1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
OUT-DOOR REVERIES 
 
 By 
 E. PARKER JAQUES 
 
 Illustrated by 
 Francis Lee JaouEs 
 
 Kansas City, Missouri 
 
 BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 
 

 Copyright 1920 
 BURTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 Kansas City, Missouri 
 
 OCT IUISLA 
 
 ©CLA624738 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The verses in this collection were not made to show 
 scholarly attainments. The grammar school the 
 writer might have attended was never built. What 
 education he got was completed before the age of 
 twelve and then a life of adventure such as seldom 
 falls to the lot of ordinary men was begun. 
 
 The adventures were not of the desperate sort one 
 meets with in the yellow-covered books, nor yet the 
 actual dangers the soldiers meet on the firing line- 
 neither did they bear any relation to the bombastic 
 exploits of the modern lion hunter whose game is 
 driven to his gun by unarmed beaters. They were 
 just ordinary happenings such as one meets by loiter- 
 ing in all manner of out-of-the-way places, such as 
 lone canoe trips when, for nearly a month no white 
 man's face is sighted. The nearest to a thrill I can 
 offer was one night coming to camp through the wood 
 after dark with an empty rifle, the smell of a murdered 
 deer on my boots, and a pack of hungry wolves ap- 
 parently howling on my track. The danger was noth- 
 ing at all, but as a thriller it might be made much of. 
 So much for the adventurous life. As before stated 
 my knowledge of letters was rather limited. My idea 
 of good language is best defined by an old story of a 
 
4 Introduction 
 
 man who went through all the educational institutions 
 at home and then traveled three years abroad to broad- 
 en his mind. Returning to his own country he 
 started touring it to further gild the burnished gold. 
 Once, riding in a stage coach, in a backwoods district, 
 the wind blew his hat off, when he assailed the 
 driver thus: "Charioteer, pause, I have lost my ca- 
 pote." Several times this was repeated but the driver 
 kept on, not knowing that the noise had anything to 
 do with him. Then a country man took it up and 
 said, "Hold on driver, this fool has lost his hat." The 
 stage stopped instantly and the hat retrieved. It was 
 good language that brought results. I don't claim 
 to be able to use language as much to the point as 
 that country man did, at all times, but think in most 
 cases I shall be understood. A fluent use of all the 
 words used to convey ideas would be of great value 
 to the poet, but is something I think never attained by 
 any single person. A copious flow of words, too, is 
 often used to conceal the lack of ideas. Had I com- 
 mand of words to express all the poetry I saw in 
 passing, it would be an endless volume; as it is, the 
 output is meager but such as it is, it is knocking at 
 the door of (?) not fame, say mammon ; a crust is 
 better than a stone, yet some of the greatest poets of 
 all time have failed of the crust but got the stone. 
 I think it is common with all humanity to see poetry 
 in the volume of life but nine out of ten see without 
 attempting to express. The tenth starts out to be a 
 poet. Now and then one fails of either crust or stone ; 
 
Introduction 5 
 
 becomes disgusted and quits, and humanity is the 
 loser and more than likely deserves to lose. Of the 
 technical knowledge of putting words together I have 
 but little ; but being technical is little value in poetry. 
 My idea of poets is that they are born, not made, 
 though modern editors insist on reversing the rule. 
 Made poets draw the crowd by liberal patronage of 
 press agents and advertising syndicates, but while 
 
 Made poets fill many pages, 
 Born poets fill many ages. 
 
 Just like that without premeditation. I hope made 
 poets will understand this and keep their place in the 
 never ending line. The pieces in this collection cover 
 a period of well over forty years. The oldest of the 
 lot was made on a Kansas ranch in 1877. It hap- 
 pened in this way: The boss of the ranch had a 
 habit of putting his thoughts in rhyme and meter, 
 though, like myself, he kept it stored in his own mind 
 and few suspected either of us. By chance we learned 
 each of the other's weakness — there was a rivalry and 
 a challenge. Each was to compose a poem and sub- 
 mit it to a vote of the ranch hands as to which was 
 the best. We were working in a field, at one end of 
 which we came into view of the great hill that stands 
 as a sentinel over Lindsburg, Kansas, and some fifteen 
 miles distant. I chose it for my theme. Neither 
 of the pieces were written down but recited from mem- 
 ory before the ranch hands and every man jack of 
 them voted for the boss of course, though I never con- 
 
6 Introduction 
 
 ceded his victory. Several other pieces originated 
 there. My piece was never put on paper 'til twenty 
 years had passed. 
 
 The camp, outing and hunting scenes were mostly 
 written amid the scenes described. The author was 
 guide and manager for a man, who, with his wife, 
 campaigned for three months in the late summer and 
 fall each year in the hunting fields of the Northwest. 
 Some of the outings were along the old St. Paul and 
 Pembina Trail in Minnesota, some in North and South 
 Dakota, Wyoming, Nebraska and as far south as Kan- 
 sas. After we had got somewhat acquainted, the cap- 
 tain detailed the guide to write a poem for each Sun- 
 day's diversion as we never hunted on that day. This 
 was something of a joke but the guide, obedient to 
 orders, sailed in and most of the efforts are included in 
 this collection. The greatest compliment I ever got 
 was paid me by the captain's wife. One day we were 
 discussing a poem, "Hid in the Woods," and the "au- 
 thor was joking about it when she said, "You need not 
 laugh about it for it is no joke but the real thing, and 
 you are only making fun of us." However bad the 
 judgment might have been as a compliment, it is the 
 neatest I ever got and is a rare gem that casts a back- 
 ward glow from the fading years. Both of these peo- 
 ple have passed on to other hunting fields and the 
 publishers who, with more sympathy than judgment, 
 shall give these waifs a home, will be met at the por- 
 tals as a friend and benefactor when he crosses over. 
 
 In later years I became interested in writing for out- 
 
Introduction 7 
 
 door magazines and periodicals. I drew from this 
 mind volume and a number of the pieces appeared in 
 the "American Field," "Field and Stream," "Sports- 
 man's Review," "Northwest Magazine," "Recreation," 
 and others fifteen to twenty-five years ago. The last 
 of the pieces was made in 1920 and again on a Kansas 
 ranch, and the whole was typewritten and assembled 
 by a schoolgirl in a nearby town. 
 
 The Author. 
 
TABLE OP CONTENTS. 
 
 Title Page 
 
 Birth of Poetry 11 
 
 Sportsman's Reverie 13 
 
 A Queen of Forest Lakes 19 
 
 Heart of Nature 21 
 
 Tents Are Up 22 
 
 On Pembina Trail 24 
 
 On Tamarac River . 27 
 
 On Roseau Trail 30 
 
 Night on the Roseau 34 
 
 Hid in the Woods 37 
 
 Storm in Camp 40 
 
 Last of the Nomads 41 
 
 The Dreamer . ... 42 
 
 Loafin' With a Gun 44 
 
 Sand-Hill Crane 48 
 
 Voice of the Teal..... 50 
 
 Wooing of the Grouse 54 
 
 In the Stubble Long Ago 57 
 
 Rancher at Home 61 
 
 Rancher Abroad 68 
 
 Linds Borg Hill 79 
 
 The Source 81 
 
 The Sixth Hour 83 
 
 Old Home Town 86 
 
 The Need of Man Is Men 89 
 
 A Summer Outing.. 91 
 
 When Evolution Sleeps 97 
 
 Evolution of the Marshes 98 
 
 Over the Great Divide 105 
 
 Song of the Politician 115 
 
 County Convention 117 
 
 The Boys Are Growing Old 120 
 
 Where Words Failed 123 
 
 Kansas 124 
 
 Man and River 127 
 
Outdoor Reveries 11 
 
 BIRTH OP POETRY. 
 
 By the margin of a river, 
 
 On a prairie long ago, 
 Where the snow capped mountains guarded, 
 
 And the blue stem to and fro 
 Nodded in the passing breezes, 
 
 With a soft rhythmatic swing, 
 Grew a flower soothed and nourished 
 
 By the river's murmuring, 
 And its budding sweetness blended 
 
 With the blushes of the morn. 
 Breeze and stream a cadence lended 
 
 And Poetry was born. 
 
•• * 
 
Outdoor Retries 13 
 
 SPORTSMAN'S REVERIE. 
 
 By a rush-fringed stream, in lonely tent, 
 
 Far from the haunts of men, 
 I listless lie, as the hours drift by, 
 
 And as listless think, and then, — 
 
 I think of the mission that brought me here, 
 From my home in the distant east, 
 
 I think of the sad condition of man, 
 His perversity passeth belief. 
 
 For I'm out in pursuit of the birds of the air, 
 And fishes that swim in the stream; 
 
 Yet today they are safe from gun or snare, 
 For today I'm a dreamer of dreams. 
 
 My gun in a corner is leaning, 
 
 A fish-rod lies down by the stream, 
 
 Where I flung it this morning while gleaning 
 From nature, the source of my dream. 
 
 The birds sing sweetly just outside my door, 
 
 A grass-plover twitters of love 
 While the mate whistles back his assurance 
 
 As he floats, a mere speck, far above. 
 
 From a copse near by comes a cat-bird's call 
 And a black-bird's pert chap-chap, 
 
 A tell-tale scolds at my canvas wall ; 
 A cow-bird peers in at the flap. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 15 
 
 The king bird chatters so blithely, 
 
 A willet is screaming with joy, 
 The sounds on the breeze drift lightly 
 
 To him who has come to destroy. 
 
 The squawk sounds a discord completely, 
 To the raven's cry loud and harsh, 
 
 But the whistling widgeon chords sweetly 
 With the voice of the teal on the marsh. 
 
 The curlew is sounding defiant, 
 
 Its note far reaching and shrill, 
 And is answered, voice self reliant, 
 
 By the marlin just over the hill. 
 
 Then a sound is wafted to me 
 
 'Tis musical with glee, 
 Look out now old grouse, for I see you 
 
 On the Balm-of-Gilead tree. 
 
 The rifle lightly to shoulder I bring, 
 
 And oh, what an excellent shot : 
 Full forty yards, and the head off, 
 
 My reflection completely forgot. 
 
 I draw a bead at the top of a weed, 
 
 And again at a distant flower; 
 From weaklings' remorse I'm quickly freed, 
 
 It has come and is gone in an hour. 
 
 I hark to the sound of the Sand Hill Crane 
 Out there on that low browed hill; 
 
 The thought of destroying gives no pain; 
 I gloat o'er my power to kill. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 17 
 
 Oh Man : in triumphant achievement ; 
 
 In success through science and art; 
 In power of spreading bereavement; 
 
 In method of stilling a heart. 
 
