ge 
 eral Buell, with two companions, to lind the camp of the hostile chief, Victori 
 with the view of meetiu!? him, in 1. if possib e, of in lacing him to return to tl 
 Res .Tvation. While rea liug a letter from my wife, the following line appeare 
 ''R^T^Gmher, my de-dv bjy, i/oii /lare Ufflfi ones praj/iriff at home." As this was one 
 the most dangero'is, as well as the most tiresome, trips 1 ever made, these lines we 
 very suggestive; and there, by the beautiful lake and by the light "f the moon, 
 wrote the following song: 
 
 There are little ones praying for me far away, 
 
 There are little ones praying for me; 
 With tiny hands pressed before each little breast, 
 
 Their sweet faces in dreamland I see. 
 "Bless papa, dear Father, where'er he may go, 
 
 And where duty may call him to roam; 
 Through the hills or the valleys of Old Mexico, 
 
 Watch over and bring him safe home," 
 
 (7ion/s. 
 
 So to-night I am happy in Old Mexico, 
 
 While I sit in the moonlight alone; 
 For surely 'tis pleasant to feel and to know 
 
 There are little ones praying at home. 
 
 I know not what moment my spirit may fly 
 
 To that land where dear mother has gone; 
 But oh, if I knew on that bosom so true 
 
 1 might rest on the morrow at dawn, 
 I would willingly go, never more to return, 
 
 Nevermore through these wild lands to roam; 
 But sweet little voices seem whispering to-night, 
 
 "You have little ones praying at home." 
 
 C/iorus. 
 
45 
 
 The moon in her splendor is shining to-night, 
 
 By her beams l am writing just now, 
 While an angel of love seems to smile from above 
 
 With the bright star of hope on her brow; 
 And whisper in languasre so sweet to my soul, 
 
 "I am with you wherever you roam ; 
 And remember when weary and foot-sore at night, 
 
 You have little ones praying at home." 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 THE TRUE STORY OF MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA 
 
 We never found a chicken that could roost out of our reach, 
 We seldom had a chaplain that could find the time to preach. 
 We never saw a soldier pass a shirt hung out to bleach. 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 Oh, ho^ we used to toil along right through the swamps and bogs , 
 And how the ladies blushed at our dilapidated togs. 
 And how we showed our bravery assassinating hogs, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When charging on a chicken roost, the rebel girls cried "Shame!" 
 And said our actions would disgrace the soldiers' honored name. 
 They came at us with clubs and dogs, but we got there just the 
 same, 
 
 As we went marching through Georgia, 
 
 When coming in from foraging sometimes we would get caught. 
 The colonel then would paw the ground and swear he'd have us 
 
 shot. 
 And then he'd eye our captured fowls and fine us half we got, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When ordered up some earthwork, or some battery to take, 
 I've seen some heavy charges, that caused the earth to quake. 
 They were nothing to the charges the sutlers used to make, 
 As we were marching through Georgia. 
 
46 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 ..wsSSSiSSSSWSSw-... 
 
 MAY CRAWFORD BELL 
 
 Born May 18, 1889, at Sigourney, Iowa, was 
 
 named after the Poet Scout and his 
 
 youngest daughter, May. 
 
 TO MAY CRAWFORD BELL. 
 
 Dear May, with the New Year's gladness, 
 Comes a voice on the gentle swell 
 
 Of the moaning breeze 
 
 Through the leafless trees, 
 From a dear, sweet prairie Bell. 
 'Tis a voice with the old time music 
 That echoes a glad refrain, 
 
 Bringing "love from Dad," 
 
 And it makes me glad 
 We are chums and pards again. 
 
And despite the fact it is winter, 
 And the woods and the hills are gray, 
 My heart is thrilled, 
 And warmed, and filled 
 With a love for you, Sweet May. 
 And I only want to be worthy 
 Of the love you have for me: 
 And I'll kiss you, sweet, 
 If we ever meet 
 la Nineteen Hundred and Three. 
 
 So here's to my little namesake, 
 My dear little Iowa Bell. 
 May she grow in grace. 
 May she take her place 
 Where the best and the purest dwell. 
 And, May, when you choose a partner, 
 I would merely suggest to you. 
 
 If he's SURE DEAD STUCK, 
 
 You will sure have luck 
 If he's stuck on himself some, too. 
 
 Lovingly your namesake, 
 
 —J. W. CRAWFORD, 
 (Capt. Jack.) 
 
 New York, January 1st, 1903. 
 
48 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 SOME THIRTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 (Written for the New York Clipper.) 
 
 Come, mother, put your knittin' down; you've done enough to-night; 
 
 It isn't good ''or them old eyes to work by candlelight. 
 
 They aint as flashy as they was some thirty years ago, 
 
 When at the old red meetin" house T first became your beau. 
 
 The big pertracted meetin' was a ruunin" at the time, 
 
 An" Preacher Giles* sermons jist a makin' sinners climb; 
 
 The mourneis' benches wouldn't hold the crowds that forward went 
 
 To seek salvation from the Lord and o'er their sins lament. 
 
 Up in the "amen corner" you would always take your seat. 
 An' jine in with the singin' in a voice so master sweet 
 That of "entimes I've shet my eyes, and half imagined you 
 War act'ally an angel sent to help the meetin' through. 
 I vum, but how "Amazin' Grace'' a rollin' from your lips 
 Would make me feel like I war 'witched, cl'ar to the finger tips. 
 An' "Sinner Turn, Why Will Ye Die," you sung so feeliu'ly, 
 I swow it made me think you sung especially at me. 
 
 I reckon for a dozen nights I sot back near the door, 
 
 An' when the benediction come I'd sweat from every pore. 
 
 Because I had deiarmined fur to offer you my arm. 
 
 An' ax if T might see you home, acrost your father's farm; 
 
 But when I'd take my place in line outside the little church 
 
 An' see you comin' through the door, my heart 'd give a lurch, 
 
 An' thar' I'd stand dumb as a fool, an' swaller at the chokes, 
 
 Till you war half way down the lane along with all your folks. 
 
 I swan to goodiiess, mother, if it doesn't make me laugh 
 
 To think o' me a staudin' thar', a great big bashful calf, 
 
 Without a spark o courage fur to make a move, although 
 
 I didn't think you'd sack me, fur you had no other beau. 
 
 But one night, I remember, I war sittin' in the rear. 
 
 When Cyrus Hawkins nudged my arm, an' whispered in my ear; 
 
 "Jist watch me wen tne meetiu's out an' you will see a sight — 
 
 I'm goin' to ax Jane Hall if 1 can beau her home to-night." 
 
 Jemiua crickets! but the words jist cut me like a dan. 
 An' it war all that I could do to swaller down my heart; 
 An' then an' there I silent vowed that I would be a lout 
 To let that slouchy, freckled fool step in an' cut me out. 
 
40 
 
 So when the old doxology were being sung, I crep' 
 Outside ahead of all the rest an' stood up on the step, 
 An' when I staggered up to you, a wobblin' in the knees. 
 You tuk my arm an' off we went as cosy as you please. 
 
 Do you remember, mother, how I never spoke a word 
 Till we war nearly half-way home? I swow it was absurd - 
 But then I'd never had a gal hitched to me that a- way 
 And I'll be blest if I could think of anything to say. 
 'Twar you as broke the solitude, an' tried to start the talk, 
 Observin' 'twar a lovely night, an' splendid fur a walk. 
 An' if my memory sarves me right my 'tapnal bashfuluess 
 Condensed my answer to a sort o" Whispered, half-skeered ' 
 
 Well, mother, 'twar a funny start, but bless the Lord above, 
 It ended in a double case of unresistful love- 
 When we got more acquainted I expect I talked as good 
 As any love-sick country boy in our whole neighborhood. 
 An' arter the revival broke I didn't stand no more 
 An' wait fur you, proud as a king, outside the church's door; 
 But then that didn't break us off, not by a plaguey sight. 
 Because I went a courtin' you most every Sunday night. 
 
 An', mother, do you mind that blessed day in early Spring, 
 When the bees begun to hum around an' birds begun to sing? 
 I found you in the pastur' lot a milkin' an' I told 
 The story of the burnin' love that in my bosom rolled. 
 Jee-whiz! but how the milk did fly; you squeezed so 'tarnal hard 
 The heifer kicked the bucket nearly half acrost the yard, 
 An' when I fetched it back agin an' tuk you by the hand, 
 Your look made- the happiest man in all this Y'ankee land. 
 
 Fur thirty years we have jogged along the rugged road of life. 
 
