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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/musingsofpilgrim01cumm 
 
Sa^f\e 
 
 ^M.^ 
 
ivi xj s I N a- s 
 
 OF THE 
 
 PILaHIM Bi^RD 
 
 A BOOK OF POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SCOTT CXJJMMINS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 ^REMINISCENCES OE THE EARLY 
 
 DAYS," "SHAIDOTT^S AND SXJN- 
 
 SHINE," ETC. 
 
 \ > ? '^ ' \ ' ' 
 
 WINCHESTER, OKLAHOMA 
 1903 
 
THE LIBRARY Of 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 T^wj Coft<iti RecttvED 
 
 COPYRfOHT CTnrTTY 
 
 ^i?/" 
 
 (rr 8. 
 
 
 /9r 3 
 
 Entered according to act of Congress in 
 
 the year 1903 
 
 By SCOTT CUMMINS 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress 
 
 at Washington D. C. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 EAGLE PRESS, " " WICHITA, KANSAS. 
 
 
TO THE PRESS 
 
 OF KANSAS AND OKLAHOMA 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 WINCHESTER, OKLAHOMA 
 MAY 12, 1903 
 
PRBPAGB 
 
 For years I have hoped as it were against hope that some 
 day I would be able to publish a volume of my musings. And 
 as the fruition of my hopes is about to be realized I prefix this 
 preface as- an apology to my friends. All who know me know 
 me well; know that the thoughts ingrafted in the following 
 far from perfect lines were invariably written, as it were, 
 between times; in plain, they were nearly all written during 
 the silent watches of the night. Oftener by the light of a 
 campfire than otherwise. Some v/ere written on the smooth 
 surface of weather-beaten bones, on the decayed and whit- 
 ened surface of trees, on bark, stones', and crystalized gyp- 
 sum. Just as the spirit moved I wrote and seldom remodeled 
 a stanza of these weird, sometimes uncanny, lyrics. While I 
 am not averse to criticism, I would remind any of said class 
 that I am a graduate of the College of Nature, worship Na- 
 ture's God, and at times am inclined to think that I am not 
 altogether free from superstition. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
THG AUTHOR 
 
 As an old time friend and neighbor who has known and 
 admired the "Pilgrim Bard" for nearly a quarter of a century, 
 I write this brief sketch as a labor of love. 
 
 Orange Scott Cummins was born in the good old state of 
 Ohio fifty-seven years ago, but at the early age of two years 
 he concluded that it was the part of wisdom for a young man 
 to go west and grow up with the country, and taking his par- 
 ents by the hand he started for the then new state of Iowa. 
 It was a wilderness where the family settled. Indians were 
 plentiful and here the future bard became acquainted with the 
 "Noble Red Man." The wild free life of the savage appealed 
 to the romantic temperament of the boy. Young Indians 
 were often his playmates. In the Indian camps he spent 
 much of his time, and long before he had reached the estate 
 of manhood he was familiar with Indian customs and Indian 
 legends. This fact was probably responsible for the story 
 that was set afloat that a white baby died and that the Indian 
 chief, Conoe, sympathizing with the grief-stricken mother, 
 brought to her a handsome Indian pappoose which the white 
 mother took and reared as her own, and that in course of 
 years this pappoos-e grew up to be a poet. This tale, how- 
 ever, is' legendary. I doubt its authenticity. 
 
 When the war broke out young Cummins, though hardly 
 
fifteen, burned with a patriotic desire to be a soldier, and a 
 soldier he became. As a member of Co. A, 3d Iowa cavalry, 
 he served his country well. At the 'end of the war he came 
 back to Iowa, but the restlessness of the frontiersman was 
 in his blood. Neighbors had become too plentiful in Iowa and 
 he moved to Kansas. In the early seventies he settled 
 among the canyons of Barber county, at that time the favor- 
 ite grazing ground of countless thousands of buffalo and the 
 chosen habitation of the deer, the antelope, the wolf and the 
 mountain lion. 
 
 On the banks of a clear running and beautiful little 
 stream, which bore the unromantic cognomen of Mule creek, 
 he built his cabin, naming it "Last Chance," because it was 
 the last chance the pilgrims heading for the still further 
 western wilds would have to get a meal under a roof. 
 
 It was in Barber county that I first met the author, who 
 was even then locally known as "The Pilgrim Bard." He was 
 engaged in the business of transporting the bones of the de- 
 ceased buffalo to Wichita, then the greatest bone market in 
 the world. When I heard him addressing his mules with lan- 
 guage that would hardly be permissible in an Epworth League 
 meeting, I hardly supposed that I was listening to a literary 
 genius, though it must be acknowledged that his profanity 
 was strikingly artistic when occasion seemed to demand, but 
 I soon learned that under a rough exterior and amid environ- 
 ments most discouraging, there Durned the fires of real genius 
 and existed a soul full of poetic fancy. 
 
His poetry has th'e real appetizing western flavor. Sbme of 
 it marked with quaint humor and some filled with remarkable 
 sweetness and pathos. His are the songs of a man who has 
 lived with nature all his days and loved it; a man who 
 knows little or nothing of the so-called culture and artificial 
 life of the East. 
 
 What the sale of this book will be I of course do not 
 know, but whatever it may be I feel that those who do not 
 read it will miss a good thing; for in my opinion the "Pilgrim 
 Bard" is a real poet, is entitled to rank with Eugene Field 
 and James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 T. A. McNEAL. 
 
bOVBD AND LOST 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bari 11 
 
 Written on the trunk of an aged and decaying Cottonwood 
 tree that stood on the bank of Salt Fork river on the old 
 Camp Supply trail, an old camping ground. 
 
 Before I ever saw the sun 
 
 This giant tree from earth did start; 
 Yet now its race is well nigh run — 
 
 Decay has fastened on its heart. 
 Alas, 'tis dying sure and slow — 
 
 A gloomy monitor it stands 
 
 Guarding the River's shifting sands; 
 Speak! thou decaying giant — tell us of the long ago. 
 
 Tell of th'e savage red man's camp. 
 
 Tell of the wandering hunter's cheer; 
 From sorching sun or evening damp 
 
 Devil and saint have sheltered here 
 To plot or pray as seemeth well. 
 
 The shaggy bison sought thy shade; 
 
 The dun deer 'neath thy branches played ; 
 Oft, too, these wilds re-echoed wolf and mountain lion's yell. 
 
 Thy seared old trunk hath many a scar, 
 Thy gnarled branches crook and twine 
 
 As though the elements at war 
 
 Had caught thee in their dread confine; 
 
12 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Here, too, the lightning' trace I see 
 
 Perchance for years you stood alone 
 
 Till thine own polen zephyr blown. 
 Took root in earth and grew a kindred grove to thee. 
 
 Beneath and round thee floods have rolled, 
 
 And driftwood in thy boughs have caught^ 
 E'er white man's foot had pressed this wold 
 
 Or white man's eye beheld this spot, 
 I trow 'twere guess work all to try — 
 In fancy's realm alone we see 
 
 This monarch's quaint biography. 
 The shimmering of the leaflets tell not of the days gone bye. 
 
 Mortal, thou may'st a lesson read, 
 
 For thou art passing like this tree; 
 The poor in purse, the ghouls of greed, 
 
 None can escape the stern decree; 
 Blind worms are waiting at the goal, 
 
 And if thou hast a single spark 
 
 To light thee, as the way grows dark. 
 'Tis this, beyond death's portals, lives the immortal soul. 
 Pilgrim's Den, Jan. 15, 1899. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 13 
 
 MARCH WIND 
 
 When the old house keeps a rockin'. 
 
 Like as if 'twas goin' to fall; 
 And the pebbles' keep a knockin' — 
 Knockin' 'gainst the fragile wall, 
 Sets a tired feller thinkin' 
 
 Of fell goblin, wraith or fiend, 
 Fancy into fancy linkin', 
 
 Yet 'tis nothin' but the wind; 
 Roar, roar, rattle door. 
 Through each cranny in the floor. 
 Through each crack and crevice small. 
 Where a chigger scarce could crawl, 
 Every seam 'tis sure to find, 
 O beshrew. the bleak March wind. 
 
 All day long, to feed the critters, 
 
 I have tried my level best; 
 Tears my fodder into fritters. 
 
 Splits the endgate of my vest; 
 Almost sets a feller cussin', 
 
 Yet too well I understand. 
 If I ope' my mouth a fussin' 
 
 'T'would soon fill with dust and sand; 
 Shriek, shriek, creak, creak — 
 Seven long days in a week; 
 Though my language seem unkind. 
 Devil take the bleak March wind. 
 
 Now adieu, my lamp burns dimly, 
 
 Sleep and rest I needs must try; 
 Let the roaring round my chimney 
 
14 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Be a soothing lullaby, 
 This my pray'r before undressin', 
 
 Hopeless pray'r with pathos filled, 
 That the wind may cease caressin' 
 Nature, and a while be still'd; 
 Scream, scream, while I dream 
 'Till the sun with lurid gleam 
 Wakes me to resume the fight 
 With the hurricanish sprite. 
 Respite body, respite mind, 
 From the raging of the wind. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 15 
 
 DEAD IN THB PHILIPPINES 
 
 r 
 
 Dead, in the Philippines. 
 Oh! My God, what is that you say? 
 Let me see the dispatch, can it be, can it be 
 That it means that Willie, our Willi'e, is dead 
 In those Philippine isles far away? 
 Oh! Heaven, can it be that our Willie is dead 
 In those far away isles of the sea? 
 
 Dead, in the Philippines. 
 The wires flashed the news but today. 
 My eyes have grown dim, and my glasses are blurred, 
 Read it carefully o'er and see 
 
 That there is no mistake, every word — every word — 
 Falls like a live coal on my heart; can it be, can it be, 
 That our Willie is dead in those far away isles of the sea? 
 
 Dead, in the Philippines. 
 Alas! 'Tis no vision, 'tis true, it is true, it is he. 
 In the hospital tossing in pain — 
 
 Though God alone heard him — I know he was calling for me, 
 His mother, he called all in vain. 
 Far o'er the wide waste of the sea. 
 Calling, yes calling for mother, for me. 
 
 Dead, in the Philippines. 
 Our darling, our pride and our stay. 
 Ah! The time seems so brief since he laughingly whispered to 
 
 me: 
 Don't cry, mamma dear, from those Philippine isles far away, 
 Triumphant again we'll return, when our flag floating free 
 Is supreme mid the mist and the spray 
 Of those far away isles of the sea. 
 
16 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Dead, in the Philippines. 
 Where th'e leaves linger long on the tree. 
 At sunset they laid him to rest, and fired a salute o'er his 
 
 grave, 
 And sounded the "taps," and left his poor passionless clay. 
 Where the flag that he loved, shall forevermore wave 
 O'er America's isles, lovely isles of the tropical sea. 
 
 Dead, in the Philippines. 
 By and by, when the grass has turned gray, 
 And the beauty of summer is gone they will send his poor clay 
 To his' mother, they will send it to me; 
 And God will take care of his soul — for he died 
 For his country — he died far away 
 In America's isles, lovely isles of the tropical sea. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 17 
 
 WINTER THOUGHTS 
 
 The days are gettin' shorter and we've mighty little sun, 
 
 If we don't look out the day pegs' out before our work's begun; 
 
 Frost gleams' among the timber and the north wind makes 
 things crack, 
 
 The old cow shakes her head and makes for the nearest fod- 
 der stack. 
 
 Ho-hum, winter's nudgin' along — 
 The grasses are dead and the warblers are fled 
 To the far sunny south on fleet wings they have sped — 
 
 The orange groves echo their song. 
 
 Thanksgivin' feasts are over and the turkey bones are bare; 
 We didn't have much of turkeys and such mixed in our bill of 
 
 fare ; 
 Yet we were just as thankful, though we didn't make no fuss. 
 Thanksgivin' may come to the rich man's home, but it's 
 
 mighty shy of us. 
 
 Ho-hum, though we lire humble and plain. 
 We don't care a straw, for the over full man 
 Is subject to colic and pain. 
 
 The holidays are comin' but we are so mighty poor 
 
 The "lean wolf" lies with wistful eyes nearby our dug-out 
 
 door; 
 He ain't no welcome visitor, but we knew him long ago; 
 He loves' to come to a fellow's home when the grub is runnin' 
 
 low. 
 
 Ho-hum, Christmas will soon be here. 
 The rich and the grand on the fat of the land 
 
18 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Will feast and drink wines of the costliest brand. 
 But the poor aren't in it this year. 
 
 The church bells will be ringin' with the merry Christmas 
 
 chimes. 
 While out on the street mid the snow and the sleet 
 Roams' th'e vagabond steeped in crimes; 
 Misfortune, woe and porerty, gateway to earthly hells, 
 And it ain't much relief from remorse of grief to hear the 
 
 great church bells. 
 
 Ho-hum, let th'e old bells ring 
 For not far away is a reckoning day 
 When the blind worm makes feast of the poor worthless clay 
 
 Of the beggar as well as the king. 
 
 Over the turbulent river, beyond the dark divide, 
 
 There's' a sun-bright land and a Seraph band and a great gate 
 
 open wide ; 
 Can it be that the lowly may enter in spite of the rich and 
 
 the great? 
 Aye, the silks will mould and the hoarded gold must be left 
 this side of the gate. 
 
 ■j 
 Ho-hum, maybe the thought is a sin, 
 Blest assurance to know there's a ghost of a show, 
 A haven of rest and a raiment of snow, 
 Where title and gold never win. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 19 
 
 UNDER TMB ELMS 
 
 'Twas summ'er night, and through the broken clouds 
 
 Ever anon the struggling moonbeams shone; 
 
 Past midnight hour, the drowsy, droning hum 
 
 Of insect life had ceased and all was still; 
 
 A light breeze stirred the leaflets on the trees 
 
 Only at intervals, then silence reigned. 
 
 Weird was the scene by nature there portrayed. 
 
 Standing beneath an elm tree's sweeping boughs 
 
 A maiden fair, with loose and trailing robes 
 
 And pallid cheeks', and long disheveled hair, 
 
 Waited and watched, and whispered "Will he come?' 
 
 Sudden, as from the heart's most sacred fount, 
 
 Yet low and mournful as a chant of death. 
 
 She hummed an air then sang a stanza lone — 
 
 S*o low, so sweet, that each secluded dell 
 
 Re-echoed, loth to lose its symphony. 
 
 O, for great wings to carry me 
 
 Across the waters wide; 
 My heart is weak, yet would I seek 
 
 My soldier lover's side; 
 The glow worm and the fire-fly's lamp 
 Would light me while I sought his camp. 
 Through fettid brake, o'er lonely lake. 
 Where every sound the reptiles' wake, 
 Unheeding time, unheeding space. 
 
 Unheeding waters wide; 
 My heart is weak, yet would I seek 
 
 My soldier lover's side. 
 
20 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 As ceased the lay, low weird vibrationb' sweet, 
 
 Half dying in the distance, swelled again, 
 
 As though some fairy form the sounds recall. 
 
 The last note dies, and silence reigns again. 
 
 Taking a letter from her wrapper's fold 
 
 She pressed it to her lips and wept and smiled, 
 
 'Twas from her lover in the Orient, 
 
 Her own true love — ^^her idol soldier boy. 
 
 The sweetest words were: Love, I'm coming home; 
 
 O, watch and wait for me beneath the elms. 
 
 If life be spared I'll clasp that bosom warm, 
 
 V/ithin thes'e arms, reserved for thee alone. 
 
 If death should come, my angel, even then — 
 
 I will not disappoint thy patient wait. 
 
 She wept and kissed the silent talisman 
 
 And then replaced it in her wrapper's fold. 
 
 Weary at last, beneath the tree reclined, 
 
 Laxing her vigils', soon was lost in dreams; 
 
 But soft he comes, she hears the well known tread. 
 
 With one wild cry and wide extended arms, 
 
 She ran to clasp her darling soldier boy. 
 
 But ah! he spoke not, and his coat of blue 
 
 Was stained with blood, the while a ghastly wound 
 
 His temple marred. It was the seal of death; 
 
 Aye, he was- dead, and o'er the pathless waves 
 
 His spirit came to meet his waiting love. 
 
 Winchester, O. T., Nov. 20, 1899. 
 
Musings of tlic Pilgrim Bard 21 
 
 APTBR THE FIRE 
 
 Written the night after the destruction of my home and dedi- 
 cated to my friends. 
 
 'Tis past the witching hour — 
 
 When pass the hands upon the dial plate — 
 
 And night makes' turn toward approaching dawn; 
 
 And wandering spook and sprite themselves bestir 
 
 And soon must hie them to their wonted haunts. 
 
 Dread silence reigns supreme, 
 
 Save when the beetle's drowsy, droning note 
 
 Is mingled with the cricket's measured chirp, 
 
 Or prowling wolf among the neighboring hills 
 
 Makes night more irksome with his dismal howl. 
 
 Alone I sit buried in brooding thought. 
 
 All through the silent watches of the night 
 
 My sleepless eyes' have kept — 
 
 Vigils, beside the smoking, smouldering heap — 
 
 Of ashes, that remain a gloomy monitor, 
 
 All that is left me of my humble home. 
 
 Who shall gainsay my spirit's visioned scope 
 
 O'er fancy's range, or who my thought's estop, 
 
 And call my close communion with the Muse, 
 
 Or converse with the Fays of other world's, 
 
 But weird vibrations of a fevered brain. 
 
 True Christians, bend the knee and lift the voice 
 
 To unseen Gods, whom they by faith adore, 
 
 (Their God is mine, I love them for their faith.) 
 
 Even the heathen hath his solemn rites, 
 
 Although abhorent, must not be ignored, 
 
 For all mankind alike 
 
 See darkly now, yet through the self same glass. 
 
 The future's dark enigma none may read; 
 
 Death, only death, will rend the veil beyond. 
 
22 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Close by me, e'en within — 
 
 The measure of my outstretched arm 
 
 Lie wrapped in slumber's silent mantle all 
 
 My loved ones, who hare ever shared with me 
 
 Joy when 'twas joy, and sorrow when its shade 
 
 Fell full across our pathway here below; 
 
 The earth their bed, the sky their canopy; 
 
 Perchance they dream of home, dear home that was- 
 
 Alas none knew its- value 'till 'twas gone. 
 
 The glorious sun shines sweet 
 
 Upon the green robed lap of earth in spring; 
 
 The warbler trills' his lay from bush and tree, 
 
 While all mankind rejoice, and bird and beast — 
 
 And every creeping thing, 
 
 At Nature's fount drink draughts of ecstacy. 
 
 But hush! a wondrous- chang"e 
 
 Steals on apace; 'tis gloomy winter now,. 
 
 Nature is all disrobed of rich attire. 
 
 The trees are naked, and the grass is gray. 
 
 Shorn of his warmth the great day God hath donned 
 
 A far off shivering, silent, sickly gleam, 
 
 And oit hides behind an ominous sky. 
 
 As though ashamed for lack of brilliancy. 
 
 Then quickly doth weak mortal mind revert 
 
 Back to the pleasant days of balmy spring. 
 
 Ah! then it is we fully realize 
 
 How bright, how very sweet, the sunshine was. 
 
 Alack, my wilder'd mind, 
 
 I trow thou'rt wandering far, too far; 
 
 The clock from out yon shapeless ashen heap 
 
 Seems-, Phoenix like, to rise and tell the hour; 
 
 I must at once my rambling thoughts convoke, 
 
 Lest morning dawn and drive the Muse away. 
 
 Is it a vision, no, 'tis not a dream, 
 
 Mine eyes are closed not, yet I gaze and see, 
 
Musings of tlw Pilgrim Bard. 23 
 
 My home intact, just as on yester morn 
 
 I saw it standing on the brooklet's bank; 
 
 The weather beaten roof — 
 
 O'er which the ponderous bell for many a year 
 
 Swung to and fro, and with its clanging sound 
 
 Broke short full many a neighbor's morning nap; 
 
 Oft hath it toll'd a solemn, parting knell 
 
 For the old year the while he passed away, 
 
 Then changed its clangor to a joyous peal 
 
 Of welcome to the coming of the new, 
 
 But yester morn its ringing long and loud 
 
 Welcomed the dawn of Independence day. 
 
 Dismantled now, rent by the fall in twain, 
 
 'Twill swing no more, 'twill never ring again. 
 
 Mortal, a lesson learn, 'tis like to thee 
 
 Hopes fondest idols often fall to dust; 
 
 At morn, a being full of life and joy, 
 
 At eve may be a lifeless lump of clay. 
 
 Still rest mine eyes upon the magic scene, 
 
 The dark, ungarnished sides, the front, the rear, 
 
 The low square porch that kept the glaring Bun 
 
 From out the southern door at noonday's hour: 
 
 Yes, all are there, and now 
 
 By instinct fancy I am led within; 
 
 'Tis silent all, and yet how passing strange, 
 
 The portraits of our kindred on the wall 
 
 Have shape assumed and forms of normal size, 
 
 Just as I saw them in the days agone; 
 
 They are not mortal, for they do not speak, 
 
 And with grave gestures motion me away; 
 
 The mirror poises 'twixt the antler's prongs. 
 
 Upon its polished surface rests my eyes. 
 
 Instinctively I start. 'Tis not my face 
 
 Reflected back; 'tis one relentless death 
 
 Hath taken from me long, long years ago. 
 