 Who can tell the source of our passions? 
 
 What power mouldeth our taste? 
 Some worry to follow the fashions, 
 
 Some rejoice at a country laid waste. 
 
 One laughs as he hoards up his treasure, 
 
 Another yearns after fame I have heard ; 
 
 But 'tis sad that any find pleasure, 
 In the killing of even a bird. 
 
 Anon I hear a wild goose hail 
 
 To the mate as they swiftly pass, 
 
 As proud in strength of wing, they sail 
 High over the nodding grass. 
 
 Again the rifle slants upward 
 
 And again that whip-like sound 
 Rings clear upon the autumn air; 
 
 One struggles in death on the ground. 
 
 With startled cry, the mate wheels on high 
 And the voice is the voice of sorrow, 
 
 I fondle my rifle and softly sigh 
 
 As I lay it away for the morrow. 
 
18 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 For though out in pursuit of the birds of the air 
 And fishes that swim in the streams 
 
 Yet today they are safe from gun or snare 
 For today I'm a dreamer of dreams. 
 
 And I dream of the lives to be blighted 
 With these engines made by men; 
 
 Shall I wake on the morrow benighted? 
 Shall I ever pursue them again? 
 
Outdoor Reveries 19 
 
 A QUEEN OP FOREST LAKES. 
 
 In emerald dress 
 
 In the wilderness, 
 Where nature, unrivaled, awaits 
 
 The advent of man 
 
 With steam drawn van, 
 Reigns a queen of forest lakes. 
 
 With subjects true, 
 
 'Neath skies of blue, 
 Deep in the wildwood brakes, 
 
 Where with shriek and groan. 
 
 And laugh and moan, 
 The loon wild echo awakes. 
 
 Oh queen of the fair; 
 
 Of a kingdom rare; 
 Reigning here in heart of the wood, 
 
 Where oak and pine 
 
 And wild creeping vine 
 Thy crown through the ages have stood. 
 
 With white cloud above, 
 
 And sea birds that love, 
 Reflected and glancing beneath ; 
 
 I drink unto you, 
 
 From your waters of blue, 
 And your pine clad hill for a wreath. 
 
20 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 The red-man here, 
 
 With never a fear, 
 Wanders the woodland through; 
 
 Or in quest of thy gift 
 
 On thy waters drift, 
 Lightly borne in birch bark canoe. 
 
 A play-ground rare 
 
 For the fowls of the air, 
 
 Is the bay where buried braves 
 Are hushed to sleep 
 By the south wind's sweep 
 
 And the rune of lapping waves. 
 
 The white gulls skim, 
 
 Or listless swim 
 O'er the dimpled blue of the bay; 
 
 Where waters glimmer, 
 
 Quiver and shimmer, 
 As they fade in the distance away. 
 
 Oh wave and pine: 
 Harmonious, sublime, 
 
 Oh vision thy fair form makes: 
 I drink unto you 
 From your waters of blue, 
 
 Fair queen of forest lakes. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 21 
 
 HEART OF NATURE. 
 
 Through droning bee, 
 
 And singing bird, 
 The pulsing of her heart is heard. 
 
 It lifts the mind, 
 
 From drooping sadness, 
 To buoyancy and song and gladness. 
 
22 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 TENTS ARE UP. 
 
 The tents are up along the ridge, 
 
 The Nomads are in camp, 
 The sun has crimson'd all the west 
 
 And Venus trimmed her lamp. 
 
 The pale full moon is rising there 
 
 Beyond the poplars tall; 
 And evening's breeze is whispering 
 
 Old tales it told last fall; 
 
 And peace serenely fills the mind, 
 
 As fades the sunset glow, 
 While fancy plumes her wing for flight 
 
 To scenes of years ago. 
 
 Time tinted scenes of years agone 
 On mem'ry's canvas spread ; 
 
 Their brighter tints still brighter grown, 
 Their somber tints have fled. 
 
 How restful, too, this whispering breeze 
 
 In ears of lover true : 
 How like love's tale this moonlight sheen, 
 
 So old yet ever new : 
 
Outdoor Reveries 23 
 
 And through its shimmering is seen — 
 
 Fond memory's bidden guest — 
 Some day afield or night in camp, 
 
 That looms above the rest. 
 
 Perhaps some little noted view, 
 
 'Mid other beauties shown, 
 That proves the gem of rarest hue, 
 
 By wandering back alone. 
 
 The flush of dawn, the morning air 
 
 The setter's joyous bark, 
 The flutter of a startled grouse, 
 
 A flower spangled park. 
 
 Thus may these gems that memory brings 
 Have power to please always — 
 
 This retrospect each outing brings 
 Of other outing days. 
 
 And may her pictures never fade 
 
 Or colorless be found, 
 'Til Eternity goes fowling 
 
 And Time comes fluttering down. 
 
24 Outdoor IUvkriES 
 
 ON PEMBINA TRAIL. 
 
 Where Aurora Borealis 
 
 Thrusts her burnished lances high, 
 In variegated color, 
 
 Thrown on the northern sky; 
 
 And the forest meets the prairie, 
 Forming countless fairy parks — 
 
 Where grove and plain in blending, 
 The changing landscape marks. 
 
 And the poplar bows and murmurs, 
 As autumn's sweeping gale 
 
 Scatters russet leaves, frost tinted, 
 O'er an old forgotten trail. 
 
 And the eye and ear delighted 
 
 By September's song and blush — 
 
 By the music and the picture, 
 
 From the master lute and brush. 
 
 The copse, the grove, the strutting grouse- 
 The hill, the vale, the glen; 
 
 And prairie with its nodding grass, 
 The stubble field and fen. 
 
 'Mid scenes like this undaunted 
 By coming winter's tramp, 
 
 In a vale beside a river, 
 
 The Nomads are in camp. 
 
26 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Their flapping tents are scattered wide 
 
 Nor set by line or rule ; 
 In the hazel copse they flung them, 
 
 By a deep and shaded pool. 
 
 And they breathe the air of freedom; 
 
 Care to the wind is hurled, 
 Each passing hour untainted, 
 
 By the restless, striving world. 
 
 While nature's choicest gifts to man, 
 Their cup of gladness fills, 
 
 Contentment waves the olive branch 
 O'er valley, stream and hills. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 27 
 
 ON TAMARAC RIVER. 
 
 Where Tamarac's bold winding glen 
 Deep furroughs through the plain, 
 
 On walled plateau, above the stream, 
 The Nomads camp again. 
 
 Begirt the higher hills around 
 
 In nature's woven fold, 
 A cozy resting place they've found, 
 
 In a valley fleck'd with gold. 
 
 For autumn's gaudiest dress is spread, 
 
 In variegated sheen, 
 O'er tree and vine and towering wall, 
 
 And vale that lies between. 
 
 The oak in bronze, the cherry red, 
 
 With linden just a-browning; 
 While leaning o'er the river's bed, 
 The elm's leaves are frowning. 
 
 Box-elders rear a silvered head 
 Down by the shaded stream — 
 
 And aspen on the topmost height, 
 Still waves the living green. 
 
28 Outdoor RevSriss 
 
 The Balm-of-Gilead branch is bare, 
 Of summer raiment shorn, 
 
 And drooping willows silent grieve 
 The garments old and torn. 
 
 The smouldering forest fires afar, 
 Their filmy curtains raise, 
 
 Which floating on the breezes blend 
 With mild September haze. 
 
 The silver clouds drift silent by, 
 Their shadows fall between, 
 
 Bright bars of sunlight gilding all 
 The slowly shifting scene. 
 
 The evening shadows come apace, 
 Up springs inquiring owl 
 
 From out the darkened vale beneath, 
 Where wild beasts nightly prowl. 
 
 The sunset glow dies in the west 
 And shadow* hig\her creep, 
 
 The daily waft erer s ]^ks to rest, 
 B 7.?x'ght winds' lulle\i to sleep. 
 
30 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 ON ROSEAU TRAIL. 
 
 In a grove beside a rush-rimmed lake 
 The Nomads halt once more, 
 
 Where a reach of wind-surged water 
 Chants requiems to the shore. 
 
 Where rustling reeds are sighing 
 The summer days now fled; 
 
 And leaves are slowly dying; 
 
 The grass all brown and dead. 
 
 Their carpet is leaves by sunbeams checked 
 Walled in by gold and green, 
 
 Their roof the dome of wide-arched blue, 
 And clouds that drift between. 
 
 The starling's notes from the rushes 
 Drifts to their ravished ears, 
 
 While gildings of October 
 To ravished eye appears. 
 
 The shimmering wave, the bending tree, 
 The sunbeams brightly glancing, 
 
 When romping winds, in wanton glee, 
 Set leaf and lake a-dancing. 
 
32 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 And thrilling sounds come o'er the lake 
 Of wild goose loudly calling. 
 
 The rusted fringe along the wood, 
 Where frosted leaves are falling. 
 
 But then a change comes o'er the scene, 
 The air grows damp and chill, 
 
 The wide-arched space of heaven's blue 
 With dark clouds slowly fill. 
 
 The sighing winds change to a moan, 
 As wandering souls in pain, 
 
 The swaying reeds still louder groan; 
 Down comes the slanting rain. 
 
 But nature's frowns have pleasures, 
 Tho' her smiles be as a dream; 
 
 Storms are part of her treasures, 
 As well as the sun's bright beam. 
 
 The falling rain a cadence lends, 
 
 To wild fowls' joyous call, 
 And waves are tinged to steely blue, 
 
 Where deeper shadows fall. 
 
 As wild they dash from troubled reach, 
 With ceaseless splash on reedy beach, 
 
 Then break and fall and backward flow, 
 
 From lines of foam piled white as snow. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 33 
 
 The red oak weeps and shivers with cold, 
 
 Too thinly clad in amber fold; 
 Its swaying crest is rudely shorn, 
 
 In fierce embrace of Northeast storm. 
 
 Yes, nature's moods are kindly, 
 To all who with her commune; 
 'Tis only the thoughtless, blindly 
 
 Mourn summer as gone too soon. 
 
 There are scenes for eyes that see them, 
 Throughout the passing year, 
 
 And a ceaseless, soothing anthem 
 Ever sounding for ears that hear. 
 
34 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 NIGHT ON THE ROSEAU. 
 
 It is night upon the Roseau, 
 
 The winds have died away; 
 And landscape glistens in the light 
 Of firmaments array. 
 