 An', mother, you have bin to me a true and noble wife — 
 
 Our old revival meetiti' love haint flickered out a bit. 
 
 An' though we're gettiii' old an' gray, we're them same lovers yit. 
 
 Your kisses now are just as sweet, an' full of heavenly dew^ 
 
 As them you give me at the gate when I war courtin' you; 
 
 An' we will still be lovers when I clasp you to my breast, 
 
 "Whar' the wijjked cease from troublin', an' the weary are at rest.' 
 
50 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 A COUNTRY COMRADE. 
 
 Visits CtEo. H. Thomas Post and the Wold's Pair J90:{. 
 
 Hello! wife, how do you do? I'm back again, you see. 
 
 An' jest as plumb played oat an' tired as ever I kin be — 
 
 I'm gittin' jest a trifle old fur sich a trip, I guess. 
 
 But then I'm more than paid fur all my weai-isome distress. 
 
 I seed the Fair in all its parts, an' wife I want to say 
 
 That all the wonders there cooped up jes tuk my breath away 
 
 From morn till night fur two hull weeks I trampt it up an' down 
 
 An' in the eveniu's sorter viewed the >\onders of the town. 
 
 Chicago's quite a hefty place, much bigger than 1 thought. 
 An' roamin" up an' down the streets jest kep' me on the trot, 
 Fur every tarnal step I tuk I'd run on somethin' new, 
 Placed in the 'lectric winders fur the country jays to view. 
 I never struck the boardia' house, a night while I was there 
 Till somethin' arter twelve o'clock, au' then my legs, I swear, 
 Seemed jest like two long streaks o' pam that to me was attachtd 
 A sort o' hurtin' of a race, an' mighty even matched. 
 
 1 got blamed close to heaven, wife — if fur a year you' try 
 You couldn't gue-s what 'twas that tuk me up so awful high. 
 The Ferris wheel? not much it wa n't— with all its tow'rn height 
 'T'd scurcely make a front door step to where I went one night. 
 No, nor it wasn't a balloon, nor yet a flyin' ship — 
 The latter has indefinite postponed its trial trip— 
 Don't chafe you brain a guessin', fur its jest a waste o' time. 
 An' I will tell you how I come to make the heavenward climb. 
 
 While a takin" in the city an' a roamin' 'round one night, 
 I come acrost a buildin' that run clean up out o' sight. 
 One end was anchored to the ground, an' up it shot so high 
 It seemed to be a pillar fur to help hold up the sky. 
 I had this button on my coat, an' while a standin' there 
 A lookin" upward with a sort o' country greenhorn stare, 
 A well-dressed feller grabbed my hand oncomfortably tight. 
 An' said "OF comrade, howdy do? Come up to post tonight. 
 
 It sort o' seemed remarkable that sich a man as he. 
 Dressed up jest like a general, 'd notice sich as me, 
 But when I looked into his face and saw his smile so frank, 
 I knowed ol' war fraternity meant more to him than rank. 
 
51 
 
 We tuk an elevator an' we started for the top, 
 An' wife, I thought the 'tarnal thing was never goin' to stop, 
 We went jest like a rocket cl'ar to the eighteenth story — 
 In jest another minute we'd 'a hit the gates of glory. 
 
 Jerusalem my happy home, it made me bat my eyes 
 
 To see the grandeur o' that place up there so near the skies. 
 
 It seemed jest like the temple that the Bible tells about, 
 
 On which King Sol blowed in his pile afore his light went out. 
 
 The hall and all the ante rooms war' tit for any king 
 
 Of ol'-time oriental days o' which the poets sing. 
 
 It seemed jest like I'd died an' woke up in the heavenly birth. 
 
 An' made me feel ashamed of our post room down here on earth 
 
 But when the boys begin to come afore the post begun. 
 That grandeur seemed to fade away as frost beneath the sun. 
 A brightness never made by hands jes pushed it out of place — 
 The light o' comrade love that shone in each ol' vet'ran's face. 
 The warm, magnetic clasp o' hands that only comrades know. 
 The smiles thai supersede the battle-fire o' long ago, 
 The flames o' friendship burning there, so close to heaven's dome, 
 I felt in jest no time at all that I war' right at home. 
 
 The regular proceedin's moved along in usual form, 
 With just enough old soldier fun slung in to keep 'em warm, 
 The sick an' the a.iS.ictefi an' the dear ones o" the dead, 
 Were looked to in a way that made my eyes swim in my head. 
 An' when that sacred duty was performed in proper way, 
 The ol' stiff -j'inted comrades seemed to git oncommon gay, 
 An' song an' jokes an' story, and the most sharp p'iuted wit. 
 Put the cap-sheaf on a meeting that I never kin forgit. 
 
 It showed me this: go where you will through all our rescued land, 
 
 In little country villages or in the cities grand, 
 
 That be the comrades low in life, a struggling for a crust, 
 
 Or be they princes in their wealth, high in the people's trust, 
 
 A golden chain unites their hearts, a chain that brighter grows 
 
 As this long weary march of life draws nearer to its close, 
 
 A friendship time can never dim, an' when life's bonds are riven 
 
 'Twill glow with added lustre in the final camp in heaven. 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 ♦•{♦♦•J"?* i••5••^••^•5••^•^•J••J••^•J••l••^•i••}••i••5••J••}••^•5••M•+•5••^•i♦•i<•^••^♦•^♦f•*•Hr•5 •H'******"' 
 
53 
 
 LABOR'S MEMORIAL NICHT. 
 
 To The Hearts of Butte. 
 
 Butte, Moxtaxa. Oct. 1, 190-2. 
 
 O, manly men and women, too. 
 Dame Fortune has been kind to you. 
 Your Miners' Union, stronger far 
 Than "Baer" and all his dogs of war 
 Demands and gets an honest deal. 
 Has wealth in store for woe or weal.— 
 And while I make this plea to you, 
 O, manly men and women true. 
 Deny me not, com,e out tonight. 
 And let me look on faces bright. 
 
 Aglow with God's best attribute. 
 Sweet Charity, for here in Butte 
 No honest cause may ask in vain. 
 Then come, in sunshine or rain. 
 And while you drink from Nature's fount 
 My wild pegasus I shall mount 
 And canter tUl your souls have joy, 
 Just for tonight, once more a boy. 
 Back to my Schuylkill boyhood's home 
 I find beneath God's spangled dome 
 My brothers crushed by selfish trust. 
 My sisters begging for a crust. 
 
 From you whose rights none dare dispute. 
 
 From you, O, brothers mine, in Butte, 
 
 You will respond, ah, yes, I know, 
 
 For you must feel this tender glow 
 
 Of sympathy that lights my soul. 
 
 That makes the tear drops start and roll 
 
 Adown my cheeks, ah, God, if I 
 
 Could only do, I'd gladly die, 
 
 If, dying, I could proudly say 
 
 All tyranny has passed away. 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 THE MAN WITH THE PICK AND THE DRILL 
 
 Read at the Mining Congress and dedi- 
 cated, "The Butte Miners' TTnion," Sept. 
 2, 1902, by "The Poet Scout." 
 
 I love the man with the pick and drill 
 
 A courage that knows no fear; 
 That hero bold, in search of gold, 
 
 With the hope-star ever near, 
 To see him climb the mountains high 
 
 And dig in the deepest dell, 
 Inspires me through with a love so true 
 
 That I want to whoop and yell. 
 
 I love the man with the pick and gun, 
 
 The real old pioneer. 
 Who lived on greens and toothsome beans, 
 
 And the lordly elk and deer; 
 The man who followed the empire's star 
 
 On its onward western flight; 
 Who never flagged and never lagged, 
 
 And slept with his gun at night. 
 
 I love the man who is greater far 
 
 Than the ten-times millionaire 
 Whose millions are the fruits of war 
 
 Arid a monument of despair; 
 Who schemes to rob his fellowmen. 
 
 Legitimately unjust. 
 And then cahoots with his chum cahoots 
 
 To form an ungodly trust. 
 
 I love the man who strikes it rich 
 
 After toiling many years; 
 His wealth is clean as a sunny beam 
 
 And unstained by blood and tears; 
 He wrongs no man; old Mother Earth 
 
 Surrenders to her kings 
 From out her hold of precious gold. 
 
 And God and. nature sings. 
 
 I love the kings of Mother Earth, 
 
 Uncrowned though they may be; 
 And manly men in gulch and glen 
 
 Who died for you and me, 
 Are wearing brighter laurels now 
 
 Than all the titled peers 
 Of wealth and state, however great. 
 