24 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Leaving an aching void time ne'er can heal. 
 Those eyes of blue, that golden, sunny hair, 
 That sad sweet smile from parted lips' of pink; 
 'Tis Mabel, 'tis my angel sister dear, 
 By death so far removed yet ever near. 
 When sorely tossed upon misfortune's sea 
 'Tis then my guardian spirit comes to me. 
 But hark! The cock crows shrill. 
 The dawn approaches and the hour is three; 
 'Tis signal for the elfs to cease their prowl 
 And hasten to their places of confine. 
 A swishing sound, a rush as- of the wind, 
 And all are gone, I know not, reck not where; 
 And last of all the muse has left me too; 
 In the dim distance sounds her faint adieu. 
 
 Canema, July 5th, 1893. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard, 25 
 
 A THANKSGIVING ROAST 
 
 'Taint them that wear the longest faces, 
 Nor them that say the longest graces 
 
 That are the thankfullest; 
 Nor them that gorge at sumptuous dinner, 
 And look disguistin' on the sinner 
 
 By hunger pressed. 
 
 Seems like the Lord would 'most git tired 
 Of some petitions at him fired 
 
 Thanksgivin' day; 
 When over costly grub and wine 
 Some well-fed, well-paid, sleek diviiie 
 
 His blessin's say. 
 
 While scarce a stone's throw from the door 
 Some homeless wanderer may implore 
 
 A single crumb; 
 If God is savage, as they preach, 
 It's strange He don't a lesson teach 
 
 And strike them dumb. 
 
 The preacher dressed in duck or jeans, 
 Who lives on bacon, bread and beans. 
 
 With conscience free; 
 Is far more Christ-lik'e, more befittin'. 
 And thankfuller for what he's gettin'. 
 
 Though small his fee. 
 
26 Musings of tlie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 And when his hour has come to die. 
 And when he lays his armor by, 
 
 High Heaven's gate 
 Will outward swing, full opening. 
 And harp of gold, with many a string, 
 
 Doth him await. 
 
 Now in this roast of brimstone smellin', 
 I will be candid while I'm tellin' 
 
 Who thankful are: 
 The man who's used to rocky livin', 
 Who has to work all day Thanksgivin' 
 
 For frugal fare. 
 
 Is thankful when the day is ending 
 And he his homeward way is wending 
 
 To his household. 
 To see the happy faces smilin' 
 While children o'er each other pilin' 
 
 His both hands to hold; 
 
 And lead him 'neath his own roof's cover 
 To greet his lifelong spouse and lover 
 
 With welcome kiss; 
 At supper each one takes a place, 
 The father says his humbl'e grace — 
 
 "Thank God for this." 
 
 No "pepsin tonic" do they use, 
 Derarg*ed digestion to diffuse, 
 
 Labor gives health; 
 At night they sleep in sweet repose, 
 Their cheeks are bloomin' like the rose — 
 
 This is their wealth. 
 
Musings of tue Pilgrim Bard 27 
 
 The patient editor is one 
 
 Whose mental labor ne'er is done, 
 
 Nor oft at ease; 
 His health may fade like morning vapor 
 Still all on time appears his paper 
 
 His friends to please. 
 
 Now if you fain would see him smile 
 And look right thankful for awhile. 
 
 Pay your arrears. 
 He's used to buffets, kicks and lies, 
 But when he meets a great surprise 
 
 Breaks' down in tears. 
 
 This roast is done; although 'tis tough 
 All will agree it's done enough — 
 
 'Tis rocky fare. 
 If in our metaphoric throes 
 We've trampled on some fellow's toes. 
 
 Devil the care. 
 
 Pilgrim's Den, Nov. 24, 1897. 
 
28 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 THE HUNTER'S GAMP 
 
 PART I. 
 
 My hair is streaked with gray, 
 And well I ween the gray predominates; 
 Should life's uncertain cord be lengthened out 
 And if I dodge the scythe armed sentinel 
 For one, or two, or three, or four decades, 
 I will be towhead for the second time. 
 Sometimes in looking back 'twould well nigh seem 
 That I the three score limit had e'en passed, 
 Counted by wakeful, watchful, thinking hours. 
 Oft have I sat beside the smouldering fire 
 And flickering lamp that burned the midnight oil, 
 Throwing weird shadows on the ungarnished wall 
 To aid my fancy while my busy thoughts 
 Chased 'mong the debris of the classic fields; 
 While others' passed th'e watches of the night 
 In slumber sweet or nightmare ridden dreams. 
 
 A Pilgrim I, with sandals worn and frayed 
 
 By journeying over sand and stunted grass. 
 
 And cactus beds and flats of alkali; 
 
 And through deep canons dense with undergrowth 
 
 Oft walled with massive boulders old and gray 
 
 Heaped on each other as by giant hand. 
 
 To form a barrier 'gainst the universe. 
 
 Oft in the lonely wilds by campfire gleamed; 
 
 Dews of the wilderness have damped by locks; 
 
 I loved and sought and courted solitude. 
 
 And ne'er felt lonely even when alone. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 29 
 
 'Tis many a well thumbed leaf 
 
 I must turn back in Time's old musty book, 
 
 Nor must I dally as the leaves I turn 
 
 To mark the usage that the volume shows; 
 
 The corn'ers of full many a tear blurred leaf 
 
 Are turned to mark events long since gone by. 
 
 Backward I turn, a score of bygone years. 
 
 Then half a score that brings me to the spot 
 
 Where I begin my tale, "The Hunter's Camp." 
 
 'Twas early autumn, cottonwood and elm 
 Their foliage retained, the summer birds 
 Loitered and chirped among the leafy boughs; 
 The short-grass carpet spread o'er hill and vale, 
 No longer verdant, but an ashen gray. 
 Cured by the scorching rays of summer sun; 
 'Twas Nature's provender — nutritious food — 
 Through wintry hours to feed the countless herds 
 Of shaggy buffalo that roamed at will 
 O'er hill and vale, by herder unrestrained. 
 
 Th'e autumn sun was sinking in the west 
 When I, a roaming hunter, pitched my camp; 
 Short shrift, I ween, to pitch a hunter's camp; 
 Short the description, sometimes short the fare. 
 I always hanged my harness on the ground 
 Hard by my wagon, and to one hind wheel 
 I tied on'e pony with a lariat, 
 The other roamed at will to crop the grass. 
 
 The sky my canopy, the grassy sward 
 My downy couch, my fuel uncut chips. 
 My fare a hunter's cheer oft plain and rough. 
 
30 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 With a steak fresh taken from the bison's hump, 
 Or savory cutlet from the fallow de'er; 
 And ever coffee black and thick and strong, 
 I well believe 'twould float a railroad spike. 
 Thus oft I camped, yet this eventful camp 
 I must describe for sake of history. 
 
 'Twas on a lerel plain — a valley broad. 
 
 Hard by the "Salt Fork," on its southern shore; 
 
 The river, like the elbow of an arm. 
 
 Came from the north and wended to the east, 
 
 Its margin fringed with stunted cottonwoods, 
 
 While distant to the north were groves of elm. 
 
 And westward rugged wooded canons lay. 
 
 While east the shimmering of the setting sun 
 
 Shone on the winding stream and valley wide. 
 
 And southward sloped the prairie 'till 'twas lost. 
 
 Night's curtains fell, the starry orbs came forth 
 
 To faintly light an autumn moonless sky. 
 
 I sat before my cheerful fire of chips 
 
 And leaned my back against the shaggy side 
 
 Of a huge Buffalo not yet disrobed; 
 
 I filled my pipe and smoked, enwrapped in thought, 
 
 Until the starry dipper in th'e sky 
 
 Had made the turn, then I turned in to sleep. 
 
 While wolf and coyote howled my lullaby. 
 
 The morning dawned — calm, lovely and serene; 
 The blood red sun illumed th'e distant east; 
 O, ye who spend your days- in cities great, 
 Where morning rays of God's effulgent sun 
 Are hampered by great walls and clouds of smoke, 
 Amid the ceaseless clatter on the streets 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 31 
 
 And rumbling car and engine's piercing shriek; 
 'Twere worth ten years of such a pent up life 
 To see a sun rise in the wilderness. 
 
 I brok'e my fast, and as the morning sun 
 Rose o'er the tree tops and the distant hills, 
 I gathered up my kit and hitched my Bronks, 
 And with a longing look the landscape o'er 
 I went my way, nor thought of destiny. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Again I came, and sought my former camp, 
 
 Beshrew the change the long, long years have wrought; 
 
 The same bright morning sun rose in the east 
 
 And set at eve beyond the western hills; 
 
 Pale mellow twilight lingered for a space, 
 
 Then turned to darkness while the stars came forth 
 
 And sought their wonted places in the sky. 
 
 Nature is much the same, yet sadly shorn 
 
 Of all that nature's slaves so much adore. 
 
 The game, the glory of the wilds, was gone; 
 
 The shaggy herds that loamed all herderless 
 
 Had been supplanted by the long-horned kine; 
 
 The while the cowboy with the high heeled boots 
 
 And glistening spurs and "shaps" with leather legs, 
 
 Mounted on Broncho that bucked hard and high, 
 
 Rounded the herds with shout and merry lay. 
 
 No trouble seemed to mar the cowboy's life; 
 
 His cheeks were flushed with healthful ruddy glow, 
 
 His sunbrown face beamed neath his broadbrimmed hat 
 
 With rugged kindness, and his honest smile 
 
 Bid strangers welcome to his camp in cheer. 
 
32 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Again I sat me by a fire of chips 
 
 And smoked my pipe; then filled and smoked again; 
 
 My busy thoughts were roaming o'er the past, 
 
 When sudden, like a mighty meteor's glow, 
 
 Approached a gruesome and uncanny light, 
 
 And with it came a rumbling, quaking sound 
 
 Like distant herald of approaching storm; 
 
 And shortly hills and vales re-echoed round 
 
 With locomotive's whistle long and loud. 
 
 It came and passed, and soon was lost to view. 
 
 Alack the sequel I full plainly saw 
 
 What next time's panorama would unfold; 
 
 'Twould come, 'twas- coming; fate was not more sure; 
 
 Mankind e'er follows where the engine leads; 
 
 Thes'e valleys broad, these prairies rich and wide, 
 
 Soon, soon will echo to the settler's tread. 
 
 The morning dawned again; I went my way, 
 
 Weary at heart at what time's hand had wrought. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Another lapse of years, again I came; 
 And with me came a rushing, surging sea 
 Of human beings; wending madly on. 
 Jostling each other, in their wild career. 
 All bent on reaching my once lonely camp; 
 The loss of steed, the risk of broken bones. 
 Were never thought of in the headlong race. 
 Night came at last, and from a distant hill 
 I watched in silence while my busy brain 
 Throbbed wildly as a storm on surf beat shore; 
 The twinkling lights seemed meteors of a dream 
 That with the morning sun would vanish all; 
 Yet dawn of morn my fitful dream dispelled, 
 Instead of vision glared reality; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 33 
 
 The snow white tents that glistened 'neath the sun 
 Spoke volumes to me in a moment's space; 
 Henceforth that lonely, isolated vale 
 Will be a thriving city of the west — 
 Alva, proud Princess, once a hunter's camp. 
 
34 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 TMB LAST MAIN 
 
 [Note. — A few days since while in conversation with Mr. 
 Cameron and Mr. Posey concerning- the future prospects of 
 Barber county, Mr. Posey enthusiastically remarked: "I came 
 here to stay, and will do so if it don't rain enough to make a 
 crop in four years." The following lines were suggested and 
 respectfully dedicated to that same enthusiastic gentleman.] 
 
 Four years have passed; the broiling sun 
 
 Had tanned his visage well; 
 Four winters had their requiem sung-^ 
 Dismal as funeral knell; 
 
 Iirm as the gypsum hills, he stands 
 And praises the deserted lands. 
 
 Wot ye, what motive had this crank 
 
 To stem misfortune's tide; 
 His fleshless limbs v/ere weak and gaunt, 
 His skin, like parchment dried, 
 Hung loosely on his haggard form 
 Like loose-furled sails in ocean storm. 
 
 Idle and rusting stands the plow 
 
 Hard by the river's side; 
 Where bright waves used to ripple, now 
 To stagnant pools' have dried; 
 The granger, once the country's pride, 
 Has sought the parents of his bride. 
 
 The cattle men have pulled their freight 
 
 To streams and pp.stures green, 
 To skin their kine they did not wait, — 
 They died so dry and lean; 
 
 The hungry coyote, prowling lone, 
 Scraped dirge like note on hide and bone. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 35 
 
 Like "Goldsmith's"* village, on the hill. 
 
 The Lodge town's towering wall; 
 While starving bats, the dwellings fill, 
 The owls hoot from each hall; 
 The courthouse vultures, reft of prey, 
 Have packed their grips and stole away. 
 
 Yet every eve, when twilight pale 
 
 Had hid the burning day. 
 Like Spartan (minus shirt and mail). 
 This ghost like man would stray; — 
 And at each owlet's hoot would stop 
 And ask, "What prospect of a crop?" 
 
 One evening on the Grand Hotel 
 
 He climbed to gaze his last; 
 His pulse beat low, he knew full well 
 The die was almost cast; 
 
 Then with a dying gasp he cried: — 
 "This is a glorious land," and died. 
 
 The hungry vulture did not stop; 
 
 Alas! he knew full well 
 That body would not fill his crop, — 
 Too poor to cause a smell; 
 
 Sweetly in death he slumbered on, 
 The last man in the village lone. 
 
 Canema, Jan. 20th, '8S. 
 
 ♦Goldsmith's deserted village. 
 
36 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 WMBN IT RAINS 
 
 I can hear the frogs a-croaken 
 
 While it rains, 
 Tranquilly their hides are soaken 
 
 While it rains; 
 And the beetle and the skeetor 
 Singin' hymns to common mever, 
 Ever Bounds the chorus sweeter 
 
 While it rains. 
 
 I can see the small boy waden 
 
 While it rains, 
 Every muddy pool invaden 
 
 While it rains; 
 And the bosom of his breeches 
 To the muddy water reaches — 
 Then his ma a lesson teaches 
 
 While it rains. 
 
 Childhood's sport; O, don't destroy it 
 
 While it rains; 
 Life is fleet, let him enjoy it 
 
 Though it rains. 
 Look back o'er the past and study — 
 When your cheeks were fresh and ruddy- 
 Oft your petticoat was muddy 
 When it rained. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 37 
 
 See the growen crops a-laffin' 
 
 While it rains, 
 Copious drops of nectar quaflBn' 
 
 While it rains; 
 And the farmer smiles with pleasure; 
 In his fancy he can measure 
 Bushels of the cereal treasure 
 
 While it rains. 
 
 Hark! amid the thunder's rumblin' 
 
 While it rains, 
 Hear the chronic kicker grumblin', 
 
 While it rains. 
 Three days since his croak uncivil 
 Told of drouths' impending evil, 
 Now the mud just beats the devil 
 
 While it rains. 
 
 Solves the great financial trouble 
 
 Glorious rain. 
 Bursts full many a bogus bubble — 
 
 Glorious rain. 
 Keeps the dread hot winds from blowin', 
 Keeps the monster crops a-growin', 
 Keeps the farmer's hopes a-glowin'. 
 
 Bless- the rain. 
 
38 * Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 HOME UIGHT 
 
 rt was night and the wind whistled wild and shrill, 
 As I wearily plodded along the road; 
 
 I thought how the anxious loved ones' would peer 
 
 Out in the desolate darkness drear, 
 Out from the home where the bright fire glow'd, 
 Out in the winter night stormy and chill. 
 
 Wilder the storm grew and darker the night, 
 
 My poor steeds were covered with frost and foam; 
 The way seemed longer and longer to grow. 
 And keener the blizzard seemed to blow. 
 
 At last I knew I was nearing home, 
 
 And welcome, thrice welcome my own home light. 
 
 On through th'e gateway, up to the door, 
 Over the threshold and into the room; 
 
 The embers were glowing warm and red'. 
 The frugal meal on the board was spread; 
 No longer I dreaded the irksome gloom, 
 Safely housed from the tempest's roar. 
 
 When scenes' of mortality fade from our sigh-t, 
 When earth's weary Pilgrims are nearing the goal,. 
 Can it be as the way grows darker anon. 
 And the heart beats faint and the strength is gone, 
 That the veil will be rent, and the weary soul 
 May fondly gaze on Heaven's home light. 
 
 Winchester, Ok., 2-29-1897. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 39 
 
 THE WESTERN NORMAL GOLbEGE 
 
 Look ye! once that hill was bare, 
 Sunset rested on a prairie; 
 
 Short the space since buffalo 
 O'er the spot grazed to and fro; 
 Has Alladin's lamp and fairy- 
 Caused the change so wondrous there? 
 
 Look ye! once upon that hill 
 Stood the roving red man's tepee; 
 There at pow-wow and at dance 
 Roasted dog was served perchance; 
 Squaws and bucks, in blankets' creepy. 
 Sought repose when all was still. 
 
 Gone, the shaggy bison wild — 
 Gone poor "Lo," his business busted; 
 Far away the gray wolf's yell 
 Of the past the funeral knell; 
 Farmers, with the east disgusted. 
 Claim the place of nature's child. 
 
 Look ye! towering o'er yon slope 
 
 Stands a monument cf knowledge; 
 Thing of beauty, massive, grand, 
 Builded by skilled workman's hand — 
 
 Alva's Western Normal College, 
 
 Nucleus of our country's hope. 
 
40 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 CHRISTMAS BVB 
 
 The holidays are drawing close, and Christmas' eve is here; 
 The little ones in sweet repose dream of the morrow's cheer. 
 The tiny feet are naked, while the stockings in a row, 
 Hang up for Santa Glaus to fill with sweets from top to toe. 
 
 And though awake, I'm dreaming too of Christmas times 
 
 gone by; 
 Deem me not weak although a tear may glisten in min'e eye. 
 Backward o'er intervening years my thoughts each other chase 
 To where my tiny stockings hung beside the old fire place. 
 
 'Twas a rude constructed cabin, roofed with oaken clapboards 
 
 all, 
 And each side the spacious mantel there were pins drove in 
 
 the wall; 
 Upon these pegs' our stockings hung with faith in children 
 
 born, 
 That S-anta Claus would fill them up before the Christmas 
 
 mom. 
 
 Not many children now-a-days would like to share such food 
 As that we children lived upon and thought it mighty good; 
 But all of us had rosy cheeks instead of aches and ills-; 
 We were content with homespun clothes that were always 
 without frills. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 41 
 
 We had no stove but baked our bread (we called it Johnny 
 
 cake) 
 Spread on a board before the fire — they stood it up to bake. 
 And to us hungry little ones it always tasted s-weet; 
 My mother said 'twas good enough for king or queen to eat. 
 
 Sometimes old Santa's goods gave out — the market was re- 
 mote. 
 
 Upon the good old Mississip supplies were brought by boat; 
 
 No locomotive crossed the wild with its promiscuous load; 
 
 The four-horse stage and freighter's team crept slowly o'er 
 the road. 
 
 The wholesale merchant on the wharf, in buildings' long and 
 
 low, 
 Waited the coming of the trains housed o'er with sheet and 
 
 bow; 
 The linch-pin wagons with deep beds and hand-made wheels 
 
 of oak, 
 Drawn by gaunt, massive, long-horned steers harnessed with 
 
 bow and yoke. 
 
 I 
 The retail merchant, far away, impatiently must wait, 
 
 So must the backwoods' customer, the coming of the freight. 
 
 And everybody realized what hard-earned money meant, 
 
 And so for high-priced luxuries not much of it was spent. 
 
 And when the holidays would come and Santa Claus was short 
 My mother's hands would help him out in this his last resort; 
 The taffy from the sugar tree, the doughnuts crisp and sweet, 
 Would take the place of boughten goods to furnish us a treat. 
 
42 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 That mother's form we loved so well is mingling with the 
 
 mould. 
 My own black hair is streaked with gray for I am growing old. 
 Yet when the cycles roll around and Christmas times draw 
 
 nigh 
 A vision always comes to me of childhood's' days gone by. 
 
 Pilgrim's Den, Dec. 24, 1897. 
 
Mxisings of the Pilgrim Bard 43 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 The hands that clasped my form in infancy- 
 Are folded o'er thy cold, cold lifeless breast; 
 The voice that sung my cradle lullaby 
 And whispered tender mother's love to me, 
 Is hushed in silence of eternal rest. 
 
 Is thy voice stilled? Aye yes, to mortal ear; 
 
 Y'et, while we onward grope in dark despair, 
 It may be fancy, yet we seem to hear 
 That low sweet lullaby, to childhood dear, 
 
 Borne on the stillness of the twilight air. 
 
 Beyond our ken, beyond our chain of thought, 
 
 Beyond the confine's of Death's billowy main, 
 There is a mystery we fathom not: 
 Is Death the end, where all things are forgot, 
 Or doth the glad free spirit live again? 
 
 Oft in such gloomy reverie we start; 
 
 There's something flashes through my fevered brain- 
 A soothing balm upon my aching heart — 
 Something that whispers : Though at death we part. 
 
 There is a haven where we meet again. 
 
 Pilgrim's Valley, O. T., July 18, 1896. 
 