 The stars on high are striving 
 To shed their brightest beam ; 
 
 Each rivaled by another, 
 
 Reflected in the stream. 
 
 The bashful moon, all blushing red, 
 Just rising, takes a peep, 
 
 O'er swamp, and stream, and tangled wood- 
 The wilderness asleep. 
 
 Coyly she glances at the scene — 
 
 Softly her blushes fall, 
 Through interlacing branches, 
 
 On the Nomads' canvas wall. 
 
 She takes the bodkins from her hair, 
 And silvered ringlets quiver, 
 
 Then casts shy glances at herself, 
 Deep in the polished river. 
 
 Higher and higher she wheels aloft, 
 
 Full robed in silver light; 
 Then proudly to the world proclaims 
 . Herself the queen of night. 
 
36 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 A muskrat slowly threads its way 
 
 Across the river's face; 
 Its course the broken waters, 
 
 And dancing moonbeams trace. 
 
 Two spreading lines of ripples, 
 
 The polished surface mars, 
 And sets in tuneful motion, 
 
 Reflected moon and stars. 
 
 Deep stillness hovers over all, 
 
 Save now and then a break, 
 As faint the notes of wild fowl float 
 
 Across a distant lake. 
 
 Or through the glittering moonbeams fall, 
 
 The waveys' sad refrain, 
 As through night, as arrow's flight, 
 
 They plow the queen's domain. 
 
 Jack Frost, the tireless weaver, 
 Is working might and main, 
 
 Among the leafless branches 
 To clothe them all again. 
 
 The pale old moon, the tired moon, 
 Swings low along the west; 
 
 With languid glow, serene and slow, 
 Sinks peacefully to rest. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 37 
 
 HID IN THE WOODS. 
 
 Hid in the woods, deep in the solemn shade, 
 
 A shimmering lake serenely peeping through 
 
 Beneath the boughs, the soft mold overlaid 
 
 With rustling leaves that autumn breezes strew. 
 
 The hazy Indian summer lifts on high 
 
 The smoky veil ; a softening halo throws 
 
 On wood, aflame with leaf of every dye, 
 From yellow daffodil to blood red rose. 
 
 Tis sweet to be at rest and languid dream, 
 
 While lisping boughs tell mystic tales of old, 
 
 And slanting sunbeams, richly mellowed stream 
 Through sugar maples flaming yellow fold. 
 
 'Tis sweet to lie when night her mantle brings, 
 
 And covers wood with filmy moon-flecked gown, 
 
 And crooning oak a mottled shadow flings, 
 In flitting fold across the russet brown. 
 
 Hid in the woods are many subtle voices, 
 In eerie cadences through shadows coming; 
 
 Night, cloaking bashful tongues, rejoices 
 
 In owls who? who? and ruffled grouse faintly 
 drumming. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 39 
 
 But why should I assail the infinite thus weakly 
 With idle sound of man made noun or verb? 
 
 More seemly 'tis that I should listen meekly, 
 Nor whispering dryads of the wood disturb. 
 
 Hid in the wood lives poetry enchanted, 
 
 Tho' vain I try to lure from its retreat; 
 
 There deep in nature's inmost soul implanted, 
 Leave it conceited pen and own defeat. 
 
40 Outdoor Retries 
 
 STORM IN CAMP. 
 
 Low rumblings as of mighty discontent — 
 A purring as of lions' fury curbed, 
 
 The waveless air in sullen silence hangs — 
 A murk of vapor from the steaming sod — 
 
 Poisonous as of loathsome serpents' breath — 
 Gloomy as pall flung o'er unlovely death. 
 
 The calmness of a Titan 'ere the strife — 
 
 The frown of mighty cannon 'ere the spark 
 
 Unloose the red-tongued flame and hurtling shell- 
 A softening glow, a fitful flash of red 
 
 Across the midnight blackness races, 
 As blushes o'er fond lovers' faces. 
 
 Then harsher grows the mood, the angry growl 
 Increases to a muffled roar that jars 
 
 The solid earth— the erstwhile blush is turned 
 To angry glow of passion uncontrolled; 
 
 The cowering forest, mute and breathless stands 
 As frightened child, beneath uplifted hand. 
 
 Then comes an eerie whisper through the wood, 
 The loftier branches gossip of their fears, 
 
 Tis caught and spreads along the undertow 
 In awesome groan and muttered prophecies. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 41 
 
 The lightnings rend the gloom o'erhead — 
 
 The poet yawns and goes to bed, 
 And thunders blend in awful roar 
 
 With howling winds and poet's snore. 
 
 LAST OF THE NOMADS. 
 
 No soul-inspiring song today I sing, 
 To marshal Nature's troupe; 
 
 But in rhythmatic swell, the truth I'll tell, 
 The poem is in the soup. 
 
42 Outdoor Retries 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 Let the proud world sneer at the dreamer ; 
 
 Give praise to the blood-crusted sword; 
 Or fawn round the rogue if it chooses, 
 
 As he harvests the toiler's reward. 
 
 Let fashion make slaves of its minions, 
 
 And the butterflies revel in chains, 
 While the muse on unfettered pinions, 
 
 vShall compass earth's farthest domains. 
 
 You may cloy your ambition, oh schemer, 
 
 Have the wealth of all earth at command, 
 
 But you cannot compare with the dreamer, 
 Though he hold but a husk in his hand. 
 
 For the dreamer hath sources of pleasure, 
 That are bound by no fetters of gold, 
 
 The mints of the mind are its measure; 
 In songs of the soul it is told. 
 
 Doth the wind shriek tales as of madness, 
 
 Through the storm and gloom of 'the night, 
 
 To him 'tis a song as of gladness, 
 
 And beckons to new found delight. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 43 
 
 You may call him crank, fool or fanatic 
 
 If he translate the wail of the storm 
 Into tales sweet, sad or erratic, 
 
 Thus giving its symphony form. 
 
 You may struggle for fame, yet never 
 
 Can you equal the dreamer at play, 
 For dreams live on forever, 
 
 While fame lies dead in a day. 
 
44 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 LOAFIN' WITH A GUN. 
 
 All sorts of ways, 
 
 Through sports and plays, 
 Man seeks relief from care, 
 
 Of life's turmoil, 
 
 Of strife and toil, 
 In rink or open air. 
 
 The rolling wheel, — 
 
 The gliding steel, 
 Each have their advocates; 
 
 Some click the balls 
 
 In billiard halls, 
 And some of tennis prates. 
 
 For me, I find, 
 
 To ease the mind, 
 When all the world looks glum, 
 
 And make life sweet, 
 
 The greatest treat, 
 Is loafm' with a gun. 
 
 The sturdy brave, 
 Who toil and slave, 
 
 To fill the world with treasure; 
 In turn must reap, 
 From pleasure's heap, 
 
 Full measure for each measure. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 45 
 
 Thus genius courts, 
 
 New games and sports, 
 To fill each hour of leisure; 
 
 And madly race, 
 
 In eager chase, 
 The throng in search of pleasure. 
 
 Thus many find — 
 
 To ease the mind — 
 When all the world looks glum ; 
 
 And make life sweet, 
 
 The greatest treat, 
 Is loafin' with a gun. 
 
 When morning's breeze 
 
 Sifts through the trees, 
 And stubble fields are brown; 
 
 Aurora wiles, 
 
 All tears and smiles, 
 My wayward feet from town. 
 
 And rising sun, 
 
 That's just begun, 
 To set the wheels all rolling, 
 
 Gilds frosted leaf 
 
 Beyond belief — 
 Adds pleasure to my strolling. 
 
46 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 With gun and dog, 
 
 Through field and bog, 
 My zig-zag course is spun, 
 
 All round entwined, 
 
 With joys I find, 
 Jus' loafin' with a gun. 
 
 Let misers hoard. 
 
 Who can afford 
 To spurn life's choicest gifts, 
 
 And ruin health, 
 
 In chasing wealth 
 O'er treacherous shoals and drifts. 
 
 And come with me, 
 
 And you'll agree, 
 There's something in the air 
 
 Of early morn 
 
 'Mid whispering corn, 
 That drives away all care. 
 
 And thus you'll find, 
 
 To ease the mind, 
 When all the world looks glum 
 
 To make life sweet, 
 
 The greatest treat 
 Is loafin' with a gun. 
 
48 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 SAND-HILL CRANE. 
 
 Far in the mystery of space, 
 
 Wheeling aloft with queenly grace — 
 
 Around like whirl-wind's booty, race, 
 And sport on high, 
 
 Hurling to earth's receding face 
 That dismal cry. 
 
 To what far distant unknown land; 
 
 What river bar, or sea-beat strand — 
 What level plain of drifting sand, 
 
 Art bound today? 
 In lofty spirals, sweeping grand, 
 
 Dost wheel your way? 
 
 Far, far aloft in towering flight, 
 
 Ye sport amid the sunbeams bright, 
 
 Oft drifting quite beyond my sight, 
 In mystic blue. 
 
 'Tis far beyond my muse's might, 
 To follow you. 
 
50 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 VOICE OF THE TEAL. 
 
 Alone on the river bank I stand, 
 
 'Neath the woodland's bending arch, 
 
 My mission pursuit of water fowl 
 And time the Ides of March. 
 
 The snow that lay deep on the hillside, 
 Bound down by the hand of frost, 
 
 Or hurtling across the meadows, 
 By north winds fiercely tossed ; 
 
 Has melted beneath the sunshine, 
 Of south wind's gentler mood, 
 
 And hurried away to the river 
 To swell the springtime flood. 
 
 The water is murky and sullen 
 
 With wash of sodden ground, 
 
 Its surface all flecked with litter 
 Of driftwood floating down. 
 
 My boat in a cove is drifting, 
 
 Chained fast to an old elm tree ; 
 
 Since the waning days of winter, 
 
 She's been waiting there for me. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 51 
 
 Now, as I kneel beside her, 
 
 She, nodding, seems to greet, 
 And bid me kindly welcome 
 
 To that old familiar seat. 
 
 When loosened from her tether, 
 
 We drift away on the stream, 
 The blade of the old ash paddle, 
 
 In the sunlight shows a gleam. 
 
 Through the lowland, damp and dismal, 
 
 Where the water laps the side 
 Of gnarled and moss-grown tree trunk, 
 
 With its overflowing tide. 
 
 I push my way but slowly 
 
 'Neath their branches overlapping, 
 Hark! they whisper back an answer 
 
 To high-holes gleeful tapping. 
 
 Not the pen of the greatest poet, 
 
 Can tell the thrill I feel, 
 As a sound drifts o'er the water, 
 
 Tis the call of the green-wing teal. 
 