 Whose riches came with tears. 
 
AN ATTRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The following- lines were presented to 
 Wm. A. Bell, written by Capt. Jack Craw- 
 ford the Poet Scout, who had seen and 
 taken a fancy to the fine exhibition wagon 
 of Wm. A. Bell that was lost in the burn- 
 ing of the main building of the New Era 
 Exposition at St. Joseph, Mo., in Septem- 
 ber 1889. The only article saved of the 
 hundreds of valuable relics being the La 
 Fayette carriage which was built in Balti- 
 
 WM. A, BELL 
 
 more, in the year 1822, by John Corlot, to 
 the order of the United States Govern- 
 ment, for the personal use of Gen. Mar- 
 quis de La Payette, and was used by him 
 in his memorable drive of 285 miles from 
 Albany to Buffalo, in 1824, at the time of 
 the celebration attending the opening of 
 tbe Erie O^ual. This grand old carriage 
 
56 
 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 was saved by Capt. Jack Crawford and 
 a band of Apache Indians which he had 
 on exhibition at the exposition. 
 
 TO WM. A. bell: 
 
 My friend here's a tribute of friendship, 
 
 Though bdre of the polish of art, 
 An unworthy token yet offered 
 
 From out of the depths of my heart; 
 To gentleman born and a worker, 
 
 Whom workers can best understand, 
 The crudest bouquet but I fling it, 
 
 As free as a kiss from the hand, 
 And though you have lost the best wagon 
 
 I ever saw wrapped up in tires, 
 1 know you will get up another 
 
 In spite of disastrous fires, 
 
 St. Joseph, Mo., Sept. 21, 1889. 
 
 BABY BESSIE; OR THE HEAVENLY TELEPHONE. 
 
 In one short week our Bessie lay upon her dying bed. 
 And every heart seemed breaking as in feeble tones she said: 
 "I'm going up to heaven, where the little angels play, 
 And I will be an angel, too, if I can find the way. 
 But, mamma, dear, I'm 'fraid I'll be so lonesome when I go, 
 Because I'm not acquainted with a soul up there you know; 
 But if you kneel down by my bed I'll try real hard to wait 
 Until you telephone to God to meet me at the gate.'' 
 
 The baby's wished-for message from a bleeding heart was sent. 
 And then her spotless spirit to the heavenly mansions went, 
 There at the pearly gates I know the loving Master stood. 
 To welcome her with gentle smile, as she hoped he would. 
 Her prattling voice forever will linger in my ear, 
 And when I miss her toddling step and all seems dark and drear 
 I seek the quiet church yard, where we laid her 'neath the sod, 
 A nd kneeling by her little grave, I telephone to God. 
 
57 
 A WESTERN MINER'S STORY. 
 
 No, no, I'm obleeged to you, Colonel, I'm 
 obleeged, but 1 beg to decline — 
 
 r:i take a cigar to be social, but none o' that 
 whiskey in mine. 
 
 1 used to drink just as you say, sir. You're 
 worth in the millions, I'm told, 
 
 But 1 wouldn't taste one drop o' liquor fur 
 titty times all o' your gold. 
 
 Well. Colonel, I'll tell ye the story. Thar's 
 a angel o' mine up in Heaven, 
 
 The Lord come an' tuk her away, sir, when 
 she was jest turnin' o' seven; 
 
 Death's hand couldn't brush from her feat- 
 ures the sweet smile o' pleasure they 
 wore. 
 
 Fur my last words to her war' a promise 
 that 1 wouldn't drink any more. 
 
 I'll tell you just ho\y it come 'round, sir, if 
 
 you got inclination to hear. 
 An' as thar's no one 'yar to listen, 1 guess 
 
 the barkeeper won't keer. 
 As you said w'en you axed me to join you, 
 
 1 used to drink lots o" the stutf — 
 That drink you've got poured in your tum- 
 bler 'd scarcely afford me a snuff. 
 Don't see how 1 ever begun it, fur my home 
 
 never echoed a sigh. 
 My wife war' a sunshiny creature an' as 
 
 pure as the angels on high. 
 An' when, in the goodness o' Heaven, a baby 
 
 come into our love, 
 Thar' wasn't two happier people this side 
 
 o' the kingdom above. 
 
 How I labored an' toiled fur my dear ones, 
 
 'way down in the depths o' the mine. 
 Fur my heart felt their pure love a-clingin' 
 
 as the oak feels the beautiful vine; 
 An' the sound o' my pick war' sweet music, 
 
 as it stabbed in the breast o" the ore. 
 Fur I knowed that as long as I swung it, the 
 
 wolf 'd keep 'way from our door. 
 Wat a joy to go home in the evenin', fur 
 
 thar' was my little wife, Kate, 
 A-waitin' to bid me a welcome with a smile 
 
 an' a kiss at the gate. 
 An' the baby a-crowin' an' jumpin', its eyes 
 
 jest a-dancin' with glee, 
 >-8med all she could do fur to hold it, 'twar' 
 
 so anxious to git holt o' me. 
 
58 
 THK POET SCOUT 
 
 You remember the strike in the Monarch ? 
 
 Oh, yes, you war' President then: 
 The rules o" the union compelled me to quit 
 
 with the rest o" the men, 
 An" through the long weeks we war' idle, 
 
 the little I'd hoarded ahead 
 Got down to the very last penny supplyin 
 
 my dear ones with bread. 
 Kate seemed to be worried an' anxious, the 
 
 bloom faded out o' her face. 
 An' even the baby seemed knowin' that 
 
 somethin' had shook out o' place. 
 An' clouds come to darken the sunshine o' 
 
 the home that we both loved so well — 
 An' thar' the road forked fur me, Colonel, 
 
 an' I tuck the one leadin' to hell. 
 
 I war' weak as a child. 1 confess it — confess 
 
 it with penitent shame, 
 The future looked dark an' 1 weakened w'en 
 
 I'd ort to 'a showed I war' game. 
 W'en the other men seemed to be joyous 
 
 with the drink that war' always on tap, 
 I nosed for a time "round the bait, sir — then 
 
 found myself fast in the trap. 
 I reasoned as fools always reason, that w'en 
 
 the mines started once more, 
 T'd be easy to conquer the drinkin", an' be 
 
 jest as straight as before. 
 But I knew not the power o' the serpent 
 
 that 'round me had gathered its coil. 
 Fur at last w'en the whistle war' sounded 
 
 1 cared more fur dr-nk than fur toil. 
 
 1 kep' gittin' lower an' lower as a slave to 
 
 the demon o' rum. 
 Till 1 stood in the eyes o' the people as a 
 
 sort of a no-account bum. 
 I'd work to git money fur whiskey, jest 
 
 work fur a day now an' then. 
 Not heedin" the anguish o' Katie, an' scornin' 
 
 advice from the men. 
 My little wife never rebuked me, but she'd 
 
 talk o" the beautiful past, 
 An' said slie'd keep hopin' and prayin' the 
 
 horrible dream wouldn't last, • 
 An' some day my eves'd be opened, for God 
 
 must be hearin' her pravers, 
 An' I'd throttle the fiend that had wrecked 
 
 me, an' sunshine 'd dry up her tears. 
 
^ want to say this to you, Colonel, it's a 
 
 sort o' bright spot in my mind. 
 1 never raised hand to my Katie, nor spoke 
 
 to her harsh or unkind, 
 An' Midget, our little girl baby, war' always 
 
 a treasure to me — 
 She never shrunk from me nor feared me, 
 
 no matter how drunk 1 might be. 
 I somehow jest seemed to neglect 'em. an' 
 
 didn't pervide fur 'em right. 
 But spent all my time in the rumshops ca- 
 
 rousin' by day an' by night. 
 An' I felt not a sting in my consience w'en 
 
 the fact found a place "in my head 
 That Katie war' takin' in washin' an' sewin' 
 
 to keep us in bread. 
 
 You've heard o" the old an true sayin' that 
 
 the gloomiest part o the night 
 Is just in advance o' the breakin' o' day with 
 
 its heavenly light. 
 An' that's how it happened to me, sir, fur 
 
 the dawnin' o" reason's clear day 
 In a cold cloud o' death war' enveloped — 
 
 our baby war' taken away. 
 I'd com.e from the rumshop as usual, an' 
 
 stupidly staggered along 
 In the dark, early hours o' the mornin', a- 
 
 singin' a bit of a song, 
 W'en, drunk though I was, it surprised mc 
 
 a light in the window to see. 
 Fur Katie had quit her old habit o" settin' 
 
 up ws^iu fur me. 
 