44 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 AN INDIAN bBGBND 
 
 A number of years ago while on one of my pilgrimages 
 I camped a few days near a band of Indian warriors. Some 
 way, I never could tell why, the chief, who had a name as 
 long as one of Grorer Cleveland's messages, took a liking to 
 me and from his signs and gutteral exclamations I learned a 
 "heap" concerning the superstitions and legends that have 
 ever clung and will continue to cling to these dusky sons of 
 nature until the last one has shuffled into the "happy hunt- 
 ing ground." Among other things he informed me that the 
 river that we now call Salt Fork (which has a different name 
 that only one white man ever tried to pronounce and got a 
 broken jaw for his pains, which name b'eing interpreted sig- 
 nifies "good enough to swim in, but not good for cook- 
 ing beans"), was once very deep and wide and on its banks 
 grew dense forests filled with game. He also informed me 
 that a long, long time ago the Maniteau (Great Spirit) got 
 mad and sent a big sand wind and filled the river with sand 
 and salted the water, rendering it unfit for drinking purposes. 
 In the following lines I have attempted a description of the 
 legendary occurrence: 
 
 A legend there is that runs this' way — 
 
 Many a long, long year ago; 
 
 This river that creeps o'er shifting sand, 
 Once flowed majestic, deep and grand; 
 
 And the light canoe skimmed to and fro 
 
 'Neath the twinkling stars and moonbeams ray. 
 
 Pebbles of many a shape and hue 
 Were kissed by the waves on either side; 
 Forests excluding the sun's noon gleam, 
 Fringed the banks of the winding stream; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 45 
 
 While pike and perch, and the sunny side, 
 Basked in the depths of the water blue. 
 
 The nut brown maid and the warrior proud, 
 With ashen paddles their shallops row; 
 
 While the timid deer, half afraid. 
 
 Like a spectre crept through the forest shade. 
 To slake his thirst when the sun was low. 
 And twilight shadows the vale enshroud. 
 
 The valleys were filled with stately game, 
 The Bison fed on the verdure green, 
 
 And the feathered songster came to sing, 
 And list to the water's murmuring; 
 'Twas nature's Heaven of rest serene. 
 Until the curse of the Maniteau came. 
 
 The great good spirit, the red man's God, 
 Had given this- place for a heritage. 
 
 And bade his children in peace to live. 
 His choicest blessing he vouched to give. 
 Yet warned them to never in strife engage. 
 Else on them would fall the avenging rod. 
 
 Should a brother fall by a brother's hand, 
 If a brother a brother's blood doth shed, 
 
 I will visit this vale with avenging wrath- 
 Grim desolation will mark its path, 
 The land shall turn to a desert bed 
 And the river be filled with shifting sand. 
 
46 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 One niglit when the full moon's silvery beam 
 Shone o'er the waters and landscape 'round, 
 Out from the corert a white canoe 
 Lightly dipping the paddles two, 
 The twang of a bow and a whizzing sound. 
 And the paddles drop on the limpid stream. 
 
 Dead in the boat lay maid and brave, 
 A jealous rival the deed had done; 
 
 The boat careens and their bodies go 
 Down to the silent depths below; 
 Living their true hearts' beat as one. 
 Sleep they as one beneath the ware. 
 
 Then fell the wrath of the Maniteau, 
 
 Smiting the tribe and the once fair land; 
 Fierce were the lightning's vivid glare — 
 The valleys were turned to desert bare. 
 
 The river was filled to the brim with sand, 
 
 Hiding the lovers for aye from view. 
 
 Winchester, O. T., Feb. 28, 1896. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bai'd 47 
 
 THB BbIND INDIAN 
 
 A SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Among the Arapahoe Indians on the reservation at Can- 
 tonement, I. T., is a blind Indian, who is said to have put out 
 his own eyes in order that he might not behold the white 
 man take the land; the last foothold of his tribe. 
 
 Here will I sit beneath this aged tree 
 For one last look o'er distant hill and plain; 
 
 The sun that shines so brightly o'er the lea; 
 
 The gay plumed birds e'er singing merrily, 
 Soon, soon these eyes must ne'er behold again. 
 
 These eyes have seen the glory and the pride 
 
 Of all the scenes the red man learned to lore; 
 Have seen our hosts in battle side by side — 
 Would that by some brave hand I then had died — 
 And journeyed to the hunting ground above. 
 
 As spring's warm sun dissolves the winter snow. 
 
 New foliage comes where autumn leaves have died; 
 Our people are dissolving sure but slow, 
 Soon will our latest campfires cease to glow, 
 While white men claim our land in pomp and pride. 
 
 These eyes have seen the hated pale-faced race 
 Like sleuth hounds follow ever on our track. 
 
48 Musings of the Pilgrim BaH 
 
 Each time our weary feet we rest apace, 
 Scarce gleamed our camp-fires in tliat resting place, 
 Until they come to crowd us further back. 
 
 And now they come to claim this desert drear. 
 Though to the pale face 'tis devoid of worth; 
 A handful, all that's left scarce gathered here 
 When, lo, the vanguard of their hosts appear, 
 To crowd us from the face of mother earth. 
 
 Accursed sight these eyes must never see; 
 
 Would I might die, yet not by my own hand; 
 In darkness now I cast my destiny. 
 And when they swoop downward on mine and me 
 
 I shall not see the pale-face take our land. 
 
 Farewell, good eyes; mine ear may hear the sound 
 
 Of the unwelcome pale intruder's tread; 
 I will not see their foot prints on the ^round, 
 Nor mark their gloating gaze on scenes around. 
 Nor see their plows of steel disturb our dead. 
 
 Groping in darkness I must wander here. 
 
 Yet, by and by, a brighter sun will shin'e; 
 After I pass that journey long and drear, 
 There will I meet with all my people dear, 
 Safe from the white intruder, me and mine. 
 
 Winchester, O. T., Oct. 10, 1897. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 49 
 
 BLUE AND GRAY 
 
 A few days' since, while in company with my friend, T. L. 
 O'Bryan, he. said to me in his bland way: "Scott, I want you 
 to write a poem on our first meeting." At the suggestion my 
 mind began to wander back through the dim vista of years 
 agone, and the following lines came to me through the muse: 
 
 Note. — During the late war the cavalry forces to which 
 I belonged were at one time engaged in battle with th'e 
 cavalry forces under Gen. N. B. Forrest. During the engag"e- 
 ment the author was escort to a flag of truce from the Federal 
 to the Confederate lines, and there, on Gen. Forrest's body 
 guard, I first saw Judge O'Bryan; after which I saw him no 
 more until eighteen years had elapsed, when I met and in- 
 stantly recognized him in Medicine Lodge, Kansas. 
 
 Long weary years have passed away. 
 Yet memory pictures, ah! how well! 
 
 The lines of Blue, the lines of Gray, 
 
 That melted like the snow away, 
 
 As wilder waxed the dreadful fray 
 And bomb-shells shrieked like fiends from hell. 
 
 Th'e dead were lying thickly 'round 
 Just as they fell upon the field; 
 
 From many a gaping, ghastly wound 
 
 Fast poured the life-blood on the ground. 
 
 At once a lull, the battle drowned, 
 
 A welcome truce, though neither yield. 
 
 Then came from out the Imes of Blue 
 A snow-white flag, I know not why; 
 
50 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Toward the lines' of Gray they drew, 
 (But for the flag their steps might rue), 
 Yet wind they on where Gray and Blue 
 Silent in death together lie. 
 
 'Mong dreadful scenes like these we met — 
 
 I wore the blue and thou the gray; 
 I marked thy flowing locks of jet, 
 Thy bearing proud, thine eye nrm set; 
 'Till death I never will forget 
 
 Ihee as I saw thee on that day. 
 
 Then passed a score of years' perchance, 
 Adown Time's gulf; the battle's smoke 
 
 Had vanished, and the olive branch 
 
 Waved o'er the nation's broad expanse; 
 
 Rusted and sheathed were sword and lance — / 
 No clash of arms the stillness broke. 
 
 Far from that land again we meet, — 
 Gone was the Gray, gone was the Blue; 
 
 Fate seemed to guide our wandering feet, 
 
 And on a western village street 
 
 With friendly hand each other greet — 
 The buried past no more we knew. 
 
 And on o'er life's uneven path 
 May friendship soothe declining years; 
 
 And when the storms of life are past, 
 
 And death's dark pall be o'er us cast, 
 
 May we prove faithful to the last 
 And meet beyond this vale of tears. 
 
 Cummingsford, Ks., March 18, 1887. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 51 
 
 RUMINATION 
 
 On the death of an aged and faithful pony. 
 
 And thou art gone, 
 Thy race is run, the fated scythe of time 
 For many a year hath mown full close to thee; 
 At last, alas, thou fallest in the swath. 
 
 Those supple limbs 
 Are motionless, thine eyes are glazed. 
 Thy proud free step is echoless for aye, 
 Silent thy hoof strokes on thy wonted range. 
 
 I sometimes think. 
 Though courting censure for my idle thought, 
 Little I reck, my thoughts are all my own, 
 In sooth may I surmise, forbode or guess. 
 
 I sometimes think, 
 If there's a future a& we're daily taught. 
 Where friends enjoy unstinted happiness, 
 Free from the cares and vanities of earth. 
 
 I sometimes think. 
 In spite of white winged theories and hobbies vague, 
 (God gave us reason, why the gift ignore?) 
 That heaven should be some better than our 'earth. 
 
52 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 I sometimes think, 
 To join the savage in his crude belief 
 Of happy hunting grounds', rivers and lakes, 
 And forests filled with game and bright plumed birds. 
 
 'TWere joy to me. 
 Beside some rippling stream on grassy sward, 
 To see the children ride that faithful bronch, 
 And hear their frolic as in days agone. 
 
 For what were Heaven 
 If nothing tangible, naught that we loved. 
 Would meet and greet our entry "over there," 
 Our comprehension fails; old friend, good bye. 
 
 Winchester, Okla., Sept. 8, 1898. 
 
Musings of tiie Pilgrim Bard 63 
 
 GONTBMIPbATIOIN 
 
 We grasp the pen, yet scarce can realize 
 
 That our dear friend hath passed from earth away; 
 
 Yet sad low whisperings murmur "He is gone," 
 
 The sweet wild warblers morning echoes wake. 
 
 Yet ne'er can wake him from his dreamless sleep; 
 
 Pitcher and bowl are broken at the fount, 
 
 A noble heart has ceased its wonted beat. 
 
 And filled with thoughts of mystery and awe 
 
 We stop us at the portals he has crossed 
 
 And contemplate death's' silent mystery. 
 
 Here is' a vortex where all vision fails — 
 
 The wisdom of the statesman turns to naught, 
 
 The seer may prophesy, the sage look wise. 
 
 Philosophers may reckon — all in vain; 
 
 Here is the end, beyond which all is dark. 
 
 A busy, jostling throng pass on and on 
 
 Through life and through the mystic vale beyond — 
 
 On, on and on, yet never one returns. 
 
 Alas! where is ambition's fondest hopes 
 
 And bright phantasmic visions of the vain? 
 
 Where is the pageantry, the gilded crowns. 
 
 The dreams of glory and the walks of ease? 
 
 Each threadlike pathway in this' mortal life 
 
 Lead they who tread them to one common goal — 
 
 Kindly the bosom of the earth receives 
 
 The prince and potentate, in gilded robes, 
 
 As well the beggar in his rags and filth, 
 
 It is the end! Alas, the final end! 
 
 Beyond: Is there one flickering ray of hop'e, 
 One straw at which we drowning mortals clutch 
 
54 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 While sinking 'neath oblivion's yawning gulf? 
 For, ah! oblivion all alike abhor; 
 Then while the light remains in reason's cell, 
 Though death's dark mystery we fathom not, 
 L'et us be patient — trusting all is well, 
 Trusting in God for immortality. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 55 
 
 THE WBSTBRN HOMESTEAD 
 
 A LEGEND FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 On the western Kansas desert, 
 Out upon the lonely prairie, 
 Near the great State's western border, 
 Near the line of Colorado, 
 Stood a lonely settler's cabin; 
 Built of sod with naught to cover, 
 Naught to roof the humble shelter 
 But the dry grass — withered "Tu-la" 
 Mingled with the slender willow. 
 With the long and slender willow, 
 Gathered from the far off river — 
 Cut and gathered from the river. 
 
 Sad the story I recount you 
 
 Of a poor, though happy settler. 
 
 Sad the sequel of my story, 
 
 Yet we cannot help agreeing 
 
 "With the true and ancient adage: — 
 
 "Think not all is gold that glitters. 
 
 Far beyond the Blue Ridge Mountain, 
 In the land of "Old Virginia," 
 He had read the oft told story 
 Of the Paradise of Kansas, 
 Where each settler is a landlord. 
 
56 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 He had read of crops* abundant, 
 Read of valleys, broad and fertile, 
 'Read of groves of mighty timber, 
 Read of streams of crystal water, 
 Read of climate mild and lovely, — 
 Climate of perpetual sunshine. 
 
 Lured by hopes of ease and riches. 
 Sacrificed his forty acres, 
 Sold his homestead for a trifl'e. 
 Left the graveyard of his people. 
 Bid adieu to loving kindred, 
 In the pleasant days of summer. 
 With his wife, his life companion, 
 With his lovely, prattling children. 
 Traveled westward, westward, westward, 
 Toward the fabled land of sunset. 
 Passed through city, town and hamlet. 
 Passed by homes of peace and plenty, 
 Onward led by blind ambition. 
 To the desert homestead region, — . 
 "Hope forlorn" of sunny Kansas. 
 There at last he chose a homestead. 
 Homestead on the desert prairie. 
 Many miles from town or village. 
 Many miles from railway station. 
 Many miles from coal or timber. 
 "Chips" they gathered from the prairie, 
 Prairie "chips" their only fuel. 
 
 Autumn passed with sunshine golden. 
 Glorious" autumn, "Indian Summer." 
 Winter came — the wind seemed tempered 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 57 
 
 That the shorn lamb be not frozen. 
 Many thankful prayers ascended 
 To the God who rules the tempest 
 For the pleasant winter weather. 
 
 But alas! the lean wolf, hunger, 
 Warned the inmates of the cabin ; 
 Howled and whined upon the threshold, 
 Threw his shadow in the doorway — 
 Nerer left the fated cabin; 
 Ne'er departed from its portals. 
 
 Wakened by the cry of hunger, 
 Fearing lest his loved ones perish. 
 Then uprose the stalwart settler. 
 Yoked and hitched his horned oxen. 
 Kissed his wife, with parting blessing, 
 Kissed his lovely, weeping chilaren, 
 Promised to make haste to bring them 
 Food from far off railway station. 
 As' the New Year sun was rising 
 Slow, he took his weary journey, 
 Filled with dark and dread foreboding, 
 For so long a separation 
 From his loving wife and children. 
 
 Through her tears the weeping mother 
 vVatched from out the open doorway — 
 Watched, till fading in the distance 
 Man and team were lost to vision. 
 
58 Musings of the Pilgrim Bar^ 
 
 "Ah! how oft" that wa4;ch repeated 
 Long before the time expected. 
 Hours, like months, seem even longer; 
 One — two — three ; four — five — six — sev-en. 
 Days and nights that seem like ages; 
 Still the weather grew no colder. 
 Hopeful still, the lonely mother 
 Once more kissed her darling children, 
 Gave them all the food remaining; 
 For herself she kept no portion, 
 Caring only for her loved ones, 
 Praying God's benign protection 
 On her husband and her children, 
 Once more sank in troubled slumber 
 Sleeps, Ah! never more to waken; 
 Ne'er again those eyes shall open 
 On this earth of care and sorrow. 
 
 Morning dawned, Ah! direful morning! 
 Wild without the storm was ragmg; 
 Fiercely blew the dreadful storm wind. 
 Faster fell the snow and faster 
 Howled the storm like fiend infernal. 
 Colder grew the air each moment. 
 None could live to face the tempest. 
 
 Never more the loving father 
 Will behold his wife and children. 
 Lifeless lies his frozen body 
 Scarce a stone's throw from the cabin, 
 Frozen where his wife and children 
 Closed those eyes no more to open, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 59 
 
 Stilled each pulse, alas! forever. 
 Never more will want or hunger, 
 Never more the "lean wolf" haunt them; 
 They hare crossed the darksome river — 
 Entered on the dread hereafter; 
 Rest in peace, my benediction. 
 Thus must end my mournful story. 
 Other plows will turn the fallow. 
 Other feet will press the threshold 
 Of the western homestead cabin. 
 
 Cummingsford, Feb. 4. 1886. 
 
60 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 MY DUGOUT MOMB 
 
 Surrounded by many a stately tree. 
 
 Where the whippoorwill sings in the twilight's gloam, 
 And the mocker warbles his notes of glee. 
 As a morning orison to me — 
 
 Here in my humble Dugout Home. 
 
 No, it don't loom up so mighty grand, 
 
 Not like the Cathedral of ancient Rome; 
 Yet not a millionaire in the land, 
 With wealth and splendor on every hand. 
 Is prouder than I of my Dugout Home. 
 
 The earth my carpet, and earth o'erhead. 
 And earth each wall of the lowly dome; 
 The howling tempest is shorn of dread- 
 Calmly I sleep on my rustic bed. 
 When the door is closed to my Dugout Home. 
 
 Wife says some day when we get the "stuff," 
 
 When the "Ship" sails in through fortune's foam; 
 
 We'll build a dwelling that ain't so rough. 
 
 But then I'll bet that a cyclone puff 
 
 Would make us scoot for our Dugout Home. 
 
 We hare sand in our craw and lots of pluck, 
 We have acres broke in the mellow loam; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 61 
 
 In spite of tlie drouth we raised some truck — 
 And to tell the truth I'm powerfully stuck 
 On county "M" and my Dugout Home. 
 
 Stranger or friend if you pass this way, 
 
 "Round too" in welcome we bid you come; 
 Shelter or food by night or day — 
 Hungry and cold ye need not stray — 
 The latch string's out at my Dugout Hbme. 
 
 I have wandered about for many a day, 
 
 From youth a "Pilgrim," my lot to roam 
 Now my stakes are set, I have come to stay — 
 When I "pass the Watches" my lifeless clay 
 Must find repose near my Dugout Home. 
 
 Pilgrim Valley, O. T., Oct. 6th, 1894. 
 
62 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 A VIDBTTB'S STORY 
 
 'Twas long ago in Dixie's land, 
 
 Our column ceased its measured tramp; 
 A weary, muddy, marching, band. 
 Dismount and pitch their evening camp. 
 The bugle's sound all troopers' know, 
 Soon cheerful fires begin to glow: 
 
 Orders were given strict and stem, 
 Strong details sent on picket post; 
 Darkness should see no camp fires burn, 
 To mark us for the southern host; 
 For sunset glowed on lines of gray. 
 Uncanny close, two miles away. 
 
 On duty first vidette, was I, 
 
 My station on a brushy knoll; 
 A sluggish river creeping by. 
 And of the ford I had control; 
 
 Mounted and watchful I must stand. 
 Such was the sergeant's stern conamand; 
 
 The "guard mount" left me at my post. 
 
 And went their way to the reserve, 
 
 (None with me save the Lord of Hosts, 
 
 Whose company I scarce deserve:) 
 
 But ere the hoof-strokes died away 
 
 I placed my bosom on the clay. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 63 
 
 Her very actions' made me feel 
 My good steed champed her hit of steel. 
 And pricked her ears and pawed the ground; 
 Like some one might be prowling round; 
 I held my carbine ready cocked. 
 While 'gainst the ground my poor heart knocked. 
 
 The striped swift oft glided by, 
 
 Causing involuntary thrill; 
 Anon the twittering night bird's cry 
 S-ent down my spine an ague chill; 
 I never felt so squeamish quite 
 As on that long remembered night. 
 
 "Hist," what was that, I could not tell, 
 
 Yet nearer came the omen strange; 
 The tinkling of a tiny bell 
 Like wethers- wear upon the range; 
 Nearer and nearer did it draw, 
 And filled my soul the more with awe. 
 
 The beads stood on my forehead cold, 
 
 Full well I guessed the purpose dread; 
 I grasped my gun with firmer hold 
 And listened to the stealthy tread; 
 A dread bushwhacker, feigning sheep. 
 Had thought to find the guard asleep. 
 
 Nearer he came, when sudden round 
 The wood and hills and winding stream, 
 
64 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Re-echoed to my carbine's' sound. 
 And doubly flashed a lurid gleam: 
 Two sheets of fire a moment flashed, 
 Two missies through the thicket crashed. 
 
 The post reserve came dashing out, 
 
 And soon the picket post surround; 
 But every effort failed to rout 
 The author of the tinkling sound; 
 Once, only once, the boys averred, 
 A feeble tinkling sound was heard. 
 
 Yet morn's examination plain 
 
 Showed trace of exit through the wood; 
 While leaf and brushwood bore the stain 
 And blotches all of human blood. 
 Doubtless in cover of the night 
 Some comrade aided in his flight. 
 