52 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 All winter long in a workshop, 
 
 I have wished that the time were here, 
 
 When free from the thrall of the toiler, 
 I could list to those voices so dear. 
 
 How soothing the voices of forest: 
 
 What a balm is the music to heal — 
 
 What heart ache of any that love thee, 
 When led by the voice of the teal. 
 
 The sun in the west is descending, 
 
 Aslant are its dim, checkered beams, 
 
 With hazes of evening now blending, 
 
 While I'm but the sport of the dreams 
 
 That come with those voices so witching — 
 But backward I suddenly wheel ; 
 
 Other sounds are disturbing the stillness, 
 And lost is the voice of the teal. 
 
 The whistle of wings in the tree-tops 
 Tells plainly the first of the flight, 
 
 That comes with the shadows of evening, 
 And is lost in the gloom of the night. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 53 
 
 A blaze as of summer lightning — 
 
 A crash as of riven rock — 
 Two specks that tell of a double 
 
 Plunge down from the towering flock. 
 
 Two ripples are seen on the water 
 When smoke with air has blended, 
 
 While crouching I wait for another, 
 
 And dreams, for the day, have ended. 
 
54 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 WOOING OF THB GROUSE. 
 
 Wum, wum, woo, through sunset's glow, 
 Comes o'er the meadow, faint and low, 
 As voice from out the long ago, 
 The scenes of youth renewing. 
 
 Again when morning's deepening blush 
 Sets meadow, marsh and field aflush, 
 There breaks upon the restful hush, 
 The prairie rooster's wooing. 
 
 Wum, wum, woo, how years have flown 
 Since first I heard that muffled tone; 
 The first wild voice in childhood known ; 
 Those long gone days renewing. 
 
 Now near and clear, now faint and far, 
 
 As muffled drum beats trem'lous jar, 
 
 The closing notes, ere evening's bar, 
 
 The prairie roosters wooing. 
 
 Wum, wum, woo, in less'ning strain 
 Still rumbles o'er the western plain; 
 Almost a requiem's sad refrain, 
 Those bovish dreams renewing. 
 
56 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 As though a prayer above the dead, 
 By echoes from the past were said, 
 Ere recollections all are fled, 
 Of prairie roosters wooing. 
 
 Wum, wum, woo, 'tis sorrow's song, 
 Complaining of a kindred's wrong, 
 In sad'ning voice for oh so long! 
 Yet blithesome scenes renewing. 
 
 Then stay that couchant hand of greed 
 Until from wanton's waste quite freed, 
 Again is heard across the mead, 
 The prairie roosters wooing. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 57 
 
 IN THE STUBBLB LONG AGO. 
 
 Oh! how well do I remember 
 
 A morning long agone, 
 When I hied me to the stubble, 
 
 In the first faint flush of dawn, 
 With scarce five feet of gunner, 
 
 And five feet two of gun; 
 'Twas that hallowed army musket 
 
 That went out in 'sixty-one, 
 And was laid aside at Shiloh 
 
 For a comrade's hand to save, 
 Who returned it a memento, 
 
 Of an unmarked southern grave. 
 
 I tiptoed down the stubble edge, 
 
 By a cornfield's tasseled wall, 
 Along the margin furrow, 
 
 Where golden blossoms fall. 
 
 A straggling growth of fox-tail, 
 
 That had dodged the plowman's shear, 
 
 Waved its scattered blades in triumph, 
 With a diamond on each spear. 
 
58 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 There was Bow-legs, my companion, 
 Of an undetermined breed, 
 
 Who was short a chip in training, 
 
 But was long on range and speed. 
 
 How he flew between the corn rows, 
 And across the stubble brown; 
 
 Sniffed at every badger burrow; 
 Tried to run a rabbit down. 
 
 What a thrill of pleasure ambled 
 To my wildly beating heart, 
 
 As I heard a frightened covey 
 
 From the beaded stubble start. 
 
 How that trusty musket wavered ; 
 
 As I swung it into line 
 And sent a charge of double naughts, 
 
 About a yard behind. 
 
 How eagerly I watched them! 
 
 As they sailed across the field, 
 While old Bow-legs just behind them, 
 A stunning pace revealed. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 59 
 
 All atremble I reloaded, 
 
 With the faith that mountains move, 
 That should other fates defy me 
 
 I would yet the marksman prove. 
 
 Then again I heard the rumble 
 
 Of swift wings beating fast, 
 And a cackle of defiance, 
 
 As an old cock whistled past. 
 
 And again that musket thundered, 
 And a thousand stars blazed out, 
 
 As, from being double shotted, 
 It turned me half about. 
 
 But the shock was scarcely heeded, 
 
 For, through stars that blazed around 
 
 I saw that brown old beauty 
 
 Come flut'ring to the ground. 
 
 If Wellington at Waterloo, 
 
 Felt half the pride I felt, 
 When beside that mottled trophy 
 
 In the stubble field I knelt : 
 
60 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 All in vain is history's tribute 
 To a soldier's loyal blade — 
 
 Vain a nation's feeble tender 
 For a debt already paid. 
 
 I have topped the score at tourney- 
 Brought the antlered elk to bag; 
 
 I have shot the wary Big Horn, 
 On his chosen mountain crag. 
 
 But I ne'er again shall feel the thrill, 
 I felt that August morn, 
 
 When I carried home that trophy, 
 
 Through the sweetly singing corn. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 61 
 
 RANCHER AT HOME. 
 
 Stranger, welcome to what we've got, 
 
 If not the very best, 
 You can make yourself at home tho, 
 
 An' dine with us an' rest ; 
 
 I'll open up a winder 
 
 An' let in some fresh air; 
 Now step into the settin' room 
 
 An' take the rockin'-chair. 
 
 Yes, we're a piece from neighbors, 
 
 An' sort of all alone, 
 But we've lived here quite a spell now, 
 
 An' no other seems like home. 
 
 An' it's not so very lonesome; 
 
 For, stranger, don't you see, 
 I'm all the world to Katie 
 
 An' she's all the world to me ? 
 
 An' there's not a place we care to see 
 
 As what we haven't seen, 
 Nor yet a place we care to be 
 
 As what we haven't been. 
 
62 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Yes, we might live in a city 
 
 An' have a palace grand, 
 An' sport as fine a turn-out 
 
 As any in the land; 
 
 But then you see that "stilt" don't suit 
 
 The color of our hair, 
 In place o' peace an' comfort 
 
 'Twould all be fuss an' care. 
 
 An' though it don't look very grand, 
 Way up here on the branch, 
 
 Yet we're offered half a million 
 
 For the bunch o' stock an' ranch. 
 
 But we love the hills an' vales around — 
 We love the sunlit streams — 
 
 We love the night wind's whispered tale, 
 As brings us peaceful dreams. 
 
 The moonlight on the rus'lin' grass, 
 We've often wandered through, 
 
 An' talked of poetry and things, 
 Same as the book folks do. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 63 
 
 An' in the spring, at burnin' time, 
 
 When fire was on the range, 
 We've rode about the whole night through, 
 
 An' thought it nothin' strange, 
 
 Jest to see those curlin' lines o' flame 
 Sweep plain an' valley through — 
 
 Strip off their rusty coat o' brown, 
 Ere May puts on the new. 
 
 Now, stranger you can bet it's grand, 
 
 To see those lines o' light, 
 Extendin' far's the eye can reach, 
 
 March through the riven night; 
 
 As o'er the plain, left desolate, 
 
 It sweeps, an' cracklin' loud, 
 Waves high a brush o' twisted flame, 
 
 An' paints the midnight cloud. 
 
 Monotony of prairie? 
 
 Monotony of skies? 
 You think the prospect dreary! 
 
 Why, bless me, where's your eyes? 
 
64 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 You see them shadows driftin' 
 Across the softest green? 
 
 D'ye see that mirage liftin' 
 Its halo just between? 
 
 What prospect could be fairer? 
 
 See yonder wall o' sod; 
 What ivied ruin rarer? 
 
 'Tis crowned with golden-rod. 
 
 Beyond, a sunflower's knotted stalk 
 Its yellow disks uprear, 
 
 Dim in the hazy distance, 
 The smoky hills appear. 
 
 Well, stranger, it's surprisin' 
 That an educated chap, 
 
 Can't read the scroll that natur' 
 Sits holdin' in her lap; 
 
 Can't feel the soothin' incense, 
 That's lurkin' in her smile, 
 
 An' longs for dingy city, 
 
 With its brick and mortar pile. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 65 
 
 But it seems that every critter's 
 
 A runnin' in a groove 
 That fate has chiseled for 'em, 
 
 Each tryin' hard to prove, 
 
 That t'others to be pitied, 
 
 For lack of taste or pelf, 
 Yet not a mother's son of 'em 
 
 Is suited with himself — 
 
 But when it comes to arguin' 
 
 'Twixt the work of man an' him, 
 
 As set those shadows driftin', 
 Or tuned the restful hymn, 
 
 That natur's alius singin' 
 
 To the weary or forsook, 
 In the rustlin' of the breezes — 
 
 In the babble of the brook ; 
 
 I'm apt to get a little riled, 
 
 At the man on 'tother side, 
 An' feel like jest assistin' him, 
 
 To take a bareback ride, 
 
66 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Upon the roughest kind of rail; 
 
 But stranger much I fear, 
 We'd have to take a substitute, 
 
 An' use barb wire here. 
 
 Pshaw! stranger, don't you hurry, 
 The sun's quite warm as yet, 
 
 An' the glory of the prairies 
 Jest begins when it has set. 
 
 When the old moon, risin' grandly, 
 Shakes out her soothin' light 
 
 Across the noddin' blue-stem, 
 With not a tree in sight — 
 
 An' the night breeze comes moonin' round 
 And whispers, "Sorrow, cease," 
 
 Sure! the Lord will give yer wisdom then 
 To know his masterpiece. 
 
 What! way from titled England? 
 
 A poet, did you say? 
 Well, it makes no tarnel difference, 
 
 There's nary red to pay, 
 
Outdoor Reveries 67 
 
 An' you're welcome fer a week or so, 
 
 If you've a mind to stay, 
 As is any other critter, 
 
 That chance may drift this way. 
 
 Jest take the left hand road then, 
 
 An' steer fer yonder cone 
 O' hills like distant thunder cap 
 
 A standing there alone; 
 
 An' keep yer eyes wide open, 
 
 There's plenty to beguile — 
 An hour's ride? well, I should say! 
 
 It's risin sixtv mile. 
 