 A leelin" somehow come upon me that 
 
 somethin' at home wasn't right, 
 A sort of a dread premonition come to me 
 
 from that distant light. 
 An' quicker my footsteps I hurried, an' 
 
 deeper the dread seemed to fall, 
 Till I felt that a cloud hung above me as 
 
 dark as a funeral pall. 
 An' w'en through the doorway I entered. 
 
 an' saw Katie's white, deathly cheek. 
 An' saw that her grief war' so heavy that 
 
 never a word could she speak. 
 An; saw the pale face of our baby to her 
 
 motherly breast closely held. 
 It sobered me up just as quickly as a cloud 
 
 by the wind !s dispelled. 
 
60 
 THR PORT SCOUT 
 
 ! saw by the sweet baby features that she 
 
 war' encompassed by death ; 
 My heart seemed to cease its pulsations as I 
 
 noted her quick, painful breath, 
 An' w'en in my own arms 1 took her, my 
 
 lips with keen agony dumb, 
 She smiled as she wearily murmured : " Oh, 
 
 papa, I'm glad you have come; 
 I'm going up yonder to Heaven, to live in 
 
 the beautiful sky 
 An' I was so 'fraid God 'd take me before I 
 
 could kiss you good-by; 
 I prayed, oh, so hard, for your coming, for 
 
 I wanted to tell you I'd wait, 
 With a hug an' a whole lot o' kisses, for you 
 
 an' mamma at the gate. 
 
 " You'll be good, won't you, papa, an' meet 
 
 me with the old smile your face used 
 
 to wear ? 
 I know, oh, so sure, you'll come to me, fur 
 
 mamma says God answers prayer; 
 An' she prays every night that the Saviour 
 
 'II love you an' make you just like 
 The papa that used to come to us before 
 
 the great, terrible strike. 
 An' I know that He will if you'll let Him, 
 
 fur mamma taught me to pray too. 
 An' I knelt by her side every evenin' an' 
 
 whispered to God about you, 
 An' told Him how much we both loved 
 
 you, in spite o' that terrible drink; 
 You could never get bad enough, papa, but 
 
 what we would love you, I think. 
 
 " An' so, when you come, you will find me 
 
 right near the gate waiting for you — 
 But you mustn't be drinking, dear papa, fur 
 
 they won't let you in if you do — 
 just come like you used to come to us, with 
 
 the same lovely smile on your face, 
 An' I'll be just the happiest angel in all o' 
 
 that beautiful place." 
 I pressed her close up to me. Colonel, an' 
 
 thar', as she hung on death's brink, 
 I promised both her an' my Katie I'd taken 
 
 my very last drink; 
 
An' a smile like the radiance o' Heaven the 
 pain on her face seemed to hide, 
 
 An' that smile was yet there in its beauty 
 an' heavenly light w en she died. 
 
 An" that's how it all come around, sir, an' 
 that's why I answered so bold 
 
 That 1 wouldn't taste one drop o" liquor tho' 
 I'm taking bichloride of gold. 
 
 Take your drink, now, fur I must be goin', 
 fur I know that my bonnie wee Kate 
 
 Has our supper all hot an' is waitin' with a 
 welcomin' smile at the gate. 
 ******* 
 
 The Colonel was deeply affected, his emo- 
 tion he scarce could command. 
 
 And his eyes seemed to sparkle with mois- 
 ture as he reached for the miner's rou^h 
 hand ; ^ 
 
 Then he looked at his glass for a moment, 
 and said to the man at the bar: 
 
 "It's too hot to-day to drink whiskey; just 
 hand me a medium cisrar." 
 
 DOT LITTLE CRIPPLED BOY VATIDIED. 
 
 An old German Cobbler in the coal fields griev- 
 ing over the death of a little orphan cripple 
 boy to whom he became very much attached. 
 
 I dond vas feelin' good von bit, 
 
 A great big lump vas in my neck, 
 Und ven I try to svaller it. 
 
 It seems yust like my heart would break; 
 Sometimes my eyes vas like a spoud 
 
 Mit tears I somehow dond could hide, 
 Und I yust sit and fret aboud 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vat died. 
 
 He used to come my shoeshop in 
 
 Und vatch me ven I drive dem pegs. 
 Und it yust make my heart ache ven 
 
 I see dem little crippled legs. 
 But he vas always schmilin' n-it 
 
 Dem big blue eyes so open vide, 
 Und nefer mind dot pain von bit. 
 
 Dot Httje crippled boy vat died. 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 I tol' *im Deutschland stories, und 
 
 He laugh yust like dem angel dings 
 Vat mit der picture books go 'round 
 
 Up yonder mit der schnow vite vings; 
 Und now my eyes vas all in schwim 
 
 Mit tear-drops dot I dond could hide. 
 Because I got some love mit him. 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vat died. 
 
 Some day he dond vould come, und den 
 
 1 feel all ofer black mit blue. 
 Und sighs vould shake my bosom ven 
 
 1 tried to cobble mit a shoe. 
 Den 1 vould go out by my door 
 
 Und look aboud mit efery side. 
 My old heart yust was achin' for 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vot died. 
 
 Vun time he dond vas come fo*" more 
 
 As most a veek — 1 dond know vy — 
 Und von day standin" mit my door 
 
 1 see some funerals go by. 
 I ask von little bootblack who 
 
 In dot vite hearse vas took a ride; 
 Und he say, " Dutchy, dond you know 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vas died ?" 
 
 it feeled yust like my heart vas sick, 
 
 Und neter vant to beat some more, 
 I glose my shop up pooty quick, 
 
 Und hang some black stuff mit der door. 
 Und den 1 t'ink "Some day 1 go 
 
 Mit angels by dot udder side, 
 Und how den vas I goin' to know 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vot died ?" 
 
 Dose little legs vill all be straight 
 
 in dot bright land so far away, 
 Und ven 1 go in by der gate, 
 
 Vere all der little angels blay, 
 I vonder if 1 find him oud. 
 
 Maybe he run avay und hide ; 
 Veil fdond t'ink 1 shtay midoud 
 
 Dot little cripple bov \ot died, 
 
 Capt. Jaci: i.i London Ticf-'Btts. 
 
63 
 
 OL' BILL REYNOLDS'S 'DOPTED BOY. 
 
 We all looked down on the little cuss 
 When he come to school with the rest of us, 
 Just 'cause he war' an adopted boy. 
 From a orphan 'sylum in lUinoy. 
 He had no parents, leastwise he said, 
 Fur all he knowed both on 'em war' dead — 
 " Died 'fore I was born," he said to me, 
 W'en I chaffed him about his pedigree. 
 
 He didn't seem "fur to have a bit 
 O' fightin' metal or spunky grit. 
 But tuk our slurs in a quiet way, 
 An' endured our torments day after day. 
 Without so much as a sass-back word, 
 No matter how offYi or hard we spurred ; 
 The butt o' the scholards fur wicked fun 
 War' or Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 He larnt his lessons — the teacher said, 
 W'en the term war' over he'd be ahead 
 Of all us scholards sartin an' shore, 
 If we didn't 'tend to our knittin' more. 
 An' w'en the examination come, 
 The Board o' Directors jes' struck us dumb 
 By givin' the prizes, every one. 
 To or Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 This made us wild, an' we up an' swore 
 We wouldn't go to that school no more, 
 Unless the Directors 'd fix it so 
 That little reperbate couldn't go. 
 But afore the school tuk up we heard 
 That or Bill Reynolds somehow perferred 
 To send him into the city, whar' 
 A big, hifalutin' academy war'. 
 
 He come to Bill's on a visit twice, 
 Dressed up, an' lookin' uncommon nice. 
 But never showed up on the village street, 
 Jes' like he was 'feard of us boys he'd meet. 
 'T war' a wise perceedin', fur hone of us 
 'D associate with the nameless cuss 
 That had no pedigree more'n the one 
 Of or Bill Revnolds's 'dopted son. 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 It sorter surprised us w'en some one read 
 A piece in the city paper 'at said 
 That Honer'ble Senator Blake had set 
 On him fur a West Point school cadet, 
 or Bill moved East, an' we never heard 
 Mongst all us boys not another word, 
 Till the big Secession war 'd begun, 
 Of or Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 Most of us ol' school fellers went 
 
 At the fust break-out o' the' devilment, 
 
 An' I reckon thar' wasn't a wilder cuss 
 
 Than me in that hull rebellion muss. 
 