 I'd like to meet that Johnny now 
 
 And shake his hand with right good will; 
 I'd like to ask him why and how 
 His tinkling all at once grew still; 
 I'll gamble, if the truth he'll tell, 
 He don't admire a tinkling bell. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 65 
 
 THANKSGIVING THOUGHTS 
 
 Tomorrow is Thanksgiving day, 
 
 Wlien saint and sinner, too, should pray- 
 
 Devout thanksgiving; 
 To Him who ruleth over all. 
 E'en marks the tiny sparrow's fall — 
 The high, the low, the great, the small. 
 
 He keepeth living. 
 
 The well fed Priest may raise his eyes- 
 Upward toward the vaulted skies 
 
 In thanks well worded; 
 The widow in her lonely cot, 
 Her humble prayer, forget it not, 
 'Tis heard in hearen above, I wot. 
 
 And there recorded. 
 
 It needs not then a trumpet blow. 
 
 It needs not that the world should know, 
 
 God's ears are open; 
 The heart thy thankfulness may tell, 
 Though from the lips no sound has fell, 
 A still voice answers, All is well. 
 
 Though all unspoken. 
 
 Pilgrim's Valley, Thanksgiving Eve. 1896. 
 
66 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 MAGBO 
 
 Maceo is dead! O; haughty Spain 
 Your butchers have a brave man slain; 
 Ne'er boast of chivalry again, 
 
 Blush, blush, O, shame! 
 Ye durst not meet his' valiant band 
 When Maceo was in command. 
 Ye vassals from a foreign land 
 
 E'en dread his name. 
 
 Maceo is dead! His cruel fate 
 
 Adds fuel to the fires of hate. 
 
 And Freedom's fires will ne'er abate, 
 
 But stronger grow. 
 Until the brutal hordes' no more 
 Have foothold on fair Cuba's shore, 
 Or any patriot, in his gore, 
 
 In death lies low. 
 
 Maceo is dead! America — 
 O, land of boasted liberty, 
 Frail Cuba's hands are stretch'ed to thee 
 
 In this dark hour. 
 The life blood of each patriot slain 
 Adds to the "Stars and Stripes" a stain; 
 No longer let them plead in vain — 
 
 Display thy power. 
 
 Ye taught them liberty to prize— 
 "Old Glory" waves' before their eyes — 
 'Tis meet to hearken to their cries 
 
 Of dire distress. 
 Oh sit no longer tamely by 
 While torch and sword the fiends apply. 
 The orphan's wail, the widow's sigh 
 
 Demands' redress. 
 
 Winchester, O. T., Dec. 20, 1896. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 67 
 
 AN OKbAHOMA BLIZZARD 
 
 'Tis a blizzard, hear her hummin', 
 From Dakota she's a comin' — 
 An' she whizzes, an' she fizzes 
 
 Chunks of snow as hard as shot 
 'Gainst the window shutters rattle; 
 'Gainst the hides of poor old cattle; 
 An' the north wind murmurs rudely, 
 
 You will soon forget-me-not. 
 
 Sittin' by my fire demurely. 
 From the ragin' storm securely, 
 An' its screeches seldom reaches 
 
 My rude castle 'neath the ground; 
 An' the cricket's click is ringin', 
 His old summer sonnets singin' 
 An' I'd rather hear his clickin' 
 
 Than the storm's uncanny sound. 
 
 In the east the day is breakin', 
 From my troubled nap awakin', 
 An' in wonder crawl from under 
 
 Heavy covers on my bed; 
 Through my doorway comes a tok'en 
 That the blizzard's strength is broken, 
 I can hear the larks a singin' 
 
 From the trees around the shed. 
 
 Soon the mornin' sun shines brightly 
 On the heaps of snow unsightly, 
 
68 Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Where it drifted an' it sifted 
 
 As the wind swirled round an' round; 
 But ere yet the sleighbells' jingle, 
 With their merry tingle-tingle, 
 The white mantre of the blizzard 
 
 Disappears within the ground. 
 
 O thou most unwelcome blizzard, 
 Thou congealest mortal's gizzard. 
 Heart and liver quake and shiver 
 
 At your first demoniac howl; 
 Yet full oft you are a bluffin', 
 For our climate knocks your stuffin'; 
 Like an aged, worn out mastiff 
 
 You but show your teeth and growl. 
 
 Ye who would enjoy good weather, 
 Health an' sunshine twined together, 
 Wild birds singin', fountains springin' 
 
 From each shaded nook an' dell; 
 Leave your fevers an' your ague 
 That forever haunt an' plague you, 
 Oklahoma bids you welcome 
 
 In her pleasant land to dwell. 
 
 Pilgrim's Den, January 12, 1898. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 69 
 
 THE WRECKED TRAIN 
 
 Softly the midsummer breezes were sighing. 
 
 Twilight had deepened to darkness of night, 
 While plunging and surging, now lost, now emerging, 
 Sped the ill-fated train like a meteor flying. 
 Scarce could the lightning outrival its flight. 
 
 Hark to the mirth on the night stillness ringing, 
 Care was forgotten, each face beamed with joy; 
 Unconscious, unfearing, each moment yet nearing, 
 Every round of the wheels to destruction was bringing 
 Where waits the dark "angel of death" to destroy. 
 
 "Oh Heaven!" if one soul like a seer had been gifted, 
 
 With one word of warning to stay death's' dread wand; 
 "Alas, man proposes; 'tis God that disposes," 
 Not e'en for a moment the veil may be lifted. 
 Mortal eye cannot look on the shrouded beyond. 
 
 On sped the soul laden train past the station. 
 
 Rushing like demon through darkness and gloom. 
 All sudden as flashing of lightning, a crashing. 
 Pen can ne'er picture the dire situation. 
 Downward plunged all to a horrible doom. 
 
 The wails of the wounded, the groans of the dying, 
 
 Are borne from the wreck on the calm midnight air; 
 The living are seeking their loved ones and shrieking 
 
70 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Like maniacs, loudly for help they are crying, 
 "While over all hovers the wings' of despair. 
 
 Y'et e'en in the midst of the ghastly arena 
 
 Prowled villians, unheeding the sickening sight, 
 With hands red and gory like ghouls in their glory, 
 "Where" shame is thy blush for the human hyena 
 Who plundered the dead and the dying that night. 
 
 Morning dawns, direful scene does the twilight uncover; 
 
 Six score and five cold and silent in death. 
 While hundreds are dying, torn, bleeding and dying; 
 Th'e youthful and aged, wife, husband and mother, 
 
 Their life's blood is staining the grass on the h'eath. 
 
 True death claims mortality sooner or later. 
 
 At home or abroad, on the sea, on the land, 
 Ever trembles the keep'er at the voice of the reaper, 
 But the call of a moment to face the Creator 
 Causes all the dread horrors of death to expand. 
 
 Sing bird of the prairie in sad lamentation, 
 
 And wail gentle breezes as never before; 
 Let rain cloudlets borrow the teardrops of sorrow 
 And weep with each grief-stricken lonely relation, 
 For the loved and the lost who return never more. 
 
 Canema, Kan., Aug. 22, 1887. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 71 
 
 BBAUTirUb LAND 
 
 TRIBUTE TO WOODS COUNTY, OKLAHOMA. 
 ANNIVERSARY POEM. 
 
 The bards of former times were wont to sing 
 The praises' of some mighty lord or king, 
 
 Tickling the royal ear with rhyme and lay. 
 Rather would I Bing of my native laud, 
 Her beauteous hills and valleys broad and grand; 
 God grant that America forever stand, 
 
 Though empires fade away. 
 
 Beautiful spot In the "Beautiful Land," 
 
 Once the red man's pride and his home; 
 Prairie and valley and landscape grand, 
 Nature has dealt with a lavish hand. 
 Land where the bison loved to roam. 
 
 Two short years since the great "Day God," 
 
 On one vast wilderness rose and set. 
 Not a furrow marred the virgin sod, 
 While unclaimed lay the acres broad, 
 And Btern fate whispered white man not yet. 
 
 The mellow rays of the "lady of night" 
 
 Shimmered afar o'er vale and hill; 
 Like a fairy dream, 'twas a lovely sight 
 The grey wolf's howl proclaimed his right, 
 And matins s'weet sang the whippoorwill. 
 
72 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 The rich perfume of the prairie flower 
 Scented the balmy morning air; 
 
 Orisons of the twilight hour, 
 
 The mocker sang from the leafy bower, 
 Unfettered all by the hand of care. 
 
 September sixteenth, at noon the hour, 
 
 The wilderness must fade away. 
 Chaos must yield to progression's power, 
 Sing sweet wild bird from your leafy bower, 
 
 The homesteader cometh, he cometh to stay. 
 
 A signal gun and a maddening race, 
 Away, away, o'er the grassy plain; 
 Away, away, at a break-neck pace, 
 A smile flits* o'er each dust grimmed face 
 As they strive the destined goal to gain. 
 
 At noon the long line melted away, 
 
 And soon were lost in the beautiful land; 
 When darkness followed the twilight gray 
 Triumphant settlers held the sway, 
 And bright lights twinkled on every hand. 
 
 Two short years and our eyes behold 
 Cities with spire and stately dome. 
 While acres laden with grain unfold 
 A ready 'exchange for silver and gold, 
 Beautiful land is home, sweet hom*e. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 73 
 
 CHRISTMAS 
 
 Come, faithful muse, and let me hear 
 The weird notes of harp strings near. 
 
 Weave me a lay 
 To please my friends, who deign to read, 
 (Of every party, sect or creed) ; 
 Let their approval be my meed. 
 
 On Christmas day. 
 
 Yes, Christmas day is drawing nigh, 
 
 Each little girl and boy 
 Anticipates its coming 
 
 With an overflowing joy. 
 There is not in the almanac 
 
 (The record of the year) 
 Another day that promises 
 
 So much to children dear; 
 Another day that promises 
 
 So much the heart to cheer. 
 
 Yet among the poor and lowly 
 
 Not BO many hearts are glad 
 And many an anxious' mother weeps. 
 
 For Christmas makes her sad; 
 And as her lullaby she sings 
 
 Some little one will say, 
 "Mamma, will Santa Claus be here 
 
 The night 'fore Christmas day?" 
 No wonder that the mother turns 
 To brush a tear away. 
 
74 Musings of the Pilgnm Bard 
 
 May the Father, in Heaven above, 
 
 Who notes the sparrow's fall. 
 Enkindle fires of charity 
 
 Within the hearts of all; 
 And may each homeless wanderer 
 
 Or waif who roams the street. 
 Be bidden to some happy home 
 
 To share a Christmas treat. 
 O, then would Merry Christmas day 
 
 With pleasure be replete. 
 
 The wealthy are provided for, 
 
 In basket and in store; 
 I have naught but weal to wish them, 
 
 Yet, I earnestly implore 
 That they cast their eyes about them. 
 
 As their children shout in glee; 
 Perhaps some hapless little one 
 
 Is gazing longingly. 
 Then say ye as your Savior said, 
 
 "Come, little one, to me." 
 
 Ye men who spend your nightly hours 
 
 In some up-town bar-room, 
 Where glasses clink and jokes go round. 
 
 And noses are in bloom; 
 Now tell the truth and shame the de'il, 
 
 Has your good wife a cent 
 To spend for children's holidays? 
 
 Where has your money went? 
 Go, "dig up" quick the needed change. 
 
 'Twill be discreetly spent. 
 
Musings of the Pilgt'tm Bard 75 
 
 Ho: slaves of drink, hold up your heads, 
 
 Brace up your manly pride; 
 The roughest stone, if turned about, 
 
 Hath still an even side. 
 Though habit may weak mortals drag 
 
 E'en nigh to ruin's brink, 
 'Remorse will cause the most depraved 
 
 To shudder, stop and think; 
 And oft they promise silently, 
 To stay the curse of drink. 
 
 No sermon, this uncouth advice, 
 
 Nor temperance harangue; 
 Oft when I touch a wonted chord 
 
 A kindred chord wul twang. 
 Not meet that I should arm my pen 
 
 Another's sins to score, 
 While oft-regretted evils lie 
 
 Unhidden at my door; 
 "All flesh is grass," and all have faults. 
 
 And will have evermore. 
 
 Now when good Santa Glaus comes 'round 
 
 For Christmas to prepare. 
 Just drop a few dimes in his hat; 
 
 Curtail your liquid fare. 
 Let little ones be happy 
 
 While the Christmas tapers burn. 
 The children all provided for — 
 
 Doth vanish my concern; 
 Then Merry Christmas to you all. 
 
 With many a glad return. 
 
76 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 The children all are dear to me. 
 
 For them my fondest care; 
 May Heaven forefend them in their youth. 
 
 From every hidden snare; 
 May disappointment come to none, 
 
 And each young heart be gay, 
 They e'en must be the Nation's hope 
 
 When we have passed away. 
 Tnen Merry Christmas, children dear. 
 
 On merry Christmas day. 
 
 Pilgrim's D'en, near Winchester, Okla., December, 1898. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 77 
 
 ON THE DBATH OF A FRIEND 
 
 It is one of the darkest shadows that fall across our thres- 
 hold to know that a dear friend has passed from earth. The 
 grass withers, the flowers fade and the leaves fall from the 
 trees', yet in the glorious springtime they come again. But 
 when a friend passes away; wh"en "the pitcher is broken at 
 the fountain," and "the wheel at the cistern," and the "dust 
 returns to dust as it was," we know that we can meet them 
 no more on earth. True hearted, kind friend, farewell! 
 
 O, bird! on Barber's lovely plains, 
 
 Atune thy notes to sorrow's lay, 
 For ne'er was cause more meet to weep 
 For one who sleeps death's dreamless sleep — 
 
 Whose cold and silent house of clay 
 
 No more the immortal soul contains. 
 
 O, mourner! bow thy head in grief; 
 
 That true heart is forever still. 
 No signs of terror on that face — 
 Calmly resigned in death's embrace. 
 
 Shaft broken by the Master's will; 
 
 Death's reaper claimed untimely sheaf. 
 
 Bright hopes must yield to funeral pall; 
 
 Death's shadows darken every door; 
 Beggar and Prince of rank and ctate 
 Must yield them to the hand of fate. 
 
 Friend after friend has gone before. 
 
 And one by one will death claim all. 
 
 Cummingsford, April 24, 1886. 
 
78 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 RBTROSPBCTIVB SOLILOQUY 
 
 It's been a good while since I was a boy, 
 
 And I've knocked 'round the wide world a heap; 
 The shadows of sorrow and sunshine of joy 
 In the archives of memoiy sleep; 
 But Where's the use o' kickin' 'cause I'm gettin' up in years, 
 Just as easy to be cheerful as to drown yourself in tears. 
 
 True, some people murmur as old age creeps on. 
 
 And look back on youth with a wail; 
 And wish to live over the days that are gone, 
 With a visage as long as a rail; 
 A person never ought to show the thought he really feels, 
 Keep place in life's procession though there's bunions on your 
 heels. 
 
 The infant is subject to colic and ills. 
 
 The stripling the same bill of fare ; 
 The mumps- and the measles, the fever and chills, 
 With ghost and hobgoblin to scare; 
 And the kid that goes a swimmin' or smokes the cigaroot 
 On the bosom of his breeches finds the imprint of a boot. 
 
 I am proud to have lived to fulfill manhood's prime. 
 
 How childish for bygones to weep; 
 And it troubles m'e little to know that in time, 
 'Neath the earth clods this body must sleep. 
 Maybe some one will mourn but it 'aint any use, 
 Man is born and must die without any excuse. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 79 
 
 The spirit that's hidden within this frail clod. 
 
 Will never grow old, never die; 
 When free will return to the presence of God, 
 While the dust with its' kindred must lie. 
 Often in imagination I can see the other side, 
 Wliere the lored and lost are waiting, just beyond the dark 
 divide. 
 
 Pilgrim's Valley, O. T., May 12, 1895. 
 
80 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 BAT 'BM JACK 
 
 We received about a bushel of monstrous roasting ears 
 this week from our friend Scott Cummins and found pinned 
 to one of the largest ears the following communication: 
 
 Friend Jack; — Enclosed find one feed of roasting ears. 
 
 Eat 'em Jack — 
 
 I have seen the Buffalo 
 Tramping where this corn did grow, 
 Seen the Red man pitch his shack 
 In my cornfield, eat 'em Jack. 
 
 Eat 'em Jack — 
 
 Mastadonic roasting ears, 
 
 Raised mid anxious hopes and fears, 
 
 For I ween my bivouac 
 
 Lies within the hot wind's track. 
 
 But I beat 'em, eat 'em Jack. 
 
 Eat 'em Jack — 
 
 You will smile, while I ashamed 
 Weep, the desert is reclaimed; 
 Dear to you the roses red, 
 Dear to me the cactus bed; 
 Bounteous crops that please your eye. 
 Wring from me a passing sigh. 
 By gone days will ne'er come back, 
 So here's at 'em, eat 'em Jack. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 81 
 
 A LBGBND 
 
 The Origin and Correct Interpretation of 
 the Word ''Oklahoma" 
 
 Long, weary years have passed and gone forever. 
 Full oft' the summer flowers have bloomed and died; 
 
 The stately trees that fringe each winding river. 
 Their yellow leaves drop on the silent tide. 
 
 The red man roamed in all his savage glory, 
 
 O'er prairie waste and through each canyon wild; 
 
 Departed all, while history and story, 
 Alone remind us of nature's child. 
 
 A chieftain in his wigwam sat 
 
 Upon a robe that served as mat, 
 
 So lost in reverie and thought — 
 
 He recked not that his squaw had brought 
 
 His supper of the bison's hump; 
 
 Upright at once the chief did jump 
 
 Awakened by the savory smell; 
 
 Naught pleased "Big Injun" half so well 
 
 As well browned hunk of juicy meat; 
 
 His cup was full, his joy complete. 
 
 Long ate the chief, long ate the squaw; 
 At length they rest each weary jaw; 
 With hand the chief his mouth did wipe, 
 
82 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 From wampum pouch he drew his pipe, 
 And filled it with a kil-li-kin-nick, 
 And smoked to keep from being sick: 
 Then in his dialect he spoke 
 The outlines of a cunning joke, 
 Giving his pipe an extra pull 
 "Good land, big Injun, belly full." 
 
 'Twas ever said of womankind, 
 The gentle sex is more refined; 
 Man speaks the plain, unvarnished truth, 
 And woman smooths the words' uncouth. 
 The squaw had sat in mute surprise. 
 Turned on her lord her weasel eyes; 
 Then answered thus in keen retort. 
 Your words, your meaning well import. 
 Yet to the pale face would sound tough. 
 We may find language far less rough. 
 
 Years hence, when all the game has fled, 
 
 And our brave tribe is gone or dead, 
 
 The pale face comes with plows of steel. 
 
 And horses shod with iron hue, 
 
 Weak squaws and white papooses too. 
 
 And tame bird cock-a-doodle-do. 
 
 The smoke will taint the morning breeze 
 
 From wigwam taller than the trees. 
 
 Alas, alas', all this must be. 
 
 In spite of you, in spite of me. 
 
 Yet when all this has come to pass. 
 And we are sleeping neath the grass, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 83 
 
 If we this pleasant land should name. 
 The pale face may not change the same; 
 And thus remain, though faint the trace 
 Of tribe, of lineage and of race; 
 Then as with inspiration filled, 
 And look that coyote might have killed, 
 She smote her corset with her hand, 
 And spoke the name, "Belly-full-land." 
 Some Alec smart the words translate 
 And thus their meaning mutilate. 
 
 The past is past yet all the same 
 
 The good squaw gave the rightful name, 
 
 For when the crops are gathered in 
 
 And stored away in groaning bin, 
 
 And wheat is rank and looking fine. 
 
 And pastures filled with lowing kine; 
 
 And every Oklahoma man 
 
 Has ham fat frying in the pan, 
 
 And sorghum, best you ever ate, 
 
 And Kaffir pancakes on the plate, 
 
 And sweet potatoes on a side. 
 
 With pumpkin pie th'e granger's pride, 
 
 Sires there a base, ungrateful scrub. 
 
 With stomach filled with wholesome grub, 
 
 Who will not say as- did the squaw, 
 
 "Belly-full-land," hurrah! Hurrah! 
 
 Pilgrim's Valley, O. T., Sept. 16, 1895. 
 
84 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 THANKSGIVING BVB 
 
 The night is chill, 
 A deep cloud mantle hides the moon's pale face; 
 
 The cricket's trill 
 
 Adds to the lonesomeness a gruesome frill, 
 Perchance attuning for tomorrow's grace. 
 
 The fire burns' low 
 And snores like broken notes from sleeping dame; 
 
 With flickering glow 
 
 The lamp of brilliancy makes feeble show, 
 While lurking shadows boldly welcome claim. 
 
 Thrice welcome, shades. 
 Oft loneliness inspires weak mortals br&ln, 
 
 As- twilight fades 
 
 The brightest muses troop from hidden glades 
 And wake the lyre in fancy's sweetest strain. 
 
 Tomorrow's morn, 
 (Murky or fair) will be Thanksgiving Day; 
 
 Though yet unborn. 
 
 Rich feasts full many a princely board adorn 
 And careful prayers are framed for priests to pray. 
 
 The great church bells 
 Will wrangle with the brusk November air 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 85 
 
 With clanging swell 
 
 What varying scenes each vibrate note foretells. 
 How varying the cause and modes of prayer. 
 