68 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 RANCHER ABROAD. 
 
 Yes, stranger, you've jest hit it, 
 I'm a cowboy from the west, 
 
 Which I haven't told no one 
 
 An' I can't see how you guessed. 
 
 Saw my father down at dinner? 
 
 No, you saw no dad of mine, 
 For I lost that nat'ral anchor 
 
 To the Sioux in 'sixty-nine; 
 
 An' was left at ten a driftin', 
 Like a boat without a crew, 
 
 Or a tumble weed before the wind, 
 Whichever way it blew. 
 
 Oh, I 'low I've been successful, 
 
 In an unpretendin' way, 
 An' needn't have no terrors, 
 
 Fer that comin' rainy day. 
 
 
Outdoor Reveries 69 
 
 An' not bein' any worried, 
 
 'Bout this world's tog an' gear, 
 Thought I'd come through with the shipment 
 
 An' see the sights this year. 
 
 Well, it does seem rather thrillin', 
 
 To hear the mighty roar, 
 Of this cataract of people, 
 
 That almost seems to pour 
 Like water through a canyon, 
 
 When the warnin' breath o' June, 
 Has loosen'd winter's shackles, 
 
 An' the streams are all in tune. 
 
 An' them cars that bob and shiver, 
 As they come down in a string, 
 
 Seem floatin' on the surface, 
 
 Like driftwood in the spring. 
 
 An' yonder lofty buildin' looks 
 Jest like some fancy freak 
 Of Time at carvin' fretwork 
 Round some isolated peak. 
 
70 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 An' them flags that float above it, 
 As they gently rise and drop, 
 
 Might pose as summer lightning 
 Playin' round a mountain top. 
 
 What, me afraid of buncos? 
 
 No, I've seed 'em thicker 'n dew 
 On the grass in early morning 
 
 When the west was fresh an' new. 
 
 An' dudes an' all such cattle 
 
 As wore glasses on their eyes, 
 
 When they really didn't need 'em, 
 Jest to make 'em look more wise. 
 
 Were like the seed a blowin', 
 
 When the Cottonwood's abloom, 
 
 Comin' after easy money 
 
 When the west was on the boom. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 71 
 
 Tried their hand at cattle raisin', 
 
 But found it didn't pan, 
 Like holdin' public office 
 
 At so many plunks "per an." 
 
 So they've mostly gone and left us, 
 
 Some wiser for their pains, 
 An' got themselves appointments 
 
 As doesn't call for brains. 
 
 An' the buncos, too've departed, 
 
 An' given up the race, 
 Fer the streets of eastern cities, 
 
 Their nat'ral herdin' place. 
 
 For they couldn't stand the pressure, 
 
 When a lesson they had learned, 
 That the west don't lavish fortune, 
 
 Save where it's fairly earned. 
 
^ 2 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 What's that you say my little man? 
 
 Want a penny do you, hey ! 
 Here's a quarter fer you, sonny, 
 
 Jest blow yourself today. 
 
 An' another poor relation, 
 A little miss this time, 
 
 One askin' fer a penny, 
 Another fer a dime. 
 
 Father killed in railroad riot? 
 
 Mother sick and in despair? 
 None to help to bear the burden 
 
 Not a soul on earth to care. 
 
 Now the critter's likely lyin', 
 
 Though the story may be true, 
 
 Hardly worth the risk denyin', 
 Here's dollar, sis, for you. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 73 
 
 Holy Moses! still another, 
 
 Workin' of a snap, I guess, 
 Does seem funny, 'mid such plenty, 
 
 There should be so much distress. 
 
 Seems strange to talk of poverty, 
 
 Where wealth is piled so high 
 That there's scarcely room to store it 
 
 'Twixt the solid earth and sky. 
 
 Got buncoed! lost yer money? 
 
 An' a hundred miles from home; 
 No one in the city knows yer? 
 
 Well, that's kinder tough, I own. 
 
 An' it's only jest a trifle, 
 
 A ten'll do, I'm sure, 
 When you're ready to repay it, son, 
 
 Jest give it to the poor. 
 
' 4 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 A foolish waste of money? 
 
 Almost wicked and a sin? 
 Think they ort to be discouraged, 
 
 Well, I can't somehow begin, 
 Long's I feel a thrill of pleasure/ 
 
 To see the dull eyes flash, 
 From souls said to be immortal, 
 
 At the touch of needed cash. 
 
 As to which are worth the savin', 
 
 'Taint fer you nor me to judge; 
 
 Denyin' 'em on that score 
 
 Is the cheapest kind of fudge. 
 
 That they's feller human critters 
 
 Is plain enough to see, 
 They suffer or are joyous 
 
 Jest the same as you an' me. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 75 
 
 Christ tramped the dusty highway- 
 Pilate sat upon a throne — 
 
 Don't usurp the right o' choosin'— 
 Let the Lord select his own. 
 
 And remember words of wisdom, 
 
 As once a poet said, 
 What you give away while livin', 
 
 Is all you can keep when dead. 
 
 Would I like to go out slummin'? 
 
 Well, stranger, not today— 
 For all such work that I can do, 
 
 Is sure to come my way. 
 
 If the Lord wants me to tend his flock, 
 
 Or feed his starvin' poor, 
 He'll let me know it plain enough, 
 
 An' send 'em to my door. 
 
 Will I give yer fifty dollars 
 
 Fer the uplift of Man? 
 Well, stranger, not this evenin', 
 
 Fer I think I know your plan 
 
76 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Yer a consarned bunco steerer, 
 An' you think I'm fool enough, 
 
 To listen to your story, 
 An' shovel out the stuff. 
 
 Now don't get too excited, 
 Nor don't call me a brute, 
 
 I'm apt to lose my temper 
 And bust yer in the snoot. 
 
 You can't hold in your gab a bit, 
 An' are bound to start a row: 
 
 Friend, I'm leanin' right toward ye, 
 Guess we'll get together now. 
 
 Well if that ain't a corker, 
 
 As would make a man feel tough, 
 To think that bunco steerer, 
 
 Was a "lifter" sure enough. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 77 
 
 He's a libel on the game he plays, 
 
 But it's all the same in law, 
 An' it cost a hundred-dollar fine, 
 
 Jest to paste him on the jaw. 
 
 But I'm mighty glad / lifted him, 
 Though I 'low it's some disgrace, 
 
 There's somethin' mighty, soothin' tho, 
 'Bout spilin' such a face. 
 
 I tried to stake some "lifters" once 
 
 But, before I'd fair begun, 
 Found it took about three dollars 
 
 Jest to pay the freight on one. 
 
 Now I know I'm rather selfish — 
 
 My givin' not complete, 
 'Cause when I feed the hungry ones, 
 
 I like to see 'em eat. 
 
78 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 But there are so tarnel many — 
 It knocks patience all to smash — 
 
 That want to play the uplift game, 
 With other people's cash. 
 
 Yes, I'm homesick fer the prairies, 
 An' I guess I'll journey hence, 
 
 Where stickin' up fer poor folks 
 Ain't a finable offence. 
 
 Fer somehow I don't hold no cards 
 
 In Kansas City's game; 
 Got buncoed by her justice 
 
 Though perhaps t'was me to blame. 
 
 Nor could I feed her hungry, 
 Or dry the fallin' tears, 
 
 Of the victims of her greatness ; 
 Not with fifty load o' steers. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 79 
 
 LINDS BORG HILL. 
 
 Thou stateliest of rock-strewn hills, 
 That guard the smokey's flow, 
 
 Standing today, firm as you stood 
 Ten thousand years ago. 
 
 Proud monarch of the passing age, 
 Do you mark each century's chime? 
 
 Firm guardian of the smokey's flood, 
 Do you heed the flight of time? 
 
 Do you note Time's hastening changes 
 In the valley at your feet? 
 
 Do you mark the bison's absence 
 Or the Indian's swift retreat? 
 
 You have guarded them for ages, 
 As round you they idly fed, 
 
 Do you grieve at their departure? 
 Do you weep that they are dead? 
 
80 Outdoor Retries 
 
 Or do you feel new pleasure 
 At each time added trust? 
 
 Enjoy the complete measure 
 
 Of the age that's turned to dust ? 
 
 As now again we find you, 
 
 While Time still onward rolls, 
 
 Your ceaseless vigils keeping, 
 
 O'er a thousand Christian souls. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 81 
 
 THE SOURCE. 
 
 Where pines of a mighty wilderness, 
 
 Interlaced with ash and oak, 
 Form a canopy, deep and unbroken, 
 
 Over hill-top, level and slope. 
 
 And sifting breezes of morning, 
 
 From their branches the dew-drops shake, 
 The source of a mighty river, 
 
 Sleeps fair Itasca lake. 
 
 Nestling there as an infant 
 
 In a cradle of forest-crowned hills — 
 Dimpled by summer breezes — 
 
 Nourished by snow-fed rills. 
 
 Romping all day with romping winds, 
 
 Or a gleam 'neath the rays of the moon, 
 
 Soothed by the song of the night bird, 
 Or the echoing cry of the loon. 
 
82 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Asleep 'neath the mantle of winter, 
 Spread over that silent form, 
 
 Or smiling in June time's rainfall, 
 Or laughing at rage of the storm. 
 
 Crown of the Father of Waters — 
 Gem of his infant dress — 
 
 A careless child, held and beguiled, 
 In the arms of the wilderness. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 83 
 
 THE SIXTH HOUR. 
 
 Tis sultry noon in summer time, 
 
 No pulse of nature seems to beat; 
 
 No sifting breeze, no nodding leaf, 
 Just quivering waves of heat. 
 
 The sweltered river curls among 
 
 The driftwood's tangled heap, 
 Sun-loving turtles, surfeited, 
 
 Back to the waters creep; 
 An angler, careless of rod and line, 
 
 Lies in the shade asleep. 
 
 The stalwart maples bow beneath 
 
 The force that gave them birth ; 
 Sore chastened by the parent sun, 
 
 Droop to the Mother Earth. 
 
 The wary bass that early flashed 
 
 Through minnows' gathered school, 
 
 Now sulkily lies hid beneath 
 The depth of shaded pool. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 85 
 
 A stork stands dozing in the glare, 
 
 'Mid drooping sedge and bog; 
 From underneath the lily pad 
 
 Peeps forth the blinking frog, 
 A water snake lies motionless 
 
 Upon a floating log. 
 
 The erstwhile songster seeks the shade, 
 
 All nature's dronings cease, 
 And quiet reigns, a stately queen, 
 
 O'er sun commanded peace. 
 