 Dissipatin' an' playin' cards, 
 
 The scum o' the rigiment fur my pards — 
 
 Never stopped fur a breathin' spell 
 
 In my reckless run fur the gates o' hell ! 
 
 * * * * * it: * 
 
 It seems like a nightmare, lookin' back — 
 A gamblin' quarrel — a pistol's crack — 
 A schoolboy comrade by my hand slain — 
 A hand impelled by a rum-crazed brain. 
 The dread court-martial, my quick-drawn 
 
 breath. 
 As 1 heard the words, "To be shot to 
 
 death !" 
 The nameless terror that clung to me 
 As I peered o'er the brink of eternity ! 
 
 My mother came, with her pale, sad face, 
 From our village home to my prison 
 
 place — 
 Came with the old-time, glad voice hushed — 
 Came with a heart my hand had crushed, 
 Kissed and embraced me as of yore. 
 Called me her darling o'er and o'er. 
 Humbly knelt by my side and prayed 
 That the stern hand of justice might be 
 
 stayed. 
 
 Her face reflected her heart's keen pains 
 As she heard the ring o' my clankin' chains ; 
 Eyes that beamed love in the bygone years 
 Were dulled with sorrow's most bitter tears. 
 Her hand on my burnin' head she laid, 
 An' bade me pray as I never prayed, 
 As for me with trembling steps she went 
 With one last hope to the General's tent. 
 
The ensuin' hour seemed a year to me, 
 As I waited thar' in my misery. 
 The sentry with sympathetic face 
 Marched to and fro with a funeral pace. 
 O'er the face o' the sun thar' crept a cloud, 
 Filmy an' white as a coffm shroud, 
 An' a raven on distant wooded slope 
 Seemed to croak the warnin' : " No hop e 
 No hope !" 
 
 Down through the aisles o' the tented camp 
 Came a squad of guards with a tramp, tramp, 
 
 tramp. 
 Half dazed 1 marched 'mid the glistenin' 
 
 guns, 
 Borne proudly by Union's blue-ciad sons, 
 Marched to headquarters an' stood before 
 The great commander, whose broad brow 
 
 wore 
 Undyin' laurels his skill had won 
 On a dozen fields 'neath the Southern sun. 
 
 My brain war' awhirl ! The events now 
 
 seem 
 As the shadowy memories of a dream ; 
 The smile o' my mother, sad but sweet. 
 As she sat on a stool at the General's feet. 
 1 can see the General's courtly grace, 
 As he raised his eyes to my pallid face — 
 " My boy, your mother's prayers have won ; 
 You are' pardoned by Reynolds's 'dopted 
 
 son !" 
 
A TOAST TO EVA 
 
 BEFORE SAILING FOR BUftOTI. 
 
 i fill my glass to one fair lass, 
 
 A sweetheart — not of mine; 
 \ budding rose whose sweets disclose 
 
 The fruit of God's sunshine; , 
 A heart all bent on merriment, 
 
 A soul without disguise; 
 A prairie flower with magic power 
 
 Thit sparkles in her eyes. 
 
 MRS. EVA L. RECKART. 
 
 Capt. Jack Crawford's Daughter. ^ 
 
 I tin my glass to one fair lass, 
 
 As dear as life to me; 
 I've heard her sing with birds of spring, 
 
 I've danced her on my knee; 
 I've watched her grow with soul aglow. 
 
 The sunshine in her hair; 
 Though wild and free, 1 know that she 
 
 Remembers me in prayer. 
 
 I fill my glass to one fair lass — 
 
 Though miles and miles apart, 
 Her echoing voice makes me rejoice, 
 
 And deep within my heart 
 The music strings, which memory brings 
 
 To strike those chords divine. 
 Will sing and play when far away 
 
 Those songs of " Auld lang syne." 
 
I fill my glass, my dear, sweet las§, 
 
 With God's and woman's drink. 
 And fling to you, his daughter true, 
 
 This bouquet while 1 think; 
 So here's your health, with all the wealth 
 
 Of love God gave to me ; 
 And may He smile on you the while 
 
 I sail across the sea. 
 
 ON YOUR LIFE 
 
 There's a halo in the sunset's softened glow ; 
 There's a rainbow in the valley down below ; 
 
 There's a music in the rippling 
 
 Of the crystal waters, tippling 
 Over rugged rocks a-singing, as they flow 
 To the ocean, where the winds of summer blow. 
 
 There is laughter in the waters of the hills 
 "Where the song-birds pipe the tempo of the rills. 
 
 There's a tender, soft caressing, 
 
 And the incense of a blessing. 
 In the sights and sounds where nature's bosom thrills, 
 Where peace and sweet content each songster trills. 
 
 And now to ride Pegasus down to earth. 
 And ease him with a loosening of the girth ; 
 
 Has your thrifty old physician 
 
 Given you the sweet volition 
 To stay and die, or seek another berth 
 Prescribed for you, in short, a mountain hearth ? 
 
 Have you worked until your soul and body ache ? 
 Have you worried heart and head for duty's sake ? 
 
 Then take a short vacation 
 
 And the world of recreation 
 You are sure to find, beside some gleaming lake 
 'Mid the mountains, where the songs the echoes wake. 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 SLEEP, SOLDIER, SLEEP! 
 
 A MEMORIAL DAY HYMN. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ! Thy warfare is o'er, 
 War's dread alarums shall wake thee no 
 
 more ; 
 Sleep, calmly sleep, 'neath the tlowery sod, 
 Waiting the reveille sounded from God. 
 Over thy resting-place bright flowers we 
 
 twine, 
 Gratitude's emblems on loyalty's shrine ; 
 Fruits of thy valor we gratefully reap : 
 Union and Liberty, sleep, sleep, sleep ! 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Beautiful flowers of Spring 
 Loving hands hither bring, 
 
 Sacred thy memory ever we'll keep. 
 Under the grassy sod, 
 Waiting the call from God, 
 
 Sweetly and peacefully sleep, sleep 
 sleep. 
 
 Rest, soldier, rest ! Thy peace thou hast 
 
 earned 
 On the red fields, where the battle fires 
 
 burned. 
 Rest, sweetly rest, for a-weary wert thou 
 Winning the laurels which circled thy brow. 
 Soon will the trumpeteer wake thee again, 
 Sounding "Assembly" on heaven's bright 
 
 plain ; 
 There with thy comrades in realms of the 
 
 blest. 
 Through all eternity, rest, sweet rest. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Beautiful flowers of Spring 
 Loving hands hither bring. 
 
 Sacred thy memory ever we'll keep. 
 Under the grassv sod, 
 Waiting the call from God, 
 
 Sweetly and peacefully sleep, sleep, 
 sleep. 
 
TO MY WINCHESTER 
 
 ' SWEETHEART OF MINE," 
 
 Sweethenrt of mine, 
 For years thy loyalty has proven true 
 
 As is the steel of which thou art created ; 
 There are no tickle vanities in you, 
 
 Thy constancy might well be emulated 
 Bv beauteous sweetheart of a softer mold, 
 Whose eyes gleam love on every new 
 adorer, 
 Who bends the pliant knee to god of gold 
 And blesses every knight who bows 
 before her 
 
 At Cupid's shrine. 
 
 My pretty pard, 
 As loyal helpmate thou hast ever stood 
 
 Facing with me the dangers placed be- 
 fore us. 
 Faithful 'mid trying scenes of war and blood 
 As when the skies of peace shone 
 clearly o'er us ; 
 'Mid all the trying hours of olden days, 
 . When peril threatened, thou hast never 
 failed me — 
 Loyal wert thou in many deadly frays. 
 
 When painted foemen wickedly assailed 
 me. 
 And pressed me hard. 
 
THE POET scour 
 
 Thou art not sweet 
 In disposition unto all, my dear ; 
 
 To same thou art most spiteful in thine 
 anger — 
 Many have quailed in abject fright to hear 
 Thy ringing tones in war's resounding 
 clangor. 
 Although thy face may gleam with polished 
 smiles, 
 
 Thou art a spitfire when the scene is 
 fitting, 
 And gone are all thy sweet coquettish wiles 
 When foes with mine their battle powers 
 are pitting 
 In war's mad heat. 
 
 I love thee, dear, 
 And love of loyal man was never placed 
 
 Upon a more deserving, true companion, 
 In western wanderings, when peril faced 
 Our daily life, on plain, in gloomy 
 canyon. 
 My trust in thee has never been betrayed, 
 True as thy tempered steel I've always 
 found thee, 
 In scenes of danger I was not afraid 
 
 Though savage foemen lurked in rocks 
 around me, 
 For thou wert near. 
 