 Not mine the care — ■ 
 Not mine to shape the prayers that others pray — 
 
 God grant our prayer 
 
 May naught he lost upon the passing air; 
 Let all give thanks upon Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 O. God, to Thee, 
 Our nation renders thanks, yea thanks again; 
 
 Our banners free 
 
 Supplant the loathsome rag of tyranny 
 And freedom triumphs over bloody Spain. 
 
 O. patriots true, 
 Let one thanksgiving prayer from all arise; 
 
 To God is due 
 
 The triumph of the red, the white, the blue. 
 While time remains its glory never dies. 
 
 Pilgrim's' Den, Nov. 23rd, 1898. 
 
86 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Truly, "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 God called thee, ripe with years, thy task well done; 
 Rest, care-worn mother, while thy loved ones weep. 
 
 Thy faith sustained thee through the valley lone. 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Thou wert prepared, death gained no victory; 
 
 Gently, so gently, came the snowy sail 
 And phantom bark from vast eternity. 
 Serenely thou didst meet the boatman pale; 
 "He giveth His' beloved sleep." 
 
 t 
 
 As disappears the silent phantom barque 
 Mid sad farewells from loving lips that fell, 
 
 A sweet voice comes from o'er the waters dark 
 And whispers to the mourner, "All is well." 
 "He giveth Hiy beloved sleep." 
 
 Farewell, no more thy sainted form we see; 
 
 We know, to us, thou wilt return no more; 
 Yet blessed promise, we may go to thee, 
 
 And clasp glad hands upon that radiant shore. 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 87 
 
 TRIBUTB 
 
 'Rest weary one, 
 Thy pulseless hands are calmly folded now, 
 
 Thine earthly journey done; 
 Smooth back those locks of gray upon her brow. 
 Sleep on fond mother, wrapped in slumber deep, 
 From which no mortal ever wakes to weep. 
 
 It seemeth mete — 
 The leaves' are full and lovely wild flowers bloom; 
 
 Their fragrance rich and sweet 
 In twilight hour the summer airs perfume; 
 While busy hands the harvests garner home 
 Death gathered thee unto the silent tomb. 
 
 Yet while we weep 
 Around the clay that didst thy soul encase. 
 
 Thy spirit pinions sweep 
 Unseen, and yet so near the mourner's face 
 To well nigh brush away the bitter tear 
 That falls for thee, our idol mother dear. 
 
 May we not gaze 
 Beyond the vale, where angel spirits' roam, 
 
 And through the sombre haze 
 Behold thy haven, sweet, eternal home? 
 Ah, no! In darkness we must onward grope. 
 While glimmering rays, translucent, lend us hope. 
 
88 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 STAY BY YOUR JOH 
 
 [Dedicated to the "Stayers" of the Cherokee Strip.] 
 
 Come all good people, gather 'round and listen to my song; 
 
 The only recommend it has, it isn't very long. 
 
 I sometimes get upon my ear and cuss the country too, 
 
 Until the atmosphere around seems red, and black and blue, 
 
 And when I'm exhausted quite with acting up the "jay," 
 
 There's something whispers in my ear; 'tis this it seems to 
 
 say — 
 Stay by your job, Pilgrim, never quit your claim. 
 The road is mighty rocky, but you'll get there just the same. 
 
 And when I see a fellow who has bet his bottom cent 
 On an honest game of "poker" with the general government. 
 And put his fourteen dollars up, an "ante" on the land. 
 And then begin to crawfish for the simple lack of sand; 
 Then I want Oid Gabriel's trumpet for to whisper in his ear. 
 For nothing short of thunder tones will make such fellows 
 
 hear, 
 Stay by your job, fellow, never quit your claim, 
 The road is mighty rocky, but you'll get there just the same. 
 
 I know some people who came west without a single red; 
 
 Who knew not in the evening whence would come their morn- 
 ing's bread; 
 
 They hustled early, hustled late, their entry fees are paid; 
 
 They heeded not the winter's storm, nor sought the summer's 
 shade ; 
 
 They drove the wolf of hunger from the humble door away. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 89 
 
 And if you want to hear true grit, just hark to what they say — 
 
 Stay by your job, people, never quit the claim, 
 
 The road is mighty rocky, but you'll get there just the same. 
 
 I know some people who came west with lots of shining "tin," 
 Who never did a lick of work, and blowed the money in; 
 There is a maxim very old, none truer can I teach, 
 "Whoe'er takes out and ne'er puts in, will soon the bottom 
 
 reach." 
 Back to their good wife's people they have pulled their freight 
 
 away; 
 The breezes of the morning echo back their doleful lay — 
 Back to our wife's people, quit the horrid claim, 
 The road is long and dreary, but we'll get there just the same. 
 
 And now good people I will close, I promised to be brief. 
 Just heed my admonition, and you'll never come to grief; 
 Don't ever mortgage anything, and never go in debt; 
 Prosperity will surely come and make you well off yet; 
 The times are hard, the taxes high, the devil is too pay. 
 Just give your anchor firmer hold, and mark my final say — 
 Stay by your job, people, never quit the claim. 
 The road is mighty rocky, but you'll get there just the same. 
 
 Winchester O. T., Jan. 9, 1896. 
 
90 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 VISITIIN' 
 
 If a feller has a longin' fer to know just how he stood 
 In former years, just let him go back to their neighborhood 
 Where he rustled and he tussled, scanty livelihood to gain. 
 If he left the right impression, bet your life 'twill still remain. 
 He may not have much riches an' he may not have much style. 
 But everyone will greet him with a hand-shake an' a smile. 
 
 The other day I wandered back — back to my former beat — 
 
 Most everybody knew me that I met upon the street; 
 
 They didn't get the brass band out, nor roses did they strew. 
 
 But everybody met me with an old-time "how-de-do!" 
 
 I hain't got any riches, an' I can't put on no style. 
 
 Yet everybody met me with a hand-shake and a smile. 
 
 I met with Shi, an' Uncle Ed, an' Lute an' other boys; 
 We talked of old-time hardships an' anoii of old-time joys. 
 They made me make myself at home, an' gave me of their 
 
 che'er. 
 An' I wouldn't hav had my visit out if I had stayed a year. 
 After I said good-bye an' left I cried just like a chile 
 To think of the old-time friends that met me with a smile. 
 
 I am proud of reputation — justly proud of every friend — 
 And hope and trust our friendship may continue to the end, 
 And may each weather-beaten barque land safe on "Aiden's" 
 
 shore. 
 Where the range is not o'er-crowded and the hot-winds blow 
 
 no more; 
 I most believe the angel band would quit their harps awhile 
 To greet the good old-timers with a hand-shake and a smile. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 91 
 
 A RBMINISGBNT GMAPTBR 
 
 In the present bounds of Woodward county about twelve 
 miles northeast of Camp Supply, is a place known as Bent 
 Canon. At this place at the time I write of and for several 
 years previous, was located one of the OE (OE) cattle camps. 
 The camp was in charge of Hiram Dyer, commonly called Hi 
 Dyer, an elder brother of T. J. Dyer of this (Woods) county. 
 Mr. Dyer's family lived with him at the camp and consisted of 
 a wife and one child, a bright little boy between two and 
 three years old. The little fellow was a great pet among the 
 cowboys of the camp and also of camps on adjoining ranges. 
 He was of a rambling nature and had been found several 
 miles from camp at various times. He had a small terrier 
 dog to which he was much attached. The dog always accom- 
 panied him on his rambles. Many times the almost distracted 
 mother, after searching in vain for her baby boy, would behold 
 him in the arms of a cowboy who had found him miles from 
 camp always accompanied by his dumb companion, the dog. 
 
 One day in the fore part of November, 1888, the little boy 
 and the dog were missing. All day long the alarmed and anx- 
 ious mother sought her baby boy, but in vain, and as one after 
 one the cowboys returned to camp, and none of them had seen 
 him, everyone turned out and all night long the lonely canons 
 echoed to the bronchos' tread. Morning came, but no tidings 
 of the lost child. Horsemen were sent to the neighboring 
 camps, also to Fort Supply. Nearly all the troupers as well 
 as the Indian scouts joined in the search. It seemed as if the 
 earth must have opened and swallowed Ilim up. But on the 
 fourth day as a boy, whose name we cannot now recall, was 
 passing through a piece of tall grass at the head of a canon, he 
 was' attracted by the feeble bark of a dog and on nearing the 
 place found the little boy lying on his face. Supposing the 
 
92 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 child was dead lie ran upon the bank and motioned to Oliver 
 Thompson, who was in sight As Oliver tenderly lifted the poor 
 child in his arms' he discovered that he was yet alive. Mount- 
 ing in haste he turned his broncho in a gallop toward the 
 camp, but long before he reached it the soul of the little suf- 
 ferer had gone to Him who gave it, and with a sorrowing 
 heart and tearful eye he laid the lifeless lump of clay in a 
 distracted mother's arms. Not one who participated in the 
 search expected to find the child alive, as during the five nights 
 and four days that he was wandering there was a dreadful 
 storm of rain, snow and sleet, and moreover the canons were 
 infested with wild animals, such as bears, wolves, catamounts 
 and mountain lions. For several years after the occurrence it 
 was- feared that Mrs. Dyer would lose her reason. Mr. Dyer 
 removed to Chautauqua county, Kansas, where he still resides. 
 The following lines were written by me on the death of 
 the little boy and first printed in the Medicine Lodge Cresset 
 in November, 1888. 
 
 THB l>OST OnibD or THB CIMARRON 
 
 The lonely Cimarron is sweeping 
 Above its bed of shifting Bands, 
 
 Unmindful of the mother weeping, 
 And in despair she wrings her hands. 
 
 Lost! lost! she cries, in fear and sorrow, 
 As fades the twilight's lingering ray. 
 
 My darling boy, before tomorrow, 
 May be the savage grey wolf's prey. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 93 
 
 Now homeward come the cowboys singing, 
 She hears the weary broncho's tramp; 
 
 Her heart beats fast, they may be bringing 
 The little wanderer back to camp. 
 
 She met them with a face appalling, 
 And fades her hopes in dark despair. 
 
 And faster still her tears are falling — 
 The little wanderer was not there. 
 
 Oh, cowboys! search the rugged canon, 
 Each thicket dense, and dark ravine; 
 
 The little dog, his dumb companion. 
 Was with him when he last was seen! 
 
 Then rise the cowboys at her warning 
 And scour each glen and canon wild; 
 
 Hour after hour, till dawns the morning. 
 And still no tidings of her child. 
 
 From camp to camp the news went flashing, 
 And to the Fort, twelve miles liway; 
 
 Soon horsemen were by hundreds' dashing, 
 Spread through the wilds in loose array. 
 
 It snows — the wailing winds are sweeping- 
 Oh God! protect that helpless form; 
 
 Despair was o'er each visage creeping — 
 The child must perish in the storm. 
 
94 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 The cedar boughs- with sleet are bended 
 In weird, fantastic shapes o'erhead; 
 
 The earth and sky in gloom seem blended. 
 Yet still is heard the broncho's tread. 
 
 The dusky scouts, like sleuth hounds, horer 
 Through thicket dark and lone retreat, 
 
 And yet their eagle eyes discover 
 No foot-prints' of those tiny feet. 
 
 Four dreadful days the men have ridden, 
 Five sleepless nights creep slowly by; 
 
 From many an eye fall tears unbidden. 
 All know the wandering child must die. 
 
 At last when hope seemed faint and dying 
 They found him on a prairie, lone;. 
 
 The faithful dog was by him lying — 
 Hunger and cold their work had done. 
 
 Death's icy hand was fast congealing 
 His breath, and soon his veins must clog. 
 
 Yet while the damps were o'er him stealing 
 He ♦pointed to his faithful dog. 
 
 Sleep, little one, life's journey ended. 
 All strove in vain thy life to save; 
 
 E'en strangers weep — their tears are blended 
 With those who mourn above thy grave. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 95 
 
 Life's path is dark with gloom and sorrow. 
 Each mile-stone is a broken heart, 
 
 Yet hope we for a bright tomorrow 
 Where loved ones meet no more to part 
 
 Canema, Kan., Nov. 21, 1888. 
 
96 Musings of the Pilgnm Bard 
 
 DBGORATION DAY 
 
 bweet the mocking bird is singing 
 From his leafy canopy; 
 
 All the woods with music ringing 
 Speaketh unto you and me; 
 
 Wild flowers blooming on the heather. 
 Flowers from garden and from heath. 
 
 Let the fair hands gently gather, 
 Twine them in a floral wreath. 
 Strew the honored grave 
 Of each hero brave; 
 
 Flowers for the Blue, flowers for the Gray, 
 
 America's phalanx united today; 
 
 Let the past be a dream that hath vanished away 
 While "Old Glory" floats free- 
 Over land and o'er sea, 
 
 Star spangled forever shall wave. 
 
 Safe within the cold earth's keeping 
 
 Lie our Nation's honored dead: 
 Naught disturbs' their peaceful sleeping, 
 
 Heed they not our silent tread; 
 Strew in fond memorial token, 
 
 0''er each hero's resting place. 
 Blue and Gray, in love unbroken. 
 
 Brothers of a noble race. 
 
 Strew the honored grave — 
 Of each hero brave. 
 Flowers for the Blue, flowers for the Gray, 
 America's phalanx united today; 
 Let the past be a dream that hath vanished away, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 97 
 
 While Old Glory floats free- 
 Over land and o'er sea, 
 
 Star spangled forever shall wave. 
 
 Softly comrades', sisters, brothers, 
 
 T have more anon to Bay; 
 Weave bright garlands, there are others 
 
 Claiming reverence today; 
 Ghoulish cowards caused their slaughter, 
 
 Cowards of ignoble Spain; 
 Strew fair flowers upon the water 
 
 For the martyrs of the Maine. 
 An ocean grave — 
 Hath each hero brave, 
 Down in the deep in the wreck of the Maine; 
 Not in the battle by enemies slain. 
 Murdered by treacherous vandals of Spain. 
 
 Then sweet flowers strew 
 
 For the murdered crew 
 
 Of the Maine neath the sad sea wave. 
 
 Neath the murky waters sleeping. 
 
 Heroes of the ship's brave crew. 
 While their murderers are reaping 
 
 Venging wrath dishonors due. 
 Mother, sister, wife or daughter, 
 
 Weap not, tears are all in vain. 
 Strew sweet flowers upon the water 
 
 In remembrance of the Maine. 
 An ocean grave — 
 Hath each hero brave, 
 Down in the deep in th'e wreck of the Maine; 
 
/ 
 
 98 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Not in the battle by enemies slain. 
 Murdered by treacherous vandals of Spain. 
 
 Then sweet flowers strew— 
 
 For the murdered crew 
 
 Of the Maine neath the sad sea wave. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 99 
 
 MIUB STOINBS THBRB BB 
 
 Mile stones there he on life's uneven way 
 
 To guide our footsteps as we onward trend. 
 The cheery smile and God-speed of a friend 
 Dispels despondency, as gladsome sunlit ray 
 Flickers through storm clouds of an April day. 
 
 LofC. 
 
100 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 A COI>l>OQUY WITH THB ObD YEAR 
 
 INCANTATION. 
 
 O feeble harp, held by the trembling muse. 
 The mildew on thy strings from long disuse; 
 
 Let my poor hand sweep o'er thy quivering strings, 
 O waken from thy leaden lethargy — 
 And weave once more a simple lay for me, 
 
 As past me sweep the Old Year's parting wings. 
 
 Hold! Ere thou pass beyond the dread confine, 
 Old Year, I bid thee stand and tell thy tale; 
 
 The clock has clicked upon the stroke of nine. 
 Thy limbs are feeble and thy face is pale — 
 E'en now the night wind chants thy funeral wail. 
 
 Presumptions man, how darest thou bid me tarry, 
 
 Or strive to stay my egress for a moment? 
 
 I know my doom is sealed, mine end is certain, 
 
 Yet must I hasten to fulfill my mission; 
 
 Ne'er prouder was the step of gladiator 
 
 Than mine that strides toward the fated final. 
 
 No other year, of m'e the predecessor, 
 
 No other year in history recorded, 
 
 Not one has erst outshone my brilliant record. 
 
 I am the year that long will be remembered 
 
 By millions yet to come as sands outnumbered. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 101 
 
 A mighty host, an unborn generation, 
 
 Will point with pride to Ninety-three's achievements. 
 
 I need not name my deeds in separate order. 
 No school-boy in the land but may recount them; 
 And as the years pass on in stoic order, 
 More brilliantly will glow my great achievements; 
 When Gabriel blows his mighty final trumpet 
 And the "Arc Angel" opes the judgment docket 
 Of past and future I shall gleam the brightest 
 
 You smile perchance at this my bold presumption; 
 
 I reck not though you mock in fell derision. 
 
 Ah! well I know the limit of frail friendship! 
 
 When I was young and filled with manly vigor. 
 
 My cheeks were rosy and my footsteps agile. 
 
 You boasted of my mighty deeds of prowess. 
 
 Yet now when ripe with age, though filled with honors, 
 
 You scarce have time to hear my final story 
 
 In your mad haste to scrape a youth's acquaintance 
 
 With the New Year, as yet a brawling infant 
 
 In swaddling clothes awaiting to supplant me. 
 
 'Tis ever thus, with poor, weak, groveling mortal, 
 
 E'*er ready to bow down to wealth and splendor. 
 
 And worship at the gilded throne of fortune; 
 
 Yet when Fate's wheel drops through the brittle crusting 
 
 That covers up grim ruin's seething vortex 
 
 Your fawning friends, alas! will then desert you 
 
 As rats do hurry from a burning building. 
 
 Hark, while ye boast! Was that not hunger's cry? 
 Voices of helpless children ask for bread, 
 
102 Musings of the Pilgrim, Bard 
 
 A weeping mother sings her Idllaby, 
 
 Starvation's pangs soon snaps the brittle thread, 
 Despair's dark raven flaunts her wings o'erhead. 
 
 A Nation's vampire saps the blood of toil, 
 While willing, idle hands appeal for aid; 
 
 Nor yet content, the spoiler grasps for spoil, 
 As gloats a fiend o'er desolation made, 
 No bright ray gleams from out the stygian shade. 
 
 Good-bye, Old Year, we let thy memory down 
 And hide it deep 'neath charity's broad fold; 
 
 Yet all thy boasted honor and renown 
 Will ne'er relieve the hungry nor the cold 
 While tyranny retains its fatal hold. 
 
 December 31st, 1893, midnight. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 103 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY 
 
 The following story is literally true. The lassie and lad- 
 die were the grandparents of the author on his mother's side. 
 
 I will tell you of a Christmas time, 'twas many a year ago; 
 Within the fire was blazing bright, without was lots of snow — 
 Snow knee deep on the level, and drifted to a heap — 
 All the hollers filled flat over, often ten or more feet deep. 
 
 We had gathered for a party an' to have a taffy pull — 
 All the nighest neighbor children, an' the cabin was chuck full. 
 You may talk about society, an' puttin' on of airs, 
 But the cabin in the "back woods" is the place to drown your 
 cares. 
 
 Granny had laid by her knittin' an' was watchin' of the fun, 
 An' we jumped her for a story, so she said she'd tell us one — 
 All about a lad and lassie that from Erin's shores had come 
 To Columbia's land of freedom for to try an' make a home. 
 
 'Twas in time of a rebellion, when the Irish well nigh broke 
 From the tyrants of oppression an' the cursed British yoke; 
 But traitors in the Irish ranks, for hope of worldly gain, 
 Recanted on their dastard knees, all efforts then were vain. 
 
 Then furious rode the king's men, with loud exultant cry, 
 And in each public market place hung many a gibbet high. 
 
104 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 The laddie that I'm tellin' of had Irish forces led; 
 
 His name was' on the death list, a price was on his head. 
 
 So in a chest they carried him upon an old brig's deck 
 
 That had failed to get her clearance an' had been pronounced 
 
 a wreck; 
 But she sailed away at midnight, an' the officers defied, 
 Then the lassie opened her sea chest an' the laddie stepped 
 
 outside. 
 
 The third day in the mornin', just as it was' gettin' light, 
 A British man-o'-war ship on the windward hove in sight, 
 Then the captain of the old brig cursed an' turned a little 
 
 pale, 
 An' the little rebel laddie furled they close up in a sail. 
 
 Soon a bow-shot from a cannon bade the poor old brig round to, 
 An' the king's men went aboard of her an' searched her 
 
 through and through; 
 But they didn't find no rebels, an' it was well the lad they 
 
 missed. 
 They'd hung him to the yard-arm for they had him on their 
 
 list. 
 
 Thirteen weeks the old brig floundered on the ocean's dreary 
 
 main. 
 An' not a soul aboard of her e'er thought to land again; 
 Every one was on allowance toward the last — 
 Water one gill, one sea-biscuit daily, was the scant repast. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 105 
 
 But one day in December as the sun was sinkin' low, 
 Something distant seem'd to glitter in the sunset's partin' 
 
 glow ; 
 An' the captain fairly shouted as he pulled a bottle's cork, 
 Sure as h — 1 was made for British, yonder, lads, is old N'ew 
 
 York. 
 
 Next day the old brig rounded to 'longside the friendly piers. 
 An' people met that hadn't met for many weary years. 
 It seemed a general jubilee an' everything looked gay. 
 For the old brig landed in New York upon a Christmas day. 
 