86 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 OLD HOME TOWN. 
 
 We're coming back to old home town 
 To review life's fitful scenes — 
 
 For afterglow from life's long round 
 In land of youthful dreams. 
 
 Life's tale is told in faring forth 
 In morning's crimson blush, 
 
 And coming back ere shadows fall, 
 With twilight's sad'ning hush. 
 
 A faring forth and a coming back 
 To hearth-fire's restful sheen; 
 
 For life's made up of dawn and dusk, 
 And wanderlust between. 
 
 We come to meet those girls and boys 
 Though years between have rolled, 
 
 A "fig" for art that time employs, 
 We won't believe they're old. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 87 
 
 That some have grown to wealth and fame 
 And some have passed 'tis said, 
 
 Yet "we are seven" just the same, 
 We won't believe they're dead. 
 
 On barefoot boy in robes of state 
 
 Shall envy cast a cloud? 
 They only sport at being great — 
 
 We won't believe they're proud. 
 
 There, side by side on mystic screen — 
 
 By glow of memory thrown — 
 Are gone but not forgotten seen — 
 
 Forgotten but not gone. 
 
 From lowly cot — from gilded hall 
 
 Or sleeping on the hill — 
 On hallowed ground we'll greet them all 
 
 There we'll be seven still. 
 
88 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Nor pride of place, nor toll of bell, 
 In measured beat and slow, 
 
 Shall mark the spot where shadow fell, 
 On evening's afterglow. 
 
 So we're coming home from field afar, 
 From scenes of life more stern — 
 
 As the old town let the gates ajar 
 For wanderers' reurn. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 89 
 
 THE NEED OF MAN IS MEN. 
 
 Ho ! sons of freedom, heed the call, 
 
 That harried nations send; 
 To free the earth from tyrants' thrall, 
 
 An arm for justice lend. 
 
 Nor let usurpers' galling yoke, 
 
 Be flung across the sea; 
 Hurl back assassins' treacherous stroke, 
 
 'Til every wave rolls free. 
 
 Uufurl your battle wings and fight 
 
 The vampires of the air, 
 And with the germ of freedom light 
 
 The dungeons of despair. 
 
 Let carping critics lag behind— 
 
 Ambition, vainly, plan; 
 From babblers' boasting free the mind ; 
 
 The hour needs every man. 
 
90 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 While needless torture stalks the land 
 With seekers after fame, 
 
 Sore is the need, for more just hand, 
 The world is all aflame. 
 
 Awake the sleeping giants' power — 
 Let worth prevail again, 
 
 And silent do, in trying hour — 
 The need of man is men. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 91 
 
 A SUMMER OUTING. 
 
 Where hickory, ash and walnut 
 
 Their mottled shadows blend 
 On a carpet of yielding blue-grass 
 
 Inclosed by a river's bend 
 And a gnarled old water-elm 
 
 Far over the stream is bent — 
 Undermined by the restless current 
 
 We pitch our outing tent. 
 For we're out for a summer play spell, 
 
 'Mid the woodland's joy of joys — 
 A week with forest echoes — 
 
 Wife and I, and the boys. 
 
 And the boys, oh, how they revel 
 
 In the flush of wild delight; 
 They shout at the swirling river — 
 
 At the sycamore painted white. 
 Then stop in silent wonderment 
 
 Their joy half turned to sorrow, 
 For they see if the water keeps running away 
 
 'Twill all be gone tomorrow. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 93 
 
 Each new delight with shout they greet, 
 
 And distant echoes groan, 
 As joyous laughter mingles with 
 
 The plunk of falling stone. 
 While we the children graver grown 
 
 In climbing life's incline, 
 More sedately find our pleasure 
 
 By wielding rod and line. 
 
 And when the shades .of night have come, 
 
 We gather in the gloaming 
 Around the camp-fire's mystic glow, 
 
 Aweary with our roaming — 
 In the hush, while day is dying 
 
 Ere voices of night are abroad, 
 We sit in silent communion, 
 
 By thunderous stillness awed. 
 
 Then phantoms of night gather round us 
 
 And sport amid the trees — 
 Play tag with gathering shadows — 
 
 I spy, with the evening breeze. 
 
94 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 From behind each moss-grown tree trunk 
 
 A cowering phantom leers; 
 Through the dust of by-gone ages 
 
 We are drawn by the old dead years, 
 To days when the Indian's wigwam stood 
 
 Where today our tent is standing; 
 We hear their war cry through the wood 
 
 In our fancies wide expanding. 
 
 We hear the twang of bow-strings through 
 The veil our thoughts are lifting, 
 
 We see the squaws light birch canoe 
 Where our own good boat is drifting. 
 
 Then from the tree tops overhead 
 
 A voice sets our pulse a-thrill — 
 A voice of commanding insistence — 
 
 The call of the famed whip-poor-will. 
 Like a shaft from the singing bow-string, 
 
 It cleaves the quivering air, 
 Then a sturdy old bullfrog starts croaking, 
 
 From gathering gloom over there. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 95 
 
 Thus released from thrall of the silence 
 We talk of the sports of the day — 
 
 Of the small fish that we landed — 
 Of big ones that got away. 
 
 The gloam of twilight passes — 
 
 Still darker shadows fall, 
 And joins the leafy covert, 
 
 In forming a dungeon's wall, 
 That gathers its fold about us, 
 
 Ever drawing its bondage nigh, 
 Till we hurl it back to shelter 
 
 By heaping faggots high. 
 
 Thus we dream 'til the cooling embers, 
 
 Have died to a faint red glow, 
 Then bidding good night to the shadows, 
 
 Reluctant, to rest we go ; 
 There we talk and guess and wonder, 
 
 We know not when they come; 
 These new delights that Morpheus, 
 
 Around each pillow has flung. 
 
96 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 And night departs with Indian lodge, 
 
 . We know not when they fled, 
 When awakened by flutter and cooing, 
 Of mourning-doves overhead. 
 
 But years have passed since those outings, 
 As they on to Eternity flow, 
 
 Yet oft we have mused in the twilight 
 As we did on that eve long ago. 
 
 But now as we sit by the ember, 
 
 While shadows of night round us fall, 
 
 Those boys we can only remember 
 
 As we list to the whip-poor-will call. 
 
 For they that mourned swift flowing river, 
 (Just out in a first pair of pants) 
 
 In fear lest we lose the glad water, 
 Now carry the rifle in France. 
 
Outdoor Rkveries 97 
 
 WHEN EVOLUTION SLEEPS. 
 
 When Evolution slumbers, 
 
 We'll all be equal then, 
 The wicked with truly good, 
 
 The women with the men. 
 
 The proud and humble all will be 
 
 In changeless level laid; 
 The pauper with the monied prince — 
 
 Betrayer and betrayed. 
 
 All useless then the pedigree, 
 
 That proud ambition keeps; 
 And slaves will masters' equals be, 
 
 When Evolution sleeps. 
 
98 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 EVOLUTION OF THE MARSHES. 
 
 From the father of the waters 
 
 To the eastward stretching wide 
 
 Are some vast, far-reaching levels, 
 Where in ages past the tide 
 
 Of lakes of tossing water 
 
 Have rippled in their pride. 
 
 But the hand of Time was on them ; 
 
 Time's sediments were sown, 
 And shoaling waters, here and there, 
 
 By reeds are overgrown; 
 Then amid the fringing rushes, 
 
 The muskrat builds his home. 
 
 With the growth of moss and grasses, 
 
 Of nutritious bulb and seed, 
 Come the eddying flocks of wild-fowl 
 
 To satisfy their need — 
 Join in harmony of voices 
 
 With the voice of wave and reed. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 99 
 
 And the solitude is broken 
 
 By their gossiping at night 
 As they color miles of marshes 
 
 In shades of gray and white, 
 Gathered there to rest the pinion 
 
 For migratory flight. 
 
 How studied seem the changes, 
 
 By evolution wrought, 
 Where spoil to fill a need is, 
 
 There swift a need is brought. 
 
 With the changes came the red-man, 
 Half waked to reason's dream; 
 
 With wants but few and quick supplied, 
 From forest, marsh and stream. 
 
 Where the marsh lands change to river, 
 Through a range of higher ground, 
 
 And clustered cedars gird the base 
 Of sand-dunes dotted round, 
 
 The red-man and his children, 
 
 Have a home and plenty found. 
 
100 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 There firmly set the lodge pole down, 
 Bases circled widely round, 
 Leaving room for fire and feast, 
 Covered o'er with skin of beast, 
 With broken bough to feed the fire, 
 Tis all the simple hearts desire. 
 
 The Indian hunter scouts the land 
 For spoil to feed his trusting band ; 
 Their simple faith in him gives cheer, 
 To swift pursue the fleeing deer, 
 Or skillful guide the arrow true, 
 And shoot the wary wild fowl through. 
 
 Along the river's brink there nods 
 The pliant willow — tall straight rods — 
 With sharpened stone for ready blade, 
 From these the squaws their baskets made, 
 Crooning o'er some Indian lay, 
 Contented through each lingering day. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 101 
 
 And Indian chilldren, too, are there, 
 With naked bodies, brown and bare, 
 Unhampered by conventional gown — 
 Bask in the sun upon the ground, 
 Or scoop a bed with hollowed hand, 
 Like partridge in the yielding sand. 
 
 The youth and maiden stroll about, 
 And echoes wake with gleesome shout; 
 'Neath sentinel cedar, bending o'er, 
 Breathe tales of love oft told before, 
 Or rove the scented woodland through. 
 Their joys are many, cares are few. 
 
 Scarce does the red man know he's blest 
 When with Time's ceaseless round, 
 Swift comes the white man's blighting touch 
 And clash of war resounds. 
 
102 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 And down the path of yesterday, 
 Where peace and plenty bloomed, 
 Today stalks pale disaster; 
 The red man's race is doomed. 
 
 Though white man's band destroy them, 
 Still hands them down to fame, 
 By giving to the marshes 
 The Winnebago's name. 
 
 Time's ceaseless evolution 
 
 Has changed the scene once more, 
 
 And lowing herds of white man's kin 
 Dot Winnebago o'er. 
 
 The bordering upland's grassy slopes, 
 
 Are rived by iron plow; 
 And barn and farmhouse, school and church, 
 
 Are hovered round it now. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 103 
 
 The broad expanse is ridged and seamed 
 
 By ditches deep and dyke, 
 All interwound by strands of steel 
 
 And highways graded pike. 
 