 Come, dear one, fling 
 Thy moody silence off, and lift thy voice 
 In song as in the days now gone 
 forever ; 
 For all the dangers past let us rejoice, 
 
 I'll beat the time with thy quick-acting 
 lever. 
 Sing in thy wildest tones, let not a note 
 Be soft as note fr'om tender woman, 
 Sing as thou didst when from thy fiery 
 throat 
 
 We hurled defiance at a foe inhumai . 
 Sing, sweetheart, sing. 
 
"sing, sweetheart, sing." 
 
 The Winchester Rifle is by an odds the best smal' arm 
 on earth, and always has been since first invented. More 
 than 75 percent, of the frontiersmen use the Winchester. 
 For rapidity and accuracy it cannot be beaten. 
 
 I. W. CRAWFORD cCapt. Jack). 
 
 BRONCHO VS. BICYCLE. 
 
 "How do you do. Gen- 
 eral?" 
 
 The stranger accepted 
 the extended hand, and 
 smiling, said: 
 
 "How are you? But I 
 was not aware of my 
 promotion." 
 
 Captain Crawford skw 
 that he had made a mis- 
 take, but he made the 
 best of the situation, 
 saying: 
 "Your face has a strangely familiar look to me. Were you 
 in the volunteer service during the war?" 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 "Yes. I served in the Ninth Army Corps, in the Army of 
 the Potomac." 
 
 "Were you in front of PetersV)urg during the siege?" 
 
 "Yes. 1 was in command of Fort Hell." 
 
 "Do you remember just after the charge on Fort Malnoe» 
 on the second day of April, while riding to the front you met 
 two soldiers carrying a bit of a boy on a stretcher, and — ' 
 
 "And," interrupted the military gentleman, "a shell tried 
 to bury us somewhat prematurely by casting a lot of the sacred 
 soil of Virginia over us? Yes, I remember it well." 
 
 "Well," exclaimed the poet scout, with a tone of joy in his 
 voice, "I am that same boy, sir, and your face has been pictured 
 in my mind ever since that day." 
 
 "Good (iod, can it be possible?" 
 
 The next moment the elder man threw his arms around the 
 speak ir, and a suspicious moisture filled the eyes of both. 
 
 The military gentleman proved to be Colonel Albert A. 
 Pope, renowned for his valor as a soldier, as well as being the 
 manufacturer of the Columbia bicyle. 
 
 Some years later, while Captain Crawford was in Boston, 
 he became a guest of Colonel Pope in his beautiful home on 
 Commonwealth Avenue. One day. Colonel Pope asked the 
 poet scout to write something which he could read at a recep- 
 tion to be given by the Bicycle Club, at which Tom Stevens' 
 the famous bicyclist, who made a tour of the world on his 
 wheel, was to be present. 
 
 "Write Something about a bicycle, Crawford," said Colo- 
 nel Pope. 
 
 "Why, Colonel," replied Captain Jack, "I know nothing 
 of those crooked tail affairs." (The large wheels only were 
 then in use.) "Now, if a broncho were given me, I might 
 squeeze some inspiration from it, for that is a critter 1 am 
 familiar with." 
 
 "Write something about a broncho — and a bicycle, then. 
 The broncho inspiration may cover both steeds." 
 
 Captain Jack forthwith prepared a poem, "Broncho vs. 
 Bicycle," and read it at the dinner, to the intense amusement 
 of every one present, especially Tom Stevens and Colonel Pope. 
 The poem which is here given, tells the story in the vernacular 
 of the rough cowboy of the Southwest. The last verse has just 
 been added [The Editor]— Western Magazine. 
 
 The first we saw or tne nigli-tone tramp 
 War over thar' at our Pecos camp; 
 He war comin down the Santa Fe trail 
 Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail, 
 A-skinnin' along with a merry song, 
 An' ringin' a little warnin' gong. 
 He looked so outlandish, strange and queer 
 That all of us grinned from ear to ear, 
 An' every boy on the round-up swore 
 He had never seed sich a hoss afore. 
 
f3' 
 
 Wal, up he rode, with a sunshine smile, 
 A-smokin' a cigarette, an' I'll 
 Be kicked in the neck if 1 ever seen 
 Sich a saddle as that on his queer ma- 
 chine. 
 Why, it made us laugh, for it wasn't half 
 Big enough for the back of a suckin' calf. 
 He tuk our fun in a keerless way, 
 A-venturin' only once to say 
 Thar wasn't a broncho about the place 
 Could down that wheel in a ten-mile race. 
 
 I'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd 
 That could split the air like a flvin' bird, 
 An' I hinted round in an off-hand way 
 That, pervidin' the enterprise 'd pay, 
 I thought as I might jest happen to' light 
 On a hoss that'd leave 'im out o' sight. 
 In less'n a second we seed 'im yank 
 A roll o' greenbacks out of his flank, 
 An' he said, if we wanted to bet, to name 
 The limit, an' he would tackle the game. 
 
 Just a week afore we had all been down 
 On a jamboree to the nearest town, 
 An' the whiskey joints, an' the faro games, 
 An' shakin' our" hoofs wi' the dance-house 
 
 dames 
 Made a wholesale bust; an', pard, I'll be 
 
 cussed 
 If a man in the outfit had any dust; 
 An' so I explained, but the youth replied 
 That he'd lay the money matter aside. 
 
 An' to show that his back didn't grow no 
 
 moss, 
 He'd bet his machine agin my hoss. 
 I tuk him up, and the bet war closed, 
 An' me a-chucklin', fur I supposed 
 I war piayin' in dead sure winnin' luck. 
 In the softest snap 1 had ever struck ; 
 An' the boys chipped in with a knowin 
 
 grin, 
 For they thought the fool had no chance to 
 
 win. 
 
74 
 
 An* so we agreed fur to run that day 
 To the Navajo Crossin' ten miles away— 
 As han'some a track as ever you seed 
 For testin' a hoss's purtiest speed. 
 Apache Johnson and Texas Ned 
 Saddled their horses and rode ahead 
 To station themselves ten miles away, 
 To act as j adages and see fair play, 
 While Mexican Bart and Big Jim Hart 
 Stayed back for to give us an even start. 
 
 I got aboard of my broncho bird, 
 
 An' we came to the scratch an' got the 
 
 word. 
 An' i laughed till my mouth spread from 
 
 ear to ear 
 To see that tenderfoot drop to the rear. 
 
 The first three miles slipped away first-rate, 
 Then broncho began fur to lose his gait; 
 But I wa'n't oneasy, an' didn't mind, 
 With tenderfoot more'n a mile behind. 
 So 1 jogged along, with a cowboy song, 
 Till all of a suddent 1 heard that gong 
 A-ringin' a warnin' in my ear, 
 Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting! too infernal near, 
 An' lookin' back'ards I seed the chump 
 Of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump. 
 
 1 hit ol' broncho a cut wi' the quirt, 
 
 An' once more got him to scratchin' dirt, 
 
 But his wind seemed weak, an' I tell you, 
 
 boss, 
 I seed that he wasn't no ten-mile boss. 
 Still the plucky brute took another shoot. 
 AiV pulled away from the wheel galoot 
 Bat the animal couldn't hold his gail, 
 An' somehow the idee entered my pate 
 That if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their 
 
 srip 
 He'd own that boss at the end o' the trin. 
 Closer and closer come tenderfoot, 
 An' harder the whip to the boss 1 put; 
 But the Eastern cuss, with a smile on his 
 
 face. 
 Ran up to my side with his easy pace- 
 Rode up to my side, an', durn his hide, 
 Remarked 'twar a pleasant day fur a ride; 
 "Then axed, onconsarned, if 1 had a match, 
 An' on his breeches give it a scratch. 
 Lit a cigarette, said he wished me good day, 
 An', as fresh as a daisy, scooted awdif. 
 
Ahead he went — that iniernal gong 
 A-ringin' " good-by " as he flew along; 
 /In the smoke of his cigarette came back 
 Like a vapory snicker along the track. 
 On an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead, 
 His feet keepin' up that onceasable tread, 
 Till he faded away in the distance; an' 
 when 
 
 I seed the condemned Eastern rooster again, 
 He war thar with the boys at the end of the 
 
 race, 
 That same keerless, unconsarned smile on 
 
 his face. 
 