 Now, children, you all wonder how this story I can tell. 
 Of the laddie and the lassie you will wonder what befell; 
 Then she said, an' brushed a tear-drop, an' she looked a little 
 
 sad. 
 Children, grandma was the lassie, an' your grandpa was the 
 
 lad. 
 
106 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 LAURA 
 
 In fancy now the veil is rent, the shadows backward glide; 
 We catch a glimmer of the throng upon the other side. 
 And high among the ch'erubims' her guiltless soul is seen; 
 There sorrow's winter disappears and all is fresh and green. 
 
 Sweet flowers bloom beyond the tomb — 
 
 Transcendent light dispels the gloom; 
 
 Death's irksome, cold, relentless tide 
 
 Can only for a time divide. 
 
 'Tis useless all for friends to grieve or wish her back once 
 
 more; 
 God &ays that we may go to her, life's fitful journey o'er. 
 Submissively we kiss the rod and bow in meekness all. 
 To Him who stills the tempest's rage, and notes' the sparrow's 
 fall. 
 
 Beyond the vale the boatman pale 
 
 Is waiting with his snow white sail; 
 
 One after one, to waft us o'er. 
 
 In peace, to that celestial shore. 
 
 Pilgrim's Den, Nov. 12, 1897. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 107 
 
 RETROSPECT 
 
 A poem written on the occasion of the arrival of the first 
 train of cars in Medicine Lodge, Kansas. 
 
 'Tis done! The iron horse is here! 
 
 At last th'e rumbling train has come! 
 Barber, though once a desert drear. 
 With naught the lonely heart to cheer, 
 
 Is changed till now 'tis "home, sweet home." 
 
 Long, long made sick by hope deferred; 
 
 Oft lingering in despondent fear. 
 No wonder, then, each heart was- stirred 
 When o'er the eastern hills we heard 
 
 The "whistle" sounding shrill and clear. 
 
 When first the hardy settler came 
 To rear a home amid these wilds, 
 
 The red men helped to chase the game; 
 
 Tlien gathered 'round the camp-fire's flame 
 The "pioneer" and Nature's child. 
 
 We could not hear the whistle shrill- 
 
 'Twas distant many, many miles. 
 The coyote on the rugged hill, 
 
108 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 The loafer wolf, with right good will, 
 Supplied the music of the wilds. 
 
 A long and lonesome pilgrimage, 
 
 O'er prairie green, or waste of snow, 
 Through summer rain, or blizzard's rage. 
 The freighter and the one-horse stage 
 Full many a weary mile must go. 
 
 And oft the freighter in his dreams, 
 
 While sleeping by his scanty fire. 
 Would dread the quick-sand in the streams 
 And urge and curse his weary teams, 
 In fancy sinking in the mire. 
 
 The "cattle man" long held the sway; 
 
 'T\vas said no crops would ever grow, 
 And all believed for many a day; 
 Thrice did the "granger" go his way 
 
 To his' "wife's people" with his plow. 
 
 The "Bard," who crowned the "cattle king' 
 
 In song and lay, or ditty small. 
 Would never of the "granger" sing, 
 Save in some droll, derisive sting 
 He bored the "granger" to the wall. 
 
 At last a change came o'er the scene: — 
 Again the "granger" comes — to stay; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 109 
 
 The sod-plow turns the sward of green, 
 And lo! at last our valleys turn 
 With shocks of corn and reeks of hay. 
 
 The "dug out" of the days of yore 
 
 Gives place to homes with painted wall; 
 The school bell rings at many a door, 
 And churches numbered by the score 
 Bl'end in the scenes, with steeples tall. 
 
 One incident I cannot pass, 
 Connected with the days of yore. 
 
 The "Barber County Mail,"* alas! 
 
 Sorghum for tar; for feathers, grasc — 
 A cedar rail the printer bore. 
 
 Thus "sweetened" he was told to fle'e 
 The wrath to come, nor did he stand, 
 
 Shaking the dust of Barber free 
 
 He plunged into obscurity — 
 A bee-bait in some other land. 
 
 Yet though the "Mail" soon came to grief. 
 
 Up, Phoenix like, the Cresset sprung — 
 A beacon light on Western reef — 
 
 ♦The first newspaper printed in th'e county. The editor, 
 in the absence of tar and feathers, was treated to a coat of 
 sorghum and buffalo grass and ordered to quit the county, 
 which he did immediately, nerer to return. 
 
110 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Dispelling doubt and unbelief; 
 Ever of Barber has sbe sung. 
 
 Responsive to the Cresset's flame 
 
 Dawned other "Stars"t in Barber's sky. 
 
 I will not call each separate name; 
 
 All love to herald Barber's fame. 
 Her past and glorious by and by. 
 
 Merchants hare grow'd to princely wealth, 
 
 Who started with a stock bo scant 
 An able bodied man in health 
 Coiild oft have eat the goods himself 
 And then departed half in want. 
 
 "But such is life," the adage goes, 
 Life in the far off W'estern land. 
 Men who were wont to wear old clothes. 
 Nor feared misfortune's direst woes. 
 Have triumphed, for they had the sand. 
 
 And step by step the "frontier town,"J 
 Once standing on the ragged edge, 
 
 Has to a mighty city grown, 
 
 With stately halls with fronts of stone. 
 Soars like an eagle in full fledge. 
 
 tNewspapers. 
 
 tMedicine Lodge. Jan. 28, 1886. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 111 
 
 WHEN TIMES GIT GOOD AGAIN 
 
 Yes, times are pretty rocky now, 
 
 With all of us alike; 
 An' seems as if most every one 
 
 Was goin' on a strike; 
 While the petty goods box orator 
 
 Keeps workin' of his chin, 
 A tellin' people what'll make 
 
 The times git good agin. 
 
 An' when a man has got the blues 
 
 He's ready to believe 
 The rot these demagogues exude, 
 
 Intended to deceive. 
 Bad luck, to dark despondency 
 
 A brother and a twin; 
 The twain alike will disappear 
 
 When times git good agin. 
 
 I've felt the weight of squally times 
 
 Within my humble dome; 
 The mortgage wiped my title clear, 
 
 The sheriff sold my home. 
 The "lean wolf" lyin' at my door 
 
 A yearnin' to git in. 
 Will tuck his tail an' pull his freight 
 
 When times git good again. 
 
 I sorty hate to go to town — 
 
 My clothes are threadbare worn; 
 
112 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 My liat is seedy and my boots 
 Lean out and look forlorn. 
 
 It may be pride inherited — 
 That's my besettin' sin; 
 
 It matters not, it can't be helped 
 Till times git good agin. 
 
 Some say that money is too ticarce; 
 
 I'm willin' to admit 
 The ready cash is bashful like 
 
 And mighty hard to git; 
 Yet when I sell some grain or stock 
 
 The cash comes tumbiin' in. 
 If men have lots of truck to sell 
 
 'Twill make times good agin. 
 
 Some think the merchants lie in wait 
 
 To swindle, rob and cheat. 
 While he with due economy 
 
 Can scarce mak'e both ends meet. 
 Your harvest is his only hope 
 
 Whereby to save hib skin; 
 He's hangin' on the ragged edge 
 
 Till times git good agin. 
 
 But it se*ems the veil is liftin' 
 An' the clouds are rollin' by, 
 
 And field on field of golden grain 
 Loom up before the eye; 
 
 While the clickin' of the new machines 
 Keep up a constant din; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 113 
 
 When reapers strike those walls of wheat 
 'Twill make times' good agin. 
 
 Good people keep a weather eye 
 
 On this poor lay of mine; 
 Throw finance racket to the dogs 
 
 And cease your doleful whine; 
 For wheat is trumps in this our game. 
 
 And every trick will win; 
 Farm mortgages will disappear 
 
 When times git good agin. 
 
114 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 IMPROMPTU LINES 
 
 Written on the sandy margin of a stream in the Indian 
 Territory, where the awful solitude of Nature reigned su- 
 preme. 
 
 Upon a lonely river's strand, 
 With pencil of a driftwood wand, 
 
 I wrote anon. 
 A ripple from the breez'e blown wave 
 That wont these placid shores to lave, 
 
 My lines are gone. 
 
 How like the life of mortal man; 
 Oblivious waves are scarce a span 
 
 From us away. 
 Naught can the fell decree asbnage. 
 Childhood and youth and hoary age 
 
 Are dust and clay. 
 
 While this inevitable goal 
 Mortals await, may not the soul 
 
 Oblivion scorn? 
 Or is life but a fickle dream. 
 And does death's cold, relentless stream 
 
 Leave hope forlorn? 
 
 I ask the everlasting hills. 
 Clear winding streams and rippling rills; 
 No answer comes. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 115 
 
 I ask tlie glimmering stars on high, 
 Bright jewels in the ambient sky; 
 They, too, are dumb. 
 
 I turn me back to reason's stead, 
 And ask my soul the question dread; 
 
 Low whisperings fall. 
 Strive not to look beyond the vale. 
 Dread not the boatman stern and pale; 
 
 Death is not all. 
 
116 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 DIRGC TO THE DYING YBAR 
 
 The old year is dying, dying now; 
 The damps of death are stealing 
 O'er his brow, o'er his brow; 
 The damps of death are stealing 
 O'er his brow. 
 
 His giant form is bended, bended low. 
 His locks are white as driven, 
 Driven snow, driven snow; 
 His locks are white as driven, 
 Driven snow. 
 
 We may not stay thy parting, parting knell; 
 Farewell, old friend, forever. 
 Fare the well, fare the well; 
 Farewell, old friend, forever, 
 Fare the well. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 117 
 
 MIDNIGHT SOLIUOQUY 
 
 Alone, and yet by Heaven it grieves me not; 
 
 Full many an hour in solitude with me hath passed, 
 
 Yet e'en when far removed from all mankind 
 
 'Twould seem that I were blest. 
 
 I reck me not 
 
 What scoffing skeptics think, 
 
 Nor what their judgment be on my poor thoughts, 
 
 'Tis all the same; wise men as well as fools 
 
 Will have their say 
 
 Long hence, when death hath stilled our tongues 
 
 And blind worms' build their 'bodes 
 
 In reason's silent halls. 
 
 Alone, 'tis then my vision'd spirit meets 
 
 With those I once held dear 
 
 Whose clay cold forms- 
 
 Now moulder back to mother earth, 
 
 Whose spirit pinions sweep so near me, 
 
 E'en to fan my careworn brow. 
 
 'Tis then I may behold 
 
 A loved one lost, with golden sunlit hair. 
 
 Who years agon'e 
 
 Passed o'er the silent and mysterious' stream 
 
 To mingle her sweet smiles 
 
 And blend her gladsome voice with angel's song. 
 
 Alone, 'tis then the craven villain shrinks 
 
 In fear, alarmed, aghast, 
 
 E'en at the shadow of his own base brooding thoughts ; 
 
118 Musings of the Pilgrim Barci 
 
 'Tis then he starts and writhes 
 
 Beneath the gnawing canker of remors'e, 
 
 That deep and deeper sinks and eats and wears, 
 
 Till fain he would exchange 
 
 The awful solitude of soul condemned, 
 
 E'en for the courts and company of Hell. 
 
 Alone! Oft I bethink me of the hour. 
 
 Death's hour of loneliness; 
 
 The hour all dread, yet none can e'er evade; 
 
 The hour when mortal turns 
 
 To bid adieu to all earth's transitory scenes ; 
 
 The hour when princes drop 
 
 From pulseless hand the jewelled wand of state; 
 
 When men of dignity and world renown 
 
 Must yield their rank, their riches. 
 
 And their honor's all, 
 
 And hasten through the same dark portals where 
 
 The beggar leaves his threadbare tattered garb. 
 
 Alone! No not alone are they 
 
 Whose feet through life have tread the narrow path. 
 
 Who by the golden rule have squared their lives. 
 
 To such the Saviour saith, 
 
 Through death's dark valley and its shadow lone, 
 
 I will be with you, even to the end. 
 
 February 13, 1890. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 119 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP f\ COMRADE 
 
 Comrade rest thee, care nor sorrow 
 
 Can no more disturb thy sleep; 
 Close thine eyes on each tomorrow, 
 
 Never more to wake or weep; 
 To the great unknown departed, 
 
 Clasped in death's relentless keep; 
 Never over warmer hearted 
 
 Will the prairie grasses sweep. 
 Sleep while the silent shades enthrall thee; 
 Sleep 'till the reveille shall call thee. 
 
 From thy life of melancholy 
 
 All the brighter joys had flown; 
 By the wanton hand of folly 
 
 Thorns within thy path were thrown. 
 Many a skeleton doth hover 
 
 That the world can never see; 
 'Neath the heart's most secret cover. 
 
 Hidden 'till eternity. 
 Sleep while the silent shades enthrall thee; 
 Sleep 'till the reveille shall call thee. 
 
 Charity's broad folds shall cover 
 
 All amiss of thee we knew; 
 E;'er will fond remembrance hover 
 
 Round that heart once warm and true; 
 Dust to dust, in final slumber, 
 
 Comrades all must share thy bed; 
 One by one they join thy number 
 
 In the bivouac of the d'ead. 
 Sleep while the silent shades enthrall the'e; 
 Sleep 'till the reveille shall call thee. 
 
 March 7, 1888. 
 
120 Musings of the Pilgrim Bctrd 
 
 AN INTBRVIBW WITH THE dtlADE OF 
 SITTING BUbb 
 
 Spirit of Sitting Bull, 
 
 Come from tlie shadow land; 
 Tell us how Custer fell; 
 Tell of his gallant band; 
 Tell how his yellow hair 
 Flashed in the sunlight fair; 
 Tell how his sabre bare 
 Cleft many a skull. 
 
 Living thy lips were sealed — 
 
 Ne'er of the fray you spoke; 
 Well was the truth concealed, 
 Dreading the hangman's rope. 
 Now need thou dread no more; 
 Closed is death's fatal door, 
 And from that stygian shore, 
 Be it revealed. 
 
 When your horde clos'ed around 
 
 On the fast falling few, 
 Over the bloody ground. 
 
 Piled with the painted Sioux; 
 Piled with the Nation's pride, 
 Brave men in battle tried, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 121 
 
 Tell if 'twas suicide 
 Gave the death wound. 
 
 The hour was late, the fire burned low, 
 Its flickering blaze like spectres show 
 The shadows on the darkened wall. 
 Dread silence brooded over all; 
 I might have slept, I will not say, 
 Yet never 'till my latest day 
 Will I forget the ghastly sight 
 That met my gaze that silent night. 
 
 A pale green light pervades the room; 
 A loathsome smell as sulphur's fume, 
 And soon my startled eyes behold 
 A burly form in blanket fold; 
 Though years had flown I knew my eyes 
 Deceived me not, and in surprise, 
 My beating heart the silence broke, 
 A moment 'till the spectre spok'e. 
 
 "Pale Face, you called me from the shade, 
 And I your summons have obeyed; 
 Aye, gaze in awe and wonder full, 
 Behold the ghost of Sitting Bull. 
 Needless it were to tell you all 
 That happened since that fatal ball 
 Cut short my earthly wild career 
 And sent me on that journey drear. 
 Through vale of penance pain to walk. 
 
122 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Where disembodied spirits stalk. 
 Three days and nights I wandered lone, 
 From darkened sky the sun ne'er shone. 
 At length, when weary, worn and sore, 
 I reached a wall with wicket door. 
 The wall was high, the gate was fast, 
 But opened at my knock at last; 
 I saw beyond the wicket's bounds 
 The Red Men's' Happy Hunting Grounds. 
 A forward step I could not go; 
 A stern old man with locks of snow. 
 And girdle broad, and brazen key, 
 Full in the way confronted me. 
 
 "The keeper eyed me o'er and o'er. 
 
 Then almost closed the wicket door; 
 
 Looked through the books with sober mien, 
 
 And though his eyes were eagle keen. 
 
 In all the records failed to read 
 
 Where I had done a noble deed. 
 
 Closing the books he slammed the gate; 
 
 In doubt I had not long to wait, 
 
 For soon an usher came to show 
 
 More fitting place in realms below. 
 
 For reasons that I need not tell 
 
 They cast me in the white man's Hell; 
 
 Yet when Old Sootie gazed on me 
 
 'Twas more in fear than fiendish gle'e. 
 
 I hope his jealousy and fear 
 
 May drive me from this brimstone smear. 
 
 Dakota's land is cold and rough, 
 
 The U. S. beef is old and tough, 
 
 The blankets thin, the rations small, 
 
 But mind you Hell just beats them all. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 123 
 
 And yet I'll tell you on the sly, 
 I may be boss here by and by, 
 For if my braves come on to help 
 I'll shortly hare the Devil's scalp. 
 But now a truce to idle talk. 
 Too long at large I may not stalk. 
 
 I came in answer to your call 
 
 To tell the truth, and tell you all 
 
 About the fight in Big Horn vale 
 
 Where none were left to tell the tale. 
 
 Three hundred horsemen charged the glen; 
 
 Not one Pale Face rode out again. 
 
 Like sleuths they followed on our trail 
 
 By day and night, o'er hill and dale; 
 
 But long bold Custer's friends will rue 
 
 His last fight with the hated Sioux. 
 
 And when they made the final stand, 
 
 A handful of his chosen band 
 
 Mowed down my braves rank after rank. 
 
 The hard red earth their life-blood drank. 
 
 One after one the band we slew 
 
 Until the chief and comrades two 
 
 Alone remained. My orders were 
 
 To take the chief a prisoner. 
 
 We closed, but in a moment all 
 
 I saw the three together fall. 
 
 We left their bodies where they died; 
 
 No Indian scalps a suicide. 
 
 Pale Face, the truth you guessed aright; 
 
 In that unequal Big Horn fight 
 
 Not I nor any painted brave — 
 
 'Twas Custer's hand his death wound gave. 
 
124 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 And more I came not here to tell; 
 I must be gone, Pale Face, farewell." 
 
 Vanished the ghost, the spell was broke. 
 The crowing cock the echoes woke; 
 The chanticleer no spook can bide, 
 E'en witches whom a broom bestride, 
 And o'er the earth in darkness ride, 
 Must vanish with the morning tide. 
 
 January 16, 1891. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 125 
 
 SQUARE DEAL. 
 
 If you're rollicky and collicky 
 
 An' havin' gripin' pains, 
 An' your clothin' keeps a shrinkin' 
 Till your waisband button strains, 
 An' you now and then bend double 
 Just to ease your in'ard trouble, 
 Don't you reckon people know it. 
 Don't your very actions show it. 
 That you're rollicky an' collicky 
 An' havin' gripin' pains? 
 
 If you're winnin' and a skinnin' 
 
 Some poor devil in a game. 
 An' he still puts up his ante 
 Just to lose it all the same; 
 If you're not a actin' fairly 
 An' a dealin' sorty squarely, 
 If he's watchin' close he'll know it, 
 Won't your very actions show it 
 That you're skinnin' while you're winnin*, 
 An' it ain't an honefat game? 
 
 Some act double, but the trouble 
 
 Is to make both actions scour; 
 If both shoulders carry water 
 There is bound to be a shower, 
 For deceit is always branded. 
 And though practiced underhanded, 
 E'en the very winds will blow it, 
 
126 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 So that everyone will know it 
 That it's trouble to act double. 
 And to make both actions scour. 
 
 So act squarely, dicker fairly, 
 
 An' you'll always- be at ease; 
 An' there won't come any nightmare 
 For to trouble or to tease. 
 Happiness is goodly treasure, 
 You may give yourself good measure. 
 An' how soon the world will know it, 
 All your ations plainly show it. 
 So act squarely, dicker fairly, 
 An' you'll always be at ease. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 127 
 
 THE HARVEST'S A GITTIIN' DOINB 
 
 Go lay the supper cloth, good woman. 
 And put the plates on one after one; 
 Then long and loudly ring the bell, 
 The tongue in its brazen throat will tell 
 'Tis time the weary hands were eomin' 
 From the field where the harvest's a gittin' done. 
 
 Day after day has the binder been goin' 
 From morn's first glimmer till settin' sun, 
 Leavin' the shocks of golden grain 
 Like a tented host on a mighty plain, 
 And every day made a right good showin' 
 On the field, an' the harvest's a gittin' done. 
 
 And now the Saturday sun is sinkin'. 
 The goal of the week is wellnigh run; 
 No wonder the weary horses lag, 
 And the light runnin' binder seems to drag; 
 Perchance the tired beasts are a thinkin' 
 Their six days' labor is gittin' done. 
 
 Sninday mornin' idle stands the reaper. 
 The sickle has ceased its noisy hum; 
 Our Father, who sent the copious rain, 
 And gave us our bounteous golden grain, 
 Saith rest from your labor, I, the keeper, 
 Will watch over all till the harvest's done. 
 
128 Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 And I thought on that bright harvest mornin' 
 How soon life's fitful race is run; 
 The young may die, but the old must go, 
 When the form is' bent and the locks are snow, 
 The Reaper comes without a warnin'. 
 One stroke and the journey of life is done, 
 
 July 11, 1891. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 129 
 
 SATIRICAL ODB TO AN ObD GRAY HORSE 
 
 Suggested by the sight of a well-fed, well-clothed preacher 
 of about two hundred pounds avoirdupois, accompanied by 
 his better half, who was equally as heavy, seated in a rickety 
 old shack of a buggy, drawn by an antiquated, flea-bitten gray 
 horse whose every step seemed his last and would never in- 
 crease his snail pace except when belabored with a huge 
 black whip in the hands of the devout expounder of modern 
 Christianity. 
 