 The wild fowl in their random flight 
 
 In fast decreasing numbers, 
 Still hover round the well-loved spot 
 
 Though warned away by thunders, 
 As bursting flame streams upward, 
 
 From hunter's crouching form, 
 And startled wild fowl reel and fall 
 
 Before the leaden storm. 
 
 Thus evolution ever, 
 
 Is working out the fate 
 Of the coming and the going 
 
 Of little and of great; 
 For the coming and departing 
 
 Is opening wide the gate. 
 
104 Outdoor RsveriSs 
 
 Thus change is life, and life must change, 
 
 As ages onward roll; 
 'Til when evolution ceases, 
 
 Life is gathered as a scroll; 
 Til no living thing encumbers 
 
 Earth's dry and withered breast, 
 And e'en evolution slumbers 
 
 In universal rest. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 105 
 
 OVER THE GREAT DIVIDE. 
 
 Over the prairie spreading wide, 
 At double quick the troopers ride; 
 Winding through canyons, where echoes call, 
 Horse and horse-men rise and fall; 
 Rise as horse and rider were one; 
 Fall in rhythmic unison. 
 
 Out of the canyon, up a slope; 
 Over the levels at a lope ; 
 Skirting the base of steeper hills; 
 Ozone of night the nostril fills; 
 Leaping a brook that progress bars, 
 In onward sweep beneath the stars. 
 
 Each lip with purpose firmly set, 
 No backward glance, no vain regret ; 
 The foe they seek, they all well know, 
 Is ten to one; yet on they go, 
 For trusted chieftain leads the band, 
 And all obey as his right hand. 
 
106 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Ah, who can tell what thoughts run riot, 
 In minds of men so stern and quiet ; 
 Here rides a youth with thoughts afar 
 From scenes of blood or battle's jar, 
 To where with children he has played, 
 In a school yard 'neath a maple's shade; 
 From schoolboy shout in gleesome play, 
 To war's fierce grasp seems but a day; 
 Yet clear of eye and firm of hand, 
 As any in that trusty band. 
 
 There rides a veteran, old in war, 
 Whose battles numbered by the score, 
 Have left behind, where wounds have healed, 
 The scars of hard-contested field. 
 He's thinking, too, of other land, 
 Where fate shall tender kindlier hand, 
 And bring him from war's toil, surcease, 
 And turn him to the paths of peace. 
 
 Through shades of night — through breaking 
 
 dawn, 
 O'er gilding plain they still rush .on — 
 'Tis hour of noon, yet still they ride, 
 And rise the crest of great divide. 
 The little Big Horn glows before ; 
 Its waters to the westward pour; 
 The Cottonwood along its bed, 
 Casts freckled shade on silver thread. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 107 
 
 Behind, the tawny hills incline, 
 
 Is dotted o'er with mountain pine — 
 
 Beyond, far distant, sunlight glows, 
 
 Where Big Horn rears eternal snows, 
 
 Alternating where darkly falls, 
 
 The shadows on their northern walls ; 
 
 The valley sleeping far below, 
 
 Where summer cloud shades come and go. 
 
 Now winding down the sunlit slope, 
 The troopers all are flushed with hope ; 
 Looks of relief flash from the eye ; 
 The hour of rest seems drawing nigh. 
 A smile adorns each sunburned phiz, 
 They shout, "Eureka! There it is!" 
 For glowing in the sun's bright beam, 
 A thousand lodges line the stream, 
 And viewed from neighboring hills a-peep 
 The wily Sioux seem fast asleep. 
 
108 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 The chieftain of the auburn hair, 
 
 Waving his plumed hat in air, 
 
 Says "Courage, boys, we've found the nest, 
 
 We'll round them up and then sweet rest." 
 
 The answer is a cheering shout, 
 
 As one who views the certain rout; 
 
 Yet doubt was there for well they knew — 
 
 Death challenges who meet the Sioux. 
 
 Each knows that some must pay the toll, 
 
 That others safely reach the goal, 
 
 Of soldiers' pride in victory won, 
 
 And voiced approval, "Boys, well done." 
 
 Such thoughts pass through the troopers' mind, 
 
 As gossamers pass on the wind — 
 
 As leaf borne on the summer breath — 
 
 A momentary glance at death. 
 
 A pebble on the water tossed, 
 
 A random thought and then 'tis lost. 
 
Outdoor RioveriES 109 
 
 But hist! what presence hovers here? 
 Sunbeams as shadows cast appear; 
 An eerie chill creeps on the air, 
 Yet look aloft, no cloud is there. 
 Some magic power with subtle art, 
 A shadow casts upon the heart; 
 Vague tracery of dangers melt, 
 In settled gloom by soldiers felt, 
 And sad'ning doubts that grimly fall 
 On chief and trooper as a pall, 
 As summer sky that darkens fast, 
 Before the thunderbolt is cast. 
 
 What means this somber vaguery! 
 What mystic power bids them see? 
 Yet still withholds the gift of eye, 
 To look beyond where foemen lie 
 Concealed behind the riverbank — 
 Concealed by sagebrush growing rank — 
 Concealed by hollow and ravine; 
 While seeing, yet remain unseen. 
 
110 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Two thousand dusky forms lie prone 
 "By tuft of grass or scattered stone, 
 Two thousand rifles at full cock, 
 Two thousand red hands grasp the stock, 
 Two thousand pairs of dusky eyes 
 Exulting in complete surprise, 
 While all the plain seems calm and fair, 
 Nor yields a sign of foeman there. 
 
 As lowering cloud that bursts at last, 
 So springs from earth this human blast, 
 With hideous yell, and rifle peals, 
 Each blade of grass a demon yields. 
 Around the sturdy troopers, bends 
 That swarming line of painted fiends; 
 They halt, dismount and quickly form, 
 And fast return the leaden storm. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 111 
 
 On come the yelling, seething mass, 
 Like tenpins toppled back to grass, 
 They reel before the leaden hail, 
 As reeds bend in September's gale; 
 Returning with elastic spring, 
 To closer draw the tragic ring, 
 As waters that by wind are tossed, 
 Next instant claims the space thus lost. 
 
 The air grows dark with hissing lead — 
 The green of earth fast turns to red, 
 And cumbered is with newly dead. 
 
 Useless courage to meet the shock — 
 In vain the strength of granite rock — 
 Futile their skill in war's dread art — 
 Impotent the unshaken heart. 
 
112 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 What boots how trained or skilled they be 
 Sunk 'neath the waves of living sea, 
 As sands when tides above them roar; 
 Not swept away but covered o'er. 
 
 T *}* T T T 
 
 The discord of the strife has flown; 
 
 The shades of night creep slowly on ; 
 
 The night winds fan the sleeping plain, 
 
 And silence mounts the throne again. 
 
 With feeble protest from afar, 
 
 Perfect serenity to mar, 
 
 As conquered discord sounds a knell, 
 
 In echoes of triumphant yell; 
 
 And whisperings so soft and hushed, 
 
 That in their presence discord blushed, 
 
 Nor dare again intrude alone, 
 
 Leaves silence undisturbed, the throne. 
 
114 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Faint flutterings as of wing in flight 
 Seem hovering on the breath of night, 
 As spirits might be gathered round, 
 Of soldiers on that parting ground, 
 Freed from the thrall of martial sway, 
 Yet loth to leave that broken clay; 
 Though freed from thrall they yet return — 
 Still linger near the shattered urn, 
 As child might cling, ere taking leave, 
 To broken toy for which they grieve. 
 
 Thus life is change, 'tis common lot, 
 
 A treasured vase, broke and forgot; 
 
 But when time shall have washed the silt away, 
 
 As cliff by the sea, in the coming day, 
 
 These shall stand, a granite wall for aye. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 115 
 
 SONG OF THE POLITICIAN. 
 
 Ho! my good fellow, let's bridle the masses, 
 
 They'll saddle themselves if we give them a chance. 
 
 Tis the province of statesmen to ride on the classes, 
 They furnish the music, we on with the dance. 
 
 The best of the vintage they ne'er will refuse us ; 
 
 We'll drink till their pockets are light as our heart. 
 They can't shake us off, though oft they abuse us; 
 
 We'll keep a safe seat on the old boodle cart. 
 
 We'll tickle their fancy with many a story, 
 
 Of crowns they will win by patriot's zeal. 
 
 While they do the shouting we reap all the glory — 
 We ride in the carriage, they toil at the wheel. 
 
 We'll drink a deep draught to the health of the classes, 
 And spur them to hatred though all are the same ; 
 
 Of course we are riders and they are the 
 
 But riders don't count, the is to blame. 
 
116 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 We'll be very careful we don't take a tumble, 
 As we journey along the oft' traveled road; 
 
 For donkeys, when weary, are likely to stumble; 
 
 We may yet find ourselves by the bestrode. 
 
 Ho! my good fellow let's bridle the masses 
 
 They saddle themselves if we give them a chance. 
 
 Tis the province of statesmen to ride on the classes, 
 They furnish the music, we on with the dance. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 117 
 
 COUNTY CONVENTION. 
 
 Over the highway's graded ridge — 
 Across the loud resounding bridge — 
 Through dusty lanes, where hedges tall 
 Gird the way with majestic wall, 
 Some on horseback, some a-wheel, 
 They bowl along chuck full of zeal, 
 On the way to the County Convention. 
 
 At cross-road school house, charged with trust, 
 Defend the land today they must, 
 From Shylock's greed and thimble game — 
 Trim freedom's lamp now on the. wane — 
 Wrest from the soil, the tyrant's heel — 
 Stand as a rock for the common weal, 
 When they get to the County Convention. 
 
 Stalwart farmer with horn-gloved hand, 
 Joins in the fight to save the land — 
 With country merchant, serene and cool, 
 And callow youth that teaches school, 
 They've all joined hand in solemn vow — 
 So help them Heaven to bust it now — 
 This slate at the County Convention. 
 
118 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 Long they have talked of the needed reform- 
 With 'bated breath of coming storm, 
 They'll seize the rings and hurl them down. 
 From place and power wherever found, 
 And freed men hear their dying wail, 
 Swept o'er the land by passing gale 
 When they get to the County Convention. 
 
 At county seat far in the van 
 Of toils cohorts and gathering clan, 
 Sits scented boss with gentle grace, 
 His plans all laid, smile on his face, 
 Thinking of spoil and easy place, 
 And down hill pull in coming race 
 On the slate of the County Convention. 
 
 But when the clans are gathered there, 
 Someone is called to fill the chair, 
 They're all afraid of so great a trust — 
 The farmer "dassent," the bosses must — 
 Mind under protest, 'tis not lust — 
 And that's the way the slate they bust 
 When they get to the County Convention. 
 