 Now, pard, w'en a cowboy gits beat he 
 
 don't sw'ar, 
 Nor kick, if the, beatin' are done on the 
 
 squar' ; 
 So I tuk that Easterner right by the hand, 
 An' told him that broncho awaited his 
 
 brand. 
 Then I asked 'im his name, and whar from 
 
 he came. 
 And how long he'd practised the wheel- 
 
 rollin' game. 
 Tom Stevens, he said, war his name, an' 
 
 he come 
 From a town they call Bosting, in ol' Yan- 
 
 keedom; 
 Then he list paralyzed us by sayin' he'd 
 
 whirled 
 That very identical wheel round the world. 
 
 Wal, pard, thar's the story o' how that 
 
 smart chap 
 Done me up, w'en I thought I had sich a 
 
 soft snap; 
 Done me up on a race with remarkable 
 
 ease. 
 
 An' lowered my pride a gooa many degrees. 
 Did I give 'im the hoss ? Wy, of course I 
 
 did, boss, 
 An' I'll tell you it wa'n't no diminutive loss. 
 He writ me a letter from back in the East, 
 An' said he'd presented the neat, little beast 
 To a feller named Pope, who stands at the 
 
 head 
 C the ranch whar the cussed wheel horses 
 
 ar' bred. 
 
76 
 THB POET SCOUT 
 
 I've had other letters a-sayin' as how 
 Them crooked-tail wheels isn't in it, fur 
 
 now 
 They're makin' a new-fangled sort of affair 
 With big rubber tires stuffed with nothing 
 
 but air — 
 "Noomatics" they say is their name, an' 
 
 they lay 
 
 Them high-up giraffe machines out o' the 
 
 way ; 
 An' as fur their speed, so the Stevens man 
 
 writ, 
 "A streak o' greased lightnin' ain't in it a 
 
 bit." 
 Thar's nothin'. I'm thinkin', kin foller them 
 
 things 
 In the way of surprisin" inventions but 
 
 wings. 
 
 When it is considered that five magazines have published 
 this poem— r/Se Bicycle World published it twice, The L. A. W. 
 hulletin gave it two pages, and over 100 other publications have 
 printed it— it will readily bf seen that it never was intended 
 for an ad. for Col. Pope or his Columbia. Nor have I ever re 
 ceived a penny for it. No man could sit down and grind out 
 an ad, of this character. I use it in this souvenir because of 
 the great demand for coj'ies of it and because it is good stuff 
 If it pleases vou and my friend, the Colonel, so much the bet- 
 ter. — Captain Jack Crawford. 
 
I PIN MY LOVE TO AUTUMN 
 
 Poets sing about tne seasons rn tne slickest 
 
 sort o' rhymes, 
 An' on the bells of fancy ring a myriad o' 
 
 chimes, 
 An' call upon the Muses fur to send in- 
 
 spirin' thoughts 
 To nerve the fleet Pegasus as along the 
 
 course he trots. 
 But I don't do it that a-way; 1 jest take up 
 
 the pen, 
 An' squat myself fur business sort of easy 
 
 like, an' when 
 The thoughts come softly oozing from the 
 
 fountains o' my brain, 
 I start em coursing o'er the sheet and give 
 
 'em easy rein. 
 
 An' that's just ho"w I'm doin' this calm 
 
 September day. 
 When the brightness o' the Summer has 
 
 begun to pass away. 
 When the leaves are slowly changin' to the 
 
 richest sort o' brown, 
 Puttin' off their Summer dresses fur the 
 
 sober Autumn gown, 
 An' the Bob White pipes its music in the 
 
 woods an' in the fields, 
 ^n' the ever-faithful orchard all its richest 
 
 bounty yields. 
 Other seasons otfer beauties worthy of a 
 
 poet's rhyme. 
 But I pin my love to Autumn an' her rich- 
 ness, every time. 
 
 Then the harvestin' is over an' the mows 
 
 are stuffed with hay. 
 An' amid the golden tassels o' the corii the 
 
 breezes play. 
 An' the hungry-throated thresher swallers 
 
 down its golden food, 
 Hummin' notes o' thankful music to the 
 
 Giver of All Good. 
 'Tis the season o' festivity, when fun an' joy 
 
 an' mirth 
 Podges in an' takes possession o' the rural 
 
 part of earth, 
 An' the silvery bells o' pleasure ring their 
 
 gladdest, merriest chime, — 
 3o 1 pin my best .affection to the Autumn, 
 
 everv time. 
 
TS 
 THE POET SCOUT 
 
 Then the wimmin git together 'round the 
 
 cherished quiltin' frame, — 
 Laughing-eyed an' merry maiden, motherly 
 
 an' sober dame, — 
 An' they stitch an' stitch unceasin', tongues 
 
 with needles keepin' time, 
 Chattin' socially or singin' meetin' hymns in 
 
 rural rhyme; 
 Then when the golden sunset marks the 
 
 closin' o' the day, 
 And the chiny supper dishes are all washed 
 
 an' put away, 
 Then the men folks come a-troopin', dressed 
 
 up in their Sunday clothes. 
 Fur the kissin' party pleasures none but 
 
 country people knows. 
 
 Rosy cheeks grow still more rosv, brighter 
 
 grow the iaus^hin' eyes, 
 As the merry youths an' maidens snatch at 
 
 pleasure as she flies, 
 An' the peals o' joyous laughter tremble on 
 
 the atmosphere 
 When some awkward boy is told to kiss 
 
 the maid he loves most dear; 
 An' bunched in groups the old folks sit and 
 
 ply the busy tongue. 
 Fur the plays bring recollections o' the days 
 
 when they were young; 
 An' near the merry players in some quiet, 
 
 cosy spot, 
 Cupid lurks within the shadders, waitin' fur 
 
 to git a shot. 
 
 Poets sing about the seasons in the slickest 
 
 sort o' rhymes, 
 An' on the bells o' fancy ring a myriad o' 
 
 chimes. 
 An' call upon the Muses fur to send in- 
 
 spirin' thoughts 
 To nerve the fleet Pegasus as along the 
 
 course he trots. 
 But I don't never lack for inspiration when 
 
 I sing ? 
 
 About the time that follers" up the Summer's 
 
 takin' wing; 
 The glorious, golden Autumn, when all 
 
 Nature is in rhyme, 
 Kin ketch the bulky end of my affections, 
 
 every time. 
 
79 
 
 A POET ON A WHEEL 
 
 Colonel Will L. Visscher, the poet-humorist of the Chicago 
 Press Club, and Opie Read's partner on the platform, was a 
 Union soldier in a Kentucky regiment during the war, and 
 after the war the private secretary and amanuensis for George 
 D. Prentiss of the Louisville Courier- Journal. Some time ago, 
 in company withU dozen or more members of the Press Club, 
 the Colonel visited the rink to see the Poet Scout tackle a 
 wheel for the first time, and the following dialect verses are 
 descriptive of what too place: 
 
80 
 
 TBE POET SCOUT 
 
 Twas in Chicago's crowded streets, 
 
 Not very long ago, 
 And I was strolling 'long the way, 
 
 Jis' sorter lost, you know. 
 When who should I run up agin, 
 
 A-lookin' mighty new, 
 But Captain Jack an' Opie Read, 
 
 An' Stanley Waterloo, 
 An' Hugh Blake Williams, Henry Gay, 
 
 Paul Hull and Kirk La Shelle, 
 Cap. Meredith an' Charlie Banks, 
 
 Tom Nicholl an' Frizelle, 
 
C. Almy, known ;is" Commodore," 
 
 Jack Fuller an' Fred Rae, 
 Nixon Waterman, the poet, 
 
 B. A. Johnson— " Been Away" — 
 With Billy Hyde an' Dave Saseen, 
 
 Allgoin' to a rink, 
 Where Jack would ride a wheel, he said 
 
 So I just tuck the wink, 
 An" jined the gang to see the fun. 
 
 1 wish you'd been along, 
 Fer ef you had, you'd pardon me 
 
 For sing4n' this here song. 
 Jack 'lowed as how he'd allers rid 
 
 Whatever come his way, 
 An' blamed if I haint seed him work 
 
 Some tough ones in my day. 
 
 They^trotted out the silent steed, 
 
 A common-lookin' wheel. 
 And Jack, he jumped the critter's back 
 
 An' started in to spiel. 
 The fellers roared, but Jack was thar. 
 