 Alas! poor old hide-shrunken, flea-bitten gray, 
 Thy end draweth near, thou art passing away. 
 Away from the harness and rickety shay, 
 
 To the promised Horse Heaven hereafter, 
 Where Peter is guarding the gate with his key. 
 When he raises the wicket to gaze upon thee. 
 And thy battered old hulk shall the pious saint see. 
 
 His sides will be splitting with laughter. 
 
 Not doomed, like the war horse, in battle to die, 
 Thou wilt fall by the wayside all barren and dry, 
 Where at midnight the coyote sings weird lullaby 
 
 To the winds of the highway complaining; 
 The vultures that watched o'er thee day after day 
 Have folded their pinions as much as to say, 
 To wait for him longer it never will pay — 
 
 Not a humming-bird's feast is remaining. 
 
 Then the pious old saint will his queries begin 
 Before e'er the gate lets the traveler in, 
 
130 Musings of tne Pilgrim Bard 
 
 The records' are s'earclied for each trespass and sin, 
 While you wait in probation dumfounded. 
 
 'Tis useless to think to climb over the wall, 
 
 Or look for a loophole, though ever so small; 
 
 The gate ye must enter if enter at all, 
 
 And sharp are the questions propounded. 
 
 Has the car-driver's whip beat tattoo on thy bones? 
 Has the busman e'er rattled thee over the stones? 
 Did the drayman o'erload thee, unheeding thy groans? 
 
 Did the spurs of a cowboy e'er press thee? 
 Or wast thou a stage horse to carry the mail 
 Ere the advent of cars on the overland trail? 
 Thy gait scarce would vie with the pace of a snail; 
 
 Did the winds of a cyclone caress thee? 
 
 Whence comest thou, crow bait, so haggard and slow? 
 Thy story of grief the recorder shall know; • 
 Thy lean frame betokens full many a blow; 
 
 Thou Shalt be a witness, poor creature. 
 Then the questioner ceased, and, like Baalam's dumb ass* 
 That was smitten three times for refusing to pass. 
 The old gray gave answer. Good master, alas! 
 
 I worked in the thills for a preacher. 
 
 He would leave me for hours in the snow and the rain ; 
 
 No shelter, no blanket, no fodder, no grain. 
 
 And I shivering stood while my limbs cramped with pain. 
 
 Unheeded by church-going masses; 
 As out from the windows the bright lamplight gleamed, 
 Reflected from faces where piety beamed, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 131 
 
 No wonder, half nodding, full often I dreamed 
 Of a land of perpetual grasses. 
 
 He carried a club and a black wbip as well; 
 Oft a two-handed blow on my weary back fell; 
 He preached what he gave me, the terrors' of Hell, 
 
 Never dreaming of dumb brute hereafter. 
 Ho, lads! lay your harps down and open the gate. 
 Said Peter, and lead him to Paradise straight; 
 Go, faithful old horse, endless pastures await. 
 
 But alas for the fate of your master. 
 
132 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 TO TMB DYIING YEAR 1891 
 
 How drearily the storm winds wail tonight, 
 Like the mad shrieking of some maniac sprite; 
 
 The dying year 
 
 Awaits the bier 
 That comes to bear him hence from mortal sight 
 
 A spotless robe descends of snow and sleet, 
 O'erspreading hill and vale alike complete; 
 
 Prepared in Heaven, 
 
 By angels given 
 To thee. Old Year, fit robe and winding sheet. 
 
 Farewell, Old Year, we will not feign to weep, 
 Yet backward o'er thy trace will memory sweep; 
 
 Alas we see 
 
 Buried with thee, 
 Aye with thy dust our broken idols sleep. 
 
 Yet wast thou kind, Old Year, in divers ways; 
 From darksome clouds full oft the golden rays 
 
 Shone to illume 
 
 The irksome gloom 
 That clouded all with veil of sombre haze. 
 
 And as the New Year comes to fill thy stead, 
 Striding above thy dust with stately tread. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 133 
 
 Th'e gladsome cheer 
 Forbids the tear 
 That else would fall for thee, thou giant, dead. 
 
 And when, like thee, the mortal clay shall sleep, 
 Mouldering to dust while endless ages creep; 
 
 In testacy, 
 
 The spirit free 
 With glittering pinions brush the eyes that weep. 
 
 Life is a bubble frail, a fleeting show; 
 Mortals, like thee, await the hour to go 
 
 To the last home 
 
 Of rayless gloom, 
 Inanimate, somatic bode, in dust laid low. 
 
 Farewell, Old Year, so be it thou art gone, 
 
 The clock peals forth thy knell, in dirge like tone, 
 
 And thou art dead. 
 
 Thy hoary head 
 Lies low, thy mission filled, thine errand done. 
 
 January 1, 1891. 
 
134 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 TMB WHITE SI>AVB 
 
 He sat in the door of a tenement shed, 
 
 Twilight had come and gone; 
 His heart was heavy with awe and dread. 
 He could hear his wife from her languishing bed 
 
 So wearily sigh and moan; 
 His children were sleeping hunger's sleep, 
 But his' eyes were tearless, he could not weep. 
 
 Hunger's gaunt wolf at his threshold lay 
 
 And guarded the inmates well; 
 It had watched that hovel many a day, 
 Its shadow darkened the sunlight's ray. 
 
 And gave it the gloom of a charnel cell. 
 Oh ye who have splendor and wealth and ease. 
 Do you think of the hovels of want and disease? 
 
 As- if to mock his darksome lot 
 
 A sound broke the stillness lone; 
 'Tis music sweet the breezes brought, 
 And these were the words with sorrow fraught: 
 
 There's no place like home, sweet home. 
 Father in Heaven it may not be, 
 No home for my loved ones', no home for me. 
 
 Home, home, sweet home, but not for me, 
 
 My loved ones p'erish for bread; 
 While over the street bright lights I see. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 135 
 
 And children playing in childish glee, 
 They are warmly clothed and fed; 
 While here, aye here, in their very sight, 
 My loved ones perish of want tonight. 
 
 Year after year I still toiled on, 
 
 Ten hours in each weary day; 
 And my poor wife helped till her strength was gone, 
 And the babe at her breast was- a skeleton wan; 
 
 Then why does the music say: 
 Home, home, sweet home, when we may not share 
 With the dogs of the rich man over there. 
 
 Sudden he starts, for the moans and sighs 
 
 Are hushed in the sick wife's room; 
 How he prayed for a light to close those eyes; 
 Oh, God! said he, thus my loved one dies 
 
 In poverty, want and gloom. 
 Still the sweet notes pierce through the darkness lone, 
 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. 
 
 Then he knelt by his loved wife, pale and cold, 
 
 With his little ones sleeping nigh; 
 And he prayed that the keeper might unfold 
 The gates of the city, the gates' of gold, 
 And let his poor household pass by 
 From this world of sorrow, of want and gloom. 
 Where the poor, at last, have a home, sweet home. 
 
136 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 DEATH or GB!NBRA1> SMBRMAIN 
 
 Aye, sound th'e "Taps," behold night's snble awning 
 
 Has closed and darkness broodeth lound; 
 
 A nation's hero, worn and weary. 
 
 Has crossed death's portals, dark and dreary; 
 
 He sleeps' that dreamless sleep profound. 
 
 No more to waken at the dawning. 
 
 Aye, sound the "Taps," and bid the hero sleep; 
 
 No reveille will break his slumber deep. 
 
 Lo! years agone the continent was quaking 
 
 With thy victorious army's tread; 
 
 They who survive to tell the story 
 
 Of Sherman's m.arch are grandsires hoary; 
 
 Soon they will join the silent dead, 
 
 And sleep the sleep that knows no waking. 
 
 Aye, sound the "Taps," and bid the hero sleep; 
 
 No reveille will break his slumber deep. 
 
 Though thou art dead, thy name shall perish never, 
 
 Thy star of glory never fade; 
 
 Immortal wreath's on history's pages 
 
 Will brighter grow as creep the ages, 
 
 Till Time's unerring course is stayed. 
 
 And yon bright sun has set forever. 
 
 Aye, sound the "Taps," and bid the hero sleep; 
 
 No reveille will break his slumber deep. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 137 
 
 TO A BBD BUG 
 
 Tormenting little cuss, 
 
 I hold thy wriggling- form betwe'en my thumb and index finger 
 
 The while I thus address thee. 
 
 Didst thou imagine 
 
 Thou couldst course adown my spine 
 
 Like a two-forty horse upon the turf, 
 
 And send thy beak through my tough hide 
 
 And tap my vein's. 
 
 And I resent it not? 
 
 Thou art no respecter — 
 
 Thou wilt bite th'e cradled infant 
 
 And the bald-pated veteran who has passed his time allotted 
 
 Three score years and ten; 
 
 And with thy sharp proboscis thou wilt gouge 
 
 The flesh of fair-haired blonde (beauty's' own type) ; 
 
 Lik'ewise the traces' of thy snout are seen 
 
 Among the freckles of the red haired dame. 
 
 If patient Job, God's man who eschewed evil, 
 
 Even as the ox chews grass, 
 
 Or as the country schoolma'am chews her gum, 
 
 Instead of being smote with itching boils, 
 
 Had been cast into a western tavern bed 
 
 Alive with bugs, as they are wont to be. 
 
 In one short hour, nay in ten minutes' time, 
 
 He would have cursed the God who gave him breath. 
 
138 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 'Twould be a scheme immense 
 
 If the Satanic boss of things below 
 
 Who has in charge the torment of the damned, 
 
 Would quench perdition's burning, seething fires, 
 
 And massacre the worm that never dies, 
 
 And fill with bugs 
 
 Each crevice in the walls of Hell. 
 
 Soon as 'twas noised on earth 
 
 The West would be redeemed, 
 
 Even red-eyed sinners who are wont to draw 
 
 Their sins with cart rope would be kneeling seen 
 
 Clothed in humiliating gunny-sacks 
 
 With ashes on their heads. 
 
 Disgorge that stolen blood, 
 
 Blood that dates back through generations. 
 
 To Scotland's fiercest chiefs. 
 
 Thy doom is sealed, would I could say farewell 
 
 To thee and all thy pesky race. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 139 
 
 A MEMORIAL* POBM 
 
 Attention! comrades! the bugle calls — 
 
 And hark to the stirring notes of the drum; 
 Proudly the old flag rises and falls, 
 
 Kissing the rays of the morning sun. 
 Though our steps be languid and slow, 
 While the crutch and cane swing to and fro. 
 Though time has whitened our locks as snow, 
 Yet a duty remains undone. 
 
 Years have flown since the battle cloud 
 
 Rolled from the blood-dyed fields' away; 
 When treason wrapped in her rebel shroud, 
 
 Neath the broken chains of the bondman lay. 
 Time has plowed many a furrow, I ween. 
 And death has kept busy his sickle keen, 
 And over the graves with grass grown green 
 Let us strew the loveliest flowers of May. 
 
 Graves' of four hundred thousand men, 
 
 Men who fell in the battle fray; 
 Men who starved in the prison pens 
 
 Claim a tribute from us today. 
 Softly the breezes of summer sigh 
 Over graves unmarked to the human eye; 
 Ne'er be it said those comrades lie 
 
 Forgotten, to mingle with kindred clay. 
 
 Up from the trenches of glade and fen — 
 
 Up from the weather-bleached bones on the lea; 
 Up from the graves of the prison pen 
 
140 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Cometh a whisper, "rememb'er me;" 
 Who these weird words shall unsay. 
 Spirits are watching with joy today. 
 To witness the tribute their comrades pay 
 
 To the fallen hero's memory. 
 
 Other graves will be strewn with flowers. 
 
 Others this beautiful tribute pay; 
 'Neath the moaning pines and magnolia bowers 
 
 Many are sleeping who wore the gray. 
 "Peace to their ashes," we chide them not, 
 Let friends strew sweet flowers on each sacred spot. 
 We cherish of malice not even a thought, 
 
 One flag floats over all today. 
 
 Softly, comrades; a time will come 
 
 Wh'en our ranks must form on the other shore ; 
 When the narrow walls' of the rayless tomb 
 
 On the last of our number has closed its door. 
 Then will the strangers who fill the land 
 Neglect the rites of our sleeping band? 
 Will they strew the flowers with a careless' hand. 
 
 Or, perchance, remember us never more? 
 
 No, thank God, though the oak tree fall, 
 
 And the mildew of time hides every trace. 
 Up from the acorn, straight and tall, 
 
 Cometh another to fill its place. 
 So will the son of each veteran sire. 
 And their children's children awake the lyre. 
 And breathe on the altar of memory's fire. 
 Until time to eternity giveth place. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 141 
 
 THE rbOOD 
 
 Sing, warbler, from the green-decked groves 
 
 Of canon, creek and river. 
 Sing sadly, now, in accents' low, 
 A kindred wail, for friends beloved 
 
 Will haunt these shores forever. 
 
 Twilight had deepened o'er the town 
 
 Upon that fatal even'. 
 
 The moon, half gone, looked calmly down. 
 Mortals to sweet repose had gone, 
 
 The issue was with Heaven. 
 
 Down in the groves, along the streams. 
 The campfires dimly smoulder, 
 On grassy bed each weary head 
 
 Is slumbering in unconscious dteams— 
 At once the wind grew colder. 
 
 At once the rain in torrents tell — 
 Heaven's windows all were oj^en — 
 Water and mud in direful flood. 
 
 Like fiend escaped the bounds of hell. 
 Rushed on — the spell was broken. 
 
 Like chaff before a mighty wind 
 Down went each cottage dwelling, 
 
142 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Respecting none, the waves swept on 
 Grim death before^ — a sea behind 
 Still high and higher swelling. 
 
 Day dawned at last, oh, direful scen'e. 
 Night's fading folds uncover — 
 As dawns the day, far, far away. 
 
 Where late the valleys robed in green, 
 Dark waves are sweeping over. 
 
 "Help! Help!" is heard on 'every hand. 
 
 But all in vain their calling; 
 
 Frail craft of wood not long withstood. 
 For mixed with drift and mud and sand, 
 
 The waters were appalling. 
 
 A voice came o'er the watery waste,' 
 From out an elm tree, crying — 
 To stem the tide brave horsemen tried — 
 
 Still came the plaintive call, "make haste, 
 Of terror I am dying." 
 
 Five hundred dollars we will give 
 
 To him who will deliver 
 
 This maiden fair with golden hair; 
 Thus spake the crowd, but none could live 
 
 Who stemmed that roaring river. 
 
 Half clad, and chilled, did many wait, 
 Though wounded, torn and bleeding. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 143 
 
 In friendly bough the hours drag slow; 
 At last they thank the hand of fate — 
 The waters are receding. 
 
 For many hours' a lady held 
 
 Her grasp on sapling siender; 
 Above the tide, close to her side, 
 Though swift and dark the waters swelled, 
 
 She held her infant tender. 
 
 One more, the saddest of the scene, 
 
 If one outvied another; 
 
 Mother and child, mile after mile 
 Drifted; at last the turbid stream 
 
 Engulfed both child and mother. 
 
 'Tis said that 'round her darling child 
 
 She wrapped her only cover, 
 Unheeding pain through wind and rain; 
 But useless all, the waters wild 
 
 Were soon to sweep above her. 
 
 Death is unwelcome, though he comes 
 Where friends smooth dying pillow, 
 And bid good-bye with tear and sigh, 
 
 Amid the pleasant scenes at home, 
 Safe from the raging billow. 
 
 But, ah, how dreadful, while they slept 
 The dark and seething river — 
 
144 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Unlooked for doom came all too soon. 
 The cold, cold billows o'er them s-wept 
 And stilled each pulse forever. 
 
 Farewell, and be a requiem said 
 
 For one and all who perished; 
 Sweet be your sleep though buried deep 
 'Neath sand, or in the church-yard laid,' 
 
 Your memory shall be cherished. 
 
 Cumminsford, April 23, 1885. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 145 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A GHIbD 
 
 Our hearts are heavy and our spirits sad ; 
 
 Nature, resplendent in the robes of spring, 
 
 To us seems shrouded all in sombre gloom; 
 
 The breezes laden with the rich perfume 
 
 Of sweet wild-flowers, our passions cannot wake. 
 
 The warbler's carol from his leafy bower 
 
 Falls knell-like on our ears, alas! alas! 
 
 Where is the radiance of balmy spring; 
 
 What beauty see we in the sweet wild flower, 
 
 Or lovely carol of the bright plumed birds. 
 
 D'eath, cold, relentless, steely-handed death, 
 
 Hath smote another idol at our shrine, 
 
 A tender bud, a prattling guileless child, 
 
 Transplanted and bedewed with bitter tears', 
 
 Will bloom forever in the garden fair, 
 
 Within the sunlight of a Savior's' love. 
 
 We weep, yet know we that our tears are vain. 
 
 And to the will of Heaven we humbly bow. 
 
 And when the mist vail clouds our mortal eyes, 
 
 On scenes terrestrial, we look away. 
 
 Across the waters to that sun bright clime, 
 
 And see that cherub form with outstretched arms. 
 
 Wafting us welcome to the realms of bliss. 
 
 Winchester, Okla., May 14, 1900. 
 
146 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 TMC MOMBSTBADER'S DRBAM 
 
 The following poem was written while the Free Homes 
 Bill was pending and was read in conjunction with Flynn's 
 famous speech in Congress on the bill. 
 
 A homesteader sat in his dugout door 
 After the toil of the day was o'er. 
 
 To smoke his pipe and meditate. 
 His busy wife was bustling around, 
 The creaking old mill the coffee ground, 
 
 And he heard the clack of the supper plate. 
 
 His thoughts were of Elynn and his manly fight 
 For his Free Home measure, the settlers' right, 
 
 The homesteader smiled with" pride;. 
 They have given away Oklahoma's cream. 
 Ain't the skimmed milk ours, and doesn't it seem 
 
 That the tail belongs to the hide? 
 
 Yet, alas! the result there's no one knows, 
 We murmur not at our ragged clothes, 
 
 But it seems a disgrace and a shame 
 To think after seven long weary years 
 Of drouth, despondency, hopes and fears. 
 
 We must leave our homestead claim. 
 
 We have driven the coyote from his lair. 
 And builded homes on the prairie bare. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bar-d 147 
 
 Sod houses and dugouts, too; 
 Toiling early and late to earn our bread, 
 Yet we never can get a dollar ahead 
 
 To save 'til the payment is due. 
 
 The bell cow, down in the stock corral. 
 Chewing her cud, while the tinkling bell 
 
 Seems a measur'd time to keep; 
 Unconscious all to the scenes around. 
 His smokeless pipe drops to the ground, 
 
 The homesteader is asleep. 
 
 Sleeping he dreams' that the time speeds on. 
 Seven years have departed, one after one; 
 
 He has honestly won the game. 
 Yet alas each year the times grew worse. 
 With an aching heart and empty purse 
 
 He must bid adieu to his claim. 
 
 His wife murmured not as the time drew near, 
 Yet ever anon a silent tear 
 
 Gave vent to a deep drawn sigh; 
 As time went by year after year, 
 Her humble home grew still more dear, 
 
 Here she hoped to live and die. 
 
 She had faithfully toiled like a willing slave, 
 Striving the tear-stained price to save. 
 
 Yet her toiling was no avail; 
 Will the God of the Universe fail to hear, 
 
148 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Will th'e pray'rs of distress ever reach His ear, 
 Is lie deaf to that mother's wail? 
 
 The drama closes, the farce is o'er, 
 The home that was' his is his no more, 
 
 To the stern law he must bow; 
 But list, 'tis her voice, "wake up my dear, 
 You have had no pleasant dream, I fear; 
 
 Supper is ready now." 
 
 'Twas but a dream, yet alas! alas! 
 
 If the Free Home measure should fail to pass. 
 
 That dream is- a dream no more; 
 Should the widow's lament and the poor man's pray'r. 
 Unheeded fall on the empty air. 
 The Bin of the wreck of homesteads fair, 
 
 Will lie at the Nation's door. 
 
 Winchester, Okla., Jan. 26th, 1896. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 149 
 
 AN ADDRI&S^ TO A SbOW MUbB 
 
 Slow is the wrath of God, 
 
 Or seven itch continued; 
 
 Or promissory note, after the debtor 
 
 Has shuffled off this mortal coil 
 
 And gone to that bright land where debts are cancelled; 
 
 All these are slow, but thou, O mule, 
 
 Art slower than them all. 
 
 Slower than oxen, even as much as they 
 Are slower than the lightning's vivid flash; 
 Ne'er coulds't thou overtake a snail 
 Except thou meet it. 
 And beneath the shade of palm leaf hat 
 Thou couldst make all day journey. 
 
 Should troubl'e come to me, sorrow perchance. 
 
 Or news of bad import, 
 
 I would that on thy back the messenger came mounted, 
 
 For Christ would come a second time to earth 
 
 And reign a thousand years, e'er thou overtook me. 
 