Outdoor Rsverius 119 
 
 With speeches in order they twist and scrape, 
 Each waiting for t'other to make a break, 
 'Til the boss arising, knows his gait, 
 Coolly proceeds to spring the .slate, 
 And rural leaders, longing for fame, 
 Shout in accord we'll take the same 
 And the bosses quickly bag the game, — 
 All the plums at the County Convention. 
 
 With speeches well adorned, not plain, 
 To please the ear, yet cloud the brain, 
 They fan and beat and chop the air, 
 And saw and split and cord it there, 
 Then calmly sink to earned repose 
 As they slip the ring in the sun-trod nose 
 Of the boys at the County Convention. 
 
 They all feel themselves to be greatly wronged 
 By the east-loving bosses, that office have 
 
 thronged, 
 Unskilled in the ways of parliament arts, 
 When they face the meeting their courage departs. 
 They all vote "aye" at call of the roll 
 'Stead of bustin' the slate they swallow it whole 
 When they get to the County Convention. 
 
120 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 THE BOYS ARE GROWING OLD, 
 
 Hark! they march in broken columns, 
 From where smoke of battle rolled 
 
 To a welcome at the portals 
 
 For the boys are growing old. 
 
 See them come with halting footsteps, 
 From Atlanta's crimsoned sword, 
 
 From Shiloh's thunder-riven field, 
 To their last and sure reward. 
 
 There's no halting at the gateway, 
 For that "faded coat of blue" 
 
 Is their passport to the kingdom 
 
 And they pass unchallenged through. 
 
 They unfurled the starry banner, 
 And beneath it took their stand, 
 
 For they deemed the hope of freedom 
 Was an undivided land. 
 
 Gave they youth unto their country 
 While denied was Shylock's gold; 
 
 Life's best vigor gave they freely, 
 But they now are growing old. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 121 
 
 Though the strife has long been ended, 
 
 And its victories long been won, 
 Though contending hosts have blended, 
 
 And the blue and gray are one. 
 
 Yet they still continue soldiers 
 
 In the cause of truth and right, 
 
 Their country's honor shielding 
 
 From the tyrant's greed or might. 
 
 Though their ranks be decimated 
 
 By Time's unrelenting hand, 
 Still by human foes undaunted 
 
 With unbroken front they stand. 
 
 Vicksburg's battle smoke has faded ; 
 
 The long silent martial drum 
 Is borne by gray-hair'd drummer boy 
 
 As they slowly, sadly, come. 
 
 Marching onward to the portals, 
 
 Where the gates for them unfold. 
 
 And unchallenging admit them, 
 For the boys are growing old. 
 
122 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 And a crown of glory's waiting 
 As they pass the threshold o'er, 
 
 By the hand of heroes given 
 
 Who have hurried on before. 
 
 Sweetly, sadly, for them playing 
 Is the "music of the spheres," 
 
 For soon loving time shall fold them 
 In her canopy of years. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 123 
 
 WHERE WORDS FAILED. 
 
 Alone 'mid these primeval hills 
 
 I'm wandering today; 
 Far from the vexing wiles of men 
 
 I take my random way. 
 
 Here, where with music of the spheres 
 
 No baser sounds intrude ; 
 Content my wandering feet to stray 
 
 In this vast solitude. 
 
 Yet is it solitude? I trow; 
 
 It seems not so to me 
 I feel a kinship with these hills — 
 
 With yonder shattered tree. 
 
 These Pyramids of clay around, 
 
 Companions are and friends; 
 Between their clay and mine I feel 
 
 A brotherhood extends. 
 
124 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 KANSAS. 
 
 Kansas, hope of the homeless — 
 Refuge of world's unrest — 
 
 Harbor of social outcast — 
 Mystery land out west. 
 
 Land where the first crusaders 
 Came with rifle in hand, 
 
 And knelt at the pool of Tantulus, 
 But found only burning sand. 
 
 Place where a world's adventurers 
 Sought bread in wine to dip ; 
 
 But the loaf proves only a heated stone, 
 And scorpions sting the lip. 
 
 Jest of the knight of cap and bells — 
 Looted by pilfering ghouls — 
 
 Scorched by the breath of slander, 
 Derided by idle fools. 
 
 But mystery brings inquiring minds, 
 And danger calls the strong; 
 
 E'en slander draws a listening ear; 
 And they come, a sturdy throng. 
 
Outdoor Reveries 125 
 
 Crusaders they who for that land 
 
 The sword of Godfrey drew; 
 In meager rank, yet far-flung line, 
 
 They stage that scene a-new. 
 
 They battle the Hydra's fiery breath — 
 
 They battle the insect pest; 
 And whirlwinds scatter the fruit of their toil, 
 
 And makes their effort a jest. 
 
 They ride the storm-swept cattle range — 
 
 They turn the sun-baked sod — 
 And spat anew on blistered hand, 
 
 At each swish of the chastening rod. 
 
 They sharpen the blunted plow again 
 
 As they view the withered field ; 
 And tightened the slackened saddle girth, 
 
 But never an inch did they yield. 
 
 Then a smile stole over the dragon's face 
 
 And set all the fields aglint, 
 For courage had well nigh won the race, 
 
 And softened that heart of flint. 
 
126 Outdoor Retries 
 
 Across the erstwhile withered plain, 
 
 A yellow banner spread — 
 A gilded emblem, far amain 
 
 And the son of man had bread. 
 
 Old trails gave way to corn wall'd lanes, 
 And the hills were dotted with kine ; 
 
 The toiler knelt at the pool again, 
 
 And lo ! it was brimming with wine. 
 
 The homeless had found peaceful homes — 
 The restless had found rest — 
 
 Labor rewrought the hallowed tale, 
 And a star appeared out west. 
 
 Kansas has grown to greatness — 
 
 With victories replete 
 E'en envy owns her achievement 
 
 When it holds out a hand for wheat. 
 
 And her dragons sleep in the sunshine 
 No longer the cause of tears, 
 
 While south winds croon a lullaby 
 O'er the grave of her pioneers. 
 
Outdoor Rsvsries 127 
 
 MAN AND RIVER. 
 
 "Men may come and men may go, but I roll on for- 
 ever." — Tennyson. 
 
 From fountain fair in northern wild, 
 
 I creep away, Itasca's child, 
 
 To wander from the parent fold, 
 
 In careless play, o'er sands of gold 
 
 I pass the rock that bids me stay 
 
 With prattle of a child at play. 
 
 And sage old pines they whisper me, 
 
 I laugh at them in wanton glee. 
 
 Away! away! to the distant sea, 
 
 I feel the thrill of nature's call — , 
 
 A careless child, I trip and fall; 
 
 Headlong I tumble over the stones, 
 
 My careless laugh is turned to groans, 
 
 Warned by the fall from the rocky ledge 
 
 I slowly creep through the tangled sedge. 
 
 All night I sleep in a mossy bed 
 
 In sheltering wood where a lake is spread. 
 
 Then 'waked by the tramp of coming day, 
 
 I turn refreshed and stroll away. 
 
 And I feel a thrill of pride and joy 
 
 As I lift to my breast a child's first toy. 
 
 My heart is touched at the kindly gift 
 
 Of a birch canoe I can scarcely lift. 
 
128 Outdoor Reveries 
 
 And I reel and tremble beneath the weight 
 
 Of the precious thing with its human freight. 
 
 Ah! joys of childhood, priceless things 
 
 The rarest gems that memory brings; 
 
 And I feel a glow of common pride 
 
 In my power for good as I onward glide. 
 
 How soul inspiring is the thought 
 
 Of burdens lifted, battles fought, 
 
 For weeping, wailing, stumbling, blind, 
 
 Ambitious, jealous, weak mankind. 
 
 Uplifted thus I onward press 
 
 Through winding paths of wilderness, 
 
 Fed -by the gift of a thousand rills 
 
 And a thousand springs from a thousand hills 
 
 I grow sedate and calm and strong 
 
 And my babble swells to a stately song. 
 
 Primeval forest paths I span 
 
 And reach the realm of modern man. 
 
 Where pigmies swarm along the track 
 
 To cast their burdens on my back, 
 
 And thousands heave and sweat and toil, 
 
 To load me with a forest spoil. 
 
 Thousands, down hill the booty roll — 
 
 Alone I sweep it to the goal. 
 
 They loudly boast of strength and skill — 
 
 No place on honor's scroll I fill 
 
Outdoor Rsveriks 129 
 
 Without my aid 'twere sure defeat, 
 Thou fragile vase of vain conceit. 
 Of boastful tongue and feeble arm 
 Thy very helplessness a charm 
 Tis joy to aid as I pass by, 
 For they are weak and strong am I. 
 Tis pleasure to uplift the wight, 
 With growing power ; before my might. 
 Twere puny shaft that Titan hurled— 
 I spin the wheels that feed the world. 
 Anon they seek to bar my path 
 As if 'twere joy to rouse my wrath. 
 And long they toil with wondrous skill, 
 To raise the bar and build the mill ; 
 Arrange the gear, with cunning hand, 
 To make the river light the land 
 Then loud acclaim the magic plan, 
 And calmly boast the superman. 
 Who boasts the loudest does the least, 
 Yet sits the master at the feast. 
 At this conceit no grief I feel, 
 Though super I must turn the wheel ; 
 For time must come when man forgot, 
 Shall leave no trace to mark the spot. 
 And I remain to grieve the toy, 
 Which through long ages gave me joy. 
 
130 Outdoor Rbv^ries 
 
 Again they seek, my course to guide ; 
 
 Where at some nook I step aside; 
 
 Or wander through some old time way, 
 
 And farther o'er the lowland stray. 
 
 Again they strive with eager might, 
 
 To filch from me an old time right ; 
 
 With spoiler's hand my course enthrall, 
 
 And turn me back with prison wall. 
 
 The land they claim with, faith supine, 
 
 Through all the ages have been mine. 
 
 A squatter's right I'll not refuse, 
 
 Though I may claim them when I choose. 
 
 Oh noisy jay, with cocky pose, 
 
 That struts before the lion's nose : 
 
 To bear your burdens, be my care, 
 
 Yet of the lions might beware. 
 
 Your meager span is swiftly run 
 
 And I my service just begun. 
 
 A thousand ages ere your day, 
 
 I strolled along this same old way; 
 
 A thousand ages farther flung, 
 
 I shall be here and still be young 
 
 To serve the land that gave me birth ; 
 
 The grandest Valley on the earth. 
 
I