 With all his vim and pluck, 
 But fell some forty foot or less — 
 
 The wheel was on the buck. 
 I never seed a broncho beast 
 
 Put on more airs than that, 
 An' for a spell jack didn't know, 
 
 Right sure, where he was at. 
 But still he tackled on agin 
 
 Ah' rolled for quite a spell, 
 An' then 1 wish you could er heerd 
 
 Them Press Club fellers yell. 
 That 'cycle tuck a twist or two, 
 
 Then run agin the wall 
 An' doubled Jack up like a knife. 
 
 His long hair, hat and all. 
 He fell on it, and it on him. 
 
 An' sich a mix an' mess 
 I haven't seed sense last I sa\y; 
 
 A dance-house row out Wj^s'. 
 
 Jack's legs were stickin' through fhesppkesj 
 
 The handle-bar had dug 
 Deep down into his manly breast; ' ' 
 
 The wall had bruised his mug; 
 He got a left-hand undercut 
 
 Somewheres about the heart. 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 And blamed ef I warnt thinkin', 
 
 then, 
 
 We'd have to git a cart 
 To haul that feller outen thar, 
 
 An' lay him up awhile; 
 But up Jack riz, a-limpin' like, 
 
 An' with a sickly smile, 
 He mounted on that thing agin 
 
 An' rid it right along, 
 A-keepin' up with all the gang, 
 
 • An' singin' of a song, 
 Ontil he got too cute an' smart. 
 
 An' lifted up his hat. 
 To give a wild Comanche yell, 
 
 But while a-doin' that, 
 A heavy girl bore down on him 
 
 An' raked him fore an' aft, 
 An' then the gethered multitude 
 Jis fell, and rolled, an' laughed. 
 
 I didn't see no mo' of Jack, 
 
 Ohtii some fellers went 
 An' pulled apart the pile of truck 
 
 In which old Jack was blent. 
 An' that was skirts, an' hose, and legs. 
 
 An' red an' grayish hair, 
 An' wheels, and arms, an' sorted shoes- 
 
 " Sweet Maiden, hear my prayer ! " 
 But that was 'bout the blamedest mix 
 
 My eyes have ever saw; 
 But Jack, he even riz from that, 
 
 Without a scratch or flaw. 
 
 But he was winded — tell you now — 
 
 An' then we left the place. 
 The fellers all a-hollerin' 
 
 Like sin for savin' grace; 
 But Jack, he 'lows he's got the wheel 
 
 Down to the nicest p'int, 
 An' gwine to ride one, ef it takes 
 
 A leg off ;!t the jint. 
 And now you'd orter see him scorch, 
 
 Columbia's fl;ig unfurled. 
 Old Glory floating in the breeze. 
 
 The standard of tt^e world. 
 
83 
 
 YOU ARE WANTED AT HOME 
 
 SONG AND CHORUS 
 
 Written in San Francisco while waiting the 
 arrival of General Grant from his tour around 
 the world, and afterward sung to the General 
 by the California Quartette. 
 
 You are wanted at home gallant chieftain, 
 
 We are watching and waiting for the. 
 We are waiting to give you a greeting, 
 
 A welcome from over the sea — 
 A welcome as soldiers can give it. 
 
 Who marched with you back to the dome, 
 We will show you, our noble commander, 
 
 How much you are wanted at home. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 You are wanted at home, yes, we want you. 
 For you were our bright guiding star, 
 
 You would guide us aright in our duty 
 In peace, as you led us in war. 
 
 You are wanted at home — do you wonder 
 
 That comrades all shout with delight? 
 It is love for our gallent commander 
 
 Who led us in many a fight. 
 It is you who can best understand us, 
 
 Our chieftian from over the foam. 
 And now j-ou are here we will tell you 
 
 The why she is wanted at home. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 You are wanted at home — 'tis the Union, 
 
 The land and the home of the brave, 
 The land of our star-spangled banner, 
 
 Where man nevermore can be slave. 
 You are wanted by hearts true and loyal. 
 
 Who love you, where ever you roam, 
 And you will be happy returning, 
 
 IPecause there is no place like h\ome. 
 
 Chotm 
 
THE POET SCOUT 
 
 TRUTH 
 
 Truth is like gold in glutches, 
 
 Oft buried deep under the sod, 
 While often the tender-foot * searches, 
 
 For gold on the face of the clod. 
 The color is found on the surface, 
 
 But if you would find richer stock, 
 (to down where large nuggets are buried 
 
 Go down till you find bed-rock. 
 
 Many people examine the surface. 
 
 And penetrate never within; 
 But the outside is sleek as a beaver. 
 
 The heart often dyed deep in sin. 
 Hence lives are hut bace contradictions 
 
 And hearts are oft pining in sorrow; 
 To-dav what may seem quite angelic 
 
 As crime may be looked on tomorrow 
 
 Truth, then, is scattered and buried. 
 
 It is mixed with the gold in glen; 
 Go wash all the dirt from these nuggets 
 
 And find if you can honest men. 
 For truth that is true and unvarnished. 
 
 Is worth the search of the wise; 
 Compare it with nuggets and diamonds, 
 
 Pure truth is by far the beSt prize. 
 
 One miner perhaps in a million 
 
 Will pick up a fortune to-day. 
 While others may toil for a lifetime, 
 
 Yet delve in the very same way. 
 And yet 'tis by toiling we find them-- 
 
 These nuggets we so much desire; 
 'Tis only by working unceasing 
 
 We manage to climb up still higher. 
 
 A new-comer. 
 
"THE SUNSHINE STATE" 
 
 When Goveraor Prince was ask if New Mexico had a pet 
 name he replied that it had not. hut that when the crown of 
 statehood was placed upon the brow of the fair territory he could 
 think of no appellation more appropriate than "The Sunshine 
 State" This name at once became popular with the people of the 
 Territory, and at the christeniog of the new state it will no doubt 
 be conferred upon it. 
 
 Prom the Raton mountains on the north to the Texas line on 
 the south, end from the eastern to the western bjuniaries of 
 New Mexico, every city, town, village and ranch is a health re- 
 sort. Especially is this true in lung troubles, the pure, dry 
 atmosphere exerting its healing influence like magic on all pul- 
 monary diseases. In all parts of the Territory can be found 
 men who went there but living skeletons awaiting the summons 
 from death, but who are mw strong, robust men in t le full en- 
 ioyment of magoiflceat health In that unsurpasse I climate the 
 flush of health was quickly wooed back to their pale, emaciated 
 faces, and the old time strength renewed its reign in thnr shrun- 
 ken limbs. The day is not far distant when new Mexico will be 
 the great Mecca for consumptives, for no climate on the face of 
 the broad earth is so effective for the cure of pulmonary di- 
 seases. 
 
 Not only as a health bvit as a plesaure resort is isew Mexico 
 destined to become famous. The days are but seldom uncom- 
 fortably hot and the nii^hts are delight'uUy cool -so cool that in 
 midsummer a heavy blanket is required for the comfort of the 
 slejper. The great diversity of scenery, mountain and plain, 
 valley and rolling prairie, deep, picturesque, canons and dashing 
 mountain streams of crystalline beauty, alive with trout, make 
 it the most beatutiful and attractive land for the pleasure 
 seeker along the whele southwestern border. The severity of a 
 northern winter is never known in that land of perpetual sun- 
 shine, and, excepting in the higher mountain localities, snow is 
 rarely seen. 
 
 1 cannot here give space to deservedly mention its farming, 
 gardening and fruit growing industries. There are no crop fail- 
 ures, for irrigation is yet required, and water is run upon the 
 growing crops whenever necessary. As has been the case in all 
 newly settled localities rains are becoming more frequent, and ir- 
 rigation ditches will ere long only be necessary in cases of drouth. 
 
Deer, bear, elk. mouutaiu-shoep, antelope and other species 
 of large ganae can be found in abundance, and jack and cottontail 
 rabbits, turkey, grouse, quail, ducks, geese, etc., are found in al- 
 most every locality. It is indeed a sportsmen's paradise. 
 
 My home has been in that sunny land for twenty-three years, 
 and there I expect to remain until called to the only land which 
 can surpass it in loveliness. 
 
 The land-beyand the dark and rolling river, 
 Where faithful ones like you and 1 will cluster. 
 
 In rapturous joy forever and farever 
 Provided we can pass the final muster. 
 
 And in order to reach there take it take 
 
 THE GREAT SANTA FEE ROUTE 
 
 Address, 
 
 7 19 MONADNOCK BUlLOI'«lG, CHICAGO, ILL. 
 
 For liteiature and unpeachable statistics, 
 
 Vours in Clouds or Sunshine, 
 
 CAPT, JACK CR UVKORD. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 ■IllllllllllllilU, 
 
 015 785 791 5 ^1