 Thou hast a sacred record; 
 
 'Tis said that on thy cousin s back 
 
 Was mounted the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth, 
 
 As in Jerusalem he made triumphal entry; 
 
 I'm not a gambling man, and yet I'll bet 
 
 Five hundred pounds', 
 
150 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 If I can borrow that much from a friend, 
 
 That on thy back instead, in twelve months' time, 
 
 Christ never could have rode 
 
 Around the limits of the public square. 
 
 If thou wert in a land of sudden changes. 
 
 Where the howling blizzard in a moment's time 
 
 Congeals the mud and makes' it hard as nether millstone 
 
 'TWould freeze thy lazy feet fast to the earth. 
 
 And make thy title good 
 
 No longer chattel but as real estate. 
 
 Cursing is vain, and all unheeded fall 
 
 My imprecations dread. 'Twere just as well 
 
 To curse the rock of Gibraltar 
 
 And thereby try to move it. 
 
 Farewell, snail pacing friend, I bid thee now adieu, 
 
 For should I wait for thee to vanish 
 
 Old age would overtake me. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 151 
 
 WMIPPOORWIbU 
 
 1 have something I would tell, 
 I'll begin without preamble. 
 As' I stood within a dell, 
 
 Shaded o'er with bush and bramble, 
 In the summer twilight's gloam, 
 Near my chosen frontier home. 
 Came a noise that startled me 
 Prom the the foliage of a tree. 
 On the night air calm and still 
 Sounds the old time whip-poor-will. 
 
 Many a gayer feathered bird 
 
 Oft hath cheered me with its singing; 
 In the springtime I have heard 
 
 All the woods with music ringing. 
 Yet for thirty years or more 
 I have roamed the wide west o'er; 
 Ne'er before from bush or tree 
 Came the voice bo dear to me, 
 Out upon the night air still 
 Of th'e old time whip-poor-will. 
 
 Ah! it carries me away 
 
 To a far-off humble dwelling; 
 In the pleasant days of May 
 
 ('Tis' of childhood I am telling). 
 Father and my mother near, 
 Idols every child holds dear, 
 Brothers, sisters, blithe and gay. 
 
152 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Gathered in the twilight gray; 
 
 After sunset o'er the hill 
 
 Sang the dear old whip-poor-will. 
 
 Childhood's happy days have flown. 
 
 Childhood's fondest idols shattered; 
 Rude the storms' of fate have blown. 
 Like the autumn leaflets scattered. 
 Far apart life's paths we tread, 
 Some are numbered with the dead. 
 This is why the sound so sweet 
 Startling came mine ears to greet, 
 Out upon the night air still 
 Of the old-time whip-poor-will. 
 
 May 1, 1894. 
 
Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 153 
 
 LINES ON THE DBATM OP rBUUOW BARD 
 
 At last 
 The brittle thread of life that long has held 
 The soul immortal to the mortal clay, 
 Is severed, and the glad free spirit wings 
 Its flight o'er unknown space to realms unknown. 
 
 Aye, gone 
 Forever from the friends and scenes he loved, 
 Gone on that journey through the shadow land; 
 Unwavering faith sustained him to the end 
 And gave him surety of eternal rest. 
 
 'Tis mete, 
 For while the moaning bleak autumnal winds 
 Sigh through the foliage of the giant trees, 
 And leaves, their mission filled, drop to the earth 
 And mingle with the gray and faded grass. 
 
 That one 
 Whose well spent life the final goal has reached 
 Where Time's unerring finger points' beyond, 
 While snowy hands of loved ones gone before 
 B'eckon his weary earth worn spirit home. 
 
 Say not, 
 O scofiing skeptic, filled with unbelief, 
 
154 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 That life is ended when the mortal clay- 
 Is wrapped inanimate in death's embrace: 
 Immortal life at death has just begun. 
 
 Farewell, 
 Thou kindred spirit, fellow Bard and friend. 
 Thy songs and lays will live when thou art gone; 
 Thy chaste example be a shining light 
 To guide aright the erring steps of youth. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 155 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS 
 
 'Tis New Year's eve. 
 
 Chill is the wind and cold the night without; 
 
 The silent "Lady of the Night" looks calmly down 
 
 With ghostly pallor on the slumbering earth, 
 
 The while the glimmering stars lend to the scene 
 
 A weird enchantment. 
 
 For years my sleepless eyes 
 
 Hare watched on eve like this 
 
 To hail the coming of the glad New Year. 
 
 Sometimes in solitude with no eyes on me 
 
 Save that of Deity that never shuts; 
 
 Yet oft a favored few, my time tried friends. 
 
 Who in prosperity rejoice with me, 
 
 And in adversity forsake me not, 
 
 Yet even closer cling. 
 
 Oft such keep vigils with me. 
 
 Many were here tonight 
 
 Whose smiling faces by-gone years recall. 
 
 They come to cheer me, for my heart is sad, 
 
 Though veiled the cause for sadness all. 
 
 O would that veil were iron, 
 
 For then the cold, unfeeling world 
 
 Could never see beyond it. 
 
 Alas! 'tis vain, 
 
 And tears will mingle with pretended mirth 
 
 The more we strive to hide them. 
 
 All have their sorrow. 
 
 And within the closet of each human heart 
 
 Is locked and covered up 
 
 A ghastly skeleton, though all unknown 
 
 To fellow mortal, and the merry laugh 
 
156 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Is oft the echo from a broken heart. 
 
 This is the night of pledges, 
 
 The night when hypocrite on bended knee 
 
 Makes solemn vow, knowing the while 
 
 He n'ever means to keep, 
 
 And oft before the New Year morn has waned, 
 
 Behold this model saint with "cast rope" 
 
 Drawing the same old load of sin along. 
 
 Let man be man, woman a woman, and let child be 
 
 child. 
 Away with all deceit and love of self. 
 Do as you would be done by. This is all 
 The "Ten Commandments" in a single line. 
 Pity the homeless, 
 
 For while we sit beside the glowing fire 
 And listen to the wailing of the wind. 
 Thousands are lacking shelter, cloth'es and food. 
 O thou, who even notes the sparrow's fall, 
 Protect the homeless wanderer tonight. 
 Let us b'e thankful, 
 
 Not like the Pharisee who thanked the Lord 
 That he was all unlike his fellow man; 
 But thankful for just what we have and are, 
 For doubtless were strict justice meted out 
 We would be wh'ere the wind is not so chill. 
 But I am weary. 
 
 For the stars have dimmer grown. 
 Soon will the New Year's morn 
 Be dawning o'er the distant eastern hills. 
 
 January 1, 1885. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 157 
 
 GOING, AN INDIAN LEGEND 
 
 INCANTATION. 
 
 Come, fitful muse, with fairy fingers sweep 
 The hidden lyre, in fancy's archives lying, 
 
 While twilight shadows o'er the landscape creep; 
 
 Beyond the rugged hills (a sombre heap), 
 Glimmers the last faint flush of biincet dying. 
 
 Sunlight and twilight vanish from the sky; 
 
 The day is past, forever gone its glory; 
 The moaning breezes through the treetops sigh, 
 Hymning in monotone weird lullaby 
 
 To "Time," whos'e form is bent, whose locks are hoary. 
 
 I wait thy coming and lone vigils keep. 
 
 As lovelorn maiden waits an absent lover; 
 The feathered songster folds his wings to sleep, 
 While careworn mortals rest in slumber d'eep, 
 'Tis then I bid thee come and round me hover. 
 
 Long ago, 'twas in the forties', 
 
 Even in the early forties, 
 
 In lo-was territory, 
 
 Dwelt the redman, the Mesquoqui'es, 
 
 Remnant of the dark Mesquoquies, 
 
 From a tribe extinct descended. 
 
 They were not a warlike people, 
 
 Long since dropped the name of savage; 
 
158 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Yet the superstitious customs 
 
 That in redmen ne'er are lacking, 
 
 Lingered and will ever linger 
 
 'Mong these dusky sons of Nature 
 
 'Till the last one takes the journey 
 
 Through the moonless, starless valley. 
 
 Sunless, moonless, starless valley, 
 
 To the redman's great hereafter. 
 
 Hunting ground of the hereafter. 
 
 Clothes' they wore of their own making, 
 
 Clothing of the soft tanned deerskin, 
 
 And the skins of other creatures 
 
 Formed the wardrobe, formed the bedding, 
 
 While the wick-i-up, the tepee, 
 
 Woven of the bark of basswood, 
 
 Of the soft, white bark of basswood. 
 
 Woven with as much precision 
 
 As the cloth looms weave at Lowell. 
 
 Leggings wore they, men and women, 
 
 (Bucks and Squaws' the pale face call them), 
 
 Moccasins both plain and beaded. 
 
 So alike their garbs were fashioned 
 
 That the casual observer 
 
 Scarcely might their sex distinguish, 
 
 Save the virgins, squaws unmarried, 
 
 Dove-eyed maids of the Mesquoquies, 
 
 By the color of their leggings, 
 
 Leggings of the brilliant scarlet, 
 
 Gave they notice plain and simple 
 
 They in blessedness were single 
 
 Waiting for some brave to claim them 
 
 For a drudge to grace his wigwam. 
 
 Slave and drudge to do the bidding 
 
 Of the slothful lord and master; 
 
 Chop the wood and bring the water, 
 
Musings of tlie Pilgrim Bari 159 
 
 Dress the game and build the tepee, 
 Cook the chuck and bring the pony- 
 To the doorway of the wigwam, 
 While his lazy lordship mounted 
 And the timid dun deer followed. 
 All the slavish household duties 
 Tainted with the slightest labor. 
 Dressing skins and making clothing, 
 Digging, planting, hoeing, raising 
 Patches here and there of squaw corn. 
 Patches of the purple squaw corn. 
 That in roasting ears were eaten 
 At the summer green corn dances. 
 And in winter beat in mortar. 
 Pestled in the wooden mortar, 
 With a hammer made of boulder. 
 Lashed with thong to wooden handle. 
 This when pounded formed the breadstuff. 
 Winter breadstuff the moneta. 
 Breadstuff of the dark Mesquoquies. 
 But your patience least I weary 
 Prating of the Indian customs, 
 I will tell my simple story. 
 Story of the dark Mesquoquies. 
 Every band or tribe of redmen 
 Have a designated chieftain. 
 One whom all acknowledge ruler. 
 One whose mandates all must follow. 
 How at first the chief is chosen. 
 Men well versed in Indian customs 
 S-eem at loggerheads to differ. 
 While each tribe has rites and customs 
 Differing from one another; 
 No historian is writing, 
 'Tis a legend I am writing, 
 
160 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Legend of the dark Mesquoquies, 
 
 Thus these people, the Mesquoquies, 
 
 Had a chieftain good and nobie, 
 
 One whose lofty, chaste example 
 
 Paler people well might follow; 
 
 One who strove to teach his people 
 
 Precepts of the great good spirit; 
 
 Taught them that their pale faced neighbors 
 
 They should treat as man and brother; 
 
 That the tomahawk long since buried 
 
 Should no more be resurrected. 
 
 This great chieftain's name was Cono, 
 
 Cono, chief of the Mesquoquies. 
 
 O for aid of memory's kodax 
 
 While I give a faint description 
 
 Of this giant son of Nature; 
 
 Towered his form erect and stately. 
 
 Not unlike the trees around him, 
 
 Stately oak, and ash and maple 
 
 That for ages had been shading 
 
 Rippling waters of the Wapsi. 
 
 While the snows of fifty winters 
 
 Ne'er had tinged his locks' with silver; 
 
 Dark his hair as raven's plumage. 
 
 As the wing of dark plumed raven. 
 
 Novel headgear wore the chieftain, 
 
 Doubtless of his own invention; 
 
 Never have we seen another 
 
 Like unto the cap of Cono: 
 
 Skin of deer's head, minus antlers. 
 
 In a head dress had been fashioned. 
 
 Ears' on either side upstarting 
 
 Added to its weird appearance; 
 
 Blanket wore he o'er his shoulders, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 161 
 
 Blanket of the faded yellow; 
 Moccasins and buckskin leggings 
 Finished up the quaint apparel. 
 Yet within the dusky bosom, 
 'Neath that worn and faded blanket, 
 Beat a great heart, kind and tender. 
 Every settler in the valley, 
 Valley of the rippling Wapsi, 
 He had paid his friendly visits; 
 Every settler loved his coming, 
 Gave him food and bade him welcome. 
 
 One day when the leaves had fallen. 
 And the grass was dry and yellow, 
 And the autumn winds were sighing 
 Through the treetops on the Wapsi, 
 Death, the unrelenting reaper, 
 Entered in an humble cabin. 
 Crossed the threshold of the doorway, 
 Bore from thence the sinless spirit. 
 Sinless soul of prattling infant. 
 To the great unknown hereafter. 
 
 Round the lifeless clay the household 
 Gathered in the gloam of morning, 
 In the twilight of the morning 
 Gathered every friend and neighbor 
 To assist them in their trouble, 
 In the hour of sad bereavement, 
 Lend them aid and consolation. 
 
 While they stood around the body, 
 Lifeless body of the infant, 
 Speaking low to one another. 
 
162 Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Though uncouth the backwoods custom. 
 
 All the house of death respected. 
 
 As they stood around the body, 
 
 Watching, waiting, sadly waiting. 
 
 From the woods beyond the clearing 
 
 Stepped the stately form of Cono; 
 
 Down the pathway to the cabin 
 
 Strode the chief of the Mesquoquies, 
 
 Pressed his way e'en through the foremost. 
 
 Stood a moment mutely gazing 
 
 Silent as a marble statue. 
 
 Kneeling down with hands outstretching, 
 
 Laid them on the lifeless infant. 
 
 Throbbed his great heart with compassion, 
 
 Bowed his head and stern his visage 
 
 All at once his features lightened. 
 
 Through his mind some thought seemed passing, 
 
 As he rose and quick departed 
 
 Down the pathway through the clearing. 
 
 Soon he vanished like a spectre 
 
 'Mong the trees beyond the clearing; 
 
 Then the neighbors laid the body. 
 
 Lifeless body of the infant, 
 
 In a grave hard by th9 cabin. 
 
 Night had drawn her sombre curtains 
 O'er the valley of the Wapsi;, 
 As the broken household gathered, 
 S-adly gathered 'round the hearthstone. 
 Where the firelight blazed and flickered. 
 They were gathered for devotion, 
 Though each heart was full of sorrow, 
 They must hymn the evening praises, 
 Praises to the Heavenly Father; 
 They must bow to God in Heaven, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 163 
 
 He alone can heal hearts broken. 
 Just as the last words were spoken, 
 As the pray'r the father finished 
 And pronounced the benediction, 
 On the door a rapping sounded 
 Scarcely louder than the dropping 
 Than the leaves that fall in autumn. 
 Mutely gazing at each other 
 Silent sat the smitten circle; 
 Could it be a wandering spirit. 
 Wandering spirit seeking entrance, 
 Seeking the bereaved to comfort? 
 None essayed to guess the meaning, 
 None essayed the door to open. 
 Soon again the rapping sounded 
 Somewhat louder, more distinctly. 
 "Come," the father said, " come enter, 
 Be thou of this sphere terrestial. 
 Or a ministering angel. 
 Angel from the courts of glory, 
 Enter thou this house of sorrow, 
 Welcome to the home of sorrow." 
 Silently the latch was lifted, 
 Creaked the heavy wooden hinges; 
 Silent from the outer darkness. 
 As from out a wall of darkness, 
 Stepped the well known form of Cono, 
 Cono, chief of the Mesquoquies; 
 In his arms he bore a bundle. 
 Closely wrapped in scarlet blanket. 
 Not a word the chieftain uttered. 
 Strode across the floor of puncheon. 
 Never panther stepped more stealthy. 
 Kneeling by the stricken mother. 
 Carefully removed the wrapping 
 
164 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 From the bundle he had carried; 
 Dirg-e like song the while he chanted. 
 Chanted in Mesquoquies language. 
 Starts the mother in amazement 
 At the gift that Cono proffered — 
 Infant pappoose, Indian baby. 
 
 By his signs and broken language 
 Story sad the chieftain told them, 
 How the squaw, the infant's mother, 
 Two sleeps since, had gone the journey 
 Through the moonless, starless valley. 
 Sunless, moonless, starless valley. 
 To that happy land hereafter, 
 Happy hunting ground hereafter. 
 Left the pappoose faint and crying; 
 Then he whispered, frowning darkly, 
 That the superstitious custom 
 Of the Indian, the Mesquoquies, 
 Bade the chief to kill the infant 
 That they might proceed together, 
 Child and mother keep tog^ether, 
 Through the moonless, starless valley, 
 Sunless, moonless, starless valley, 
 To the happy great hereafter. 
 Then he told them that, directed 
 By the Manitou, the Spirit, 
 (Red man's God, the great white Spirit). 
 He had brought the helpless infant 
 To his pale face friend, the mother. 
 Hoping thus to soothe her anguish. 
 Fill an aching void paternal. 
 
 Reader, here we draw the curtain, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 165 
 
 Though the infant, kindly nurtured. 
 Grew to boyhood, grew to manhood. 
 This is but an Indian legend 
 And a true and faithful picture 
 Of the manners and the customs. 
 Superstitious rites and customs'. 
 Of the red man, the Mesquoquies. 
 
166 Musings of tne Pilgrim Bard 
 
 WAOINA, THE HUINTBR'S D/VUGMTBR 
 
 The summer sun was sinking in the West, 
 And twilight shades were slowly creeping on; 
 
 Th"e mocking bird had flown to bower of rest, 
 And to his lair the savage beast had gone; 
 The breeze crept through the trees with low and plaintive 
 moan. 
 
 A hunter's cabin nestles' in the dell, 
 
 Built of rough logs and rudely thatched with bark. 
 
 Here does Waona and her father dwell 
 
 As happy as the new fledged morning lark, 
 Through summer day or winter drear and dark. 
 
 'Twas westward many a long and weary mile 
 In slmdowy nook beside a mountain stream. 
 
 The dark-eyed maid Waona sat the while 
 Watching the sun's' last lingering, parting gleam 
 Like gold-tinged mantle clothe day's dying dream. 
 
 The fath'er, with the early dawn of morn, 
 Had left his home, afar in search of game. 
 
 And though the summer day to night had worn, 
 Still to the lone retreat no father came. 
 Waona clasps her hands and breathes his name. 
 
 High rides the moon in summer midnight sky, 
 
 Still sits the maiden by the rippling stream; 
 Anon she hears the night bird's lonely cry 
 
 Or listens to the panther's dismal scream. 
 
 Anon she starts as from a troubled dream. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 167 
 
 'Tather!" she cries, her silvery voice is borne 
 
 Far out upon the stilly midnight air, 
 But only echo answers in return. 
 
 And seems to mock her in her wild despair. 
 
 Exhausted now she murmurs, "Where, O where." 
 
 Alas! that loving father com'es no more; 
 
 The cruel tom'hawk sank within his brain. 
 His body lies e'en now all drenched in gore 
 
 Beneath the stars on yonder grassy plain. 
 
 Waona, thou shalt wait for him in vain. 
 
 Still does the maid her lonely vigils keep, 
 Though wan and wasted to a skeleton; 
 
 And she will neither eat nor will she sleep, 
 Though v/earily the hours drag on and on, 
 'Till many summer days are come and gone. 
 
 But now 'tis o'er, her weird watch must close; 
 
 Faint and more faint she draws her parting breath. 
 As shuts' at summer eventide the rose. 
 
 Her hands are folded on her lifeless breast, 
 
 S'o does Waona fall asleep in death. 
 
 No friendly hands shall lay her body down 
 Beneath the daisies in the lonely dell; 
 
 The wailing night wind sings her requiem lone, 
 Her sinless soul has gone on high to dwell, 
 So dark-eyed maid, Waona, fare thee well. 
 
168 Musings of tlie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 A GMIbD'S VIEW or THE SITUATIOIN 
 
 No, I can't have any Christmas an' I've half a mind to cry; 
 Just listen to my story an' I'll tell the reason why: 
 Papa says a'fore a great while we'll be wearin' gunny sacks 
 If we live upon our homested an' must pay such fearful tax. 
 
 Sometimes Papa cusses awful 'bout the taxes bein' high; 
 Wishes someone was a burnin' in the lower bye an' bye; 
 An' he says we must git tin bills an' perform the chicken act. 
 For no one can live decently an' pay such fearful tax. 
 
 We are livin' in a dugout — just a hole dug in the hill — 
 
 An' all our bread is made of corn cracked on an old horse mill, 
 
 An' the sand about our doorway shows our little barefoot 
 
 tracks, 
 For Papa couldn't buy us shoes an' pay such awful tax. • 
 
 My Mamma just wears calico — an' faded too at that — 
 She don't have Sunday meetin' clothes nor any Sunday hat; 
 She don't complain, but often says her mind it sorely racks 
 To see her children ragged an' the money go for tax. 
 
 I'm goin' to write to Santa Claus an' tell him to keep cl'ear 
 Of Woods county, Oklahoma, where the taxes are so dear; 
 Where the people worked in broom corn 'till they nearly broke 
 
 their backs 
 An' then they couldn't sell it for enough to pay their tax. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 169 
 
 Next time that man comes with his book we ought to all hide 
 
 out 
 An' take the dogs an' not let on there's any one about; 
 I'll take my playthings all along an' hide behind the stacks, 
 Then I couldn't ask no questions an' he'd never g'et no tax. 
 
 I heard a man a tellin' Pa that Mister Government 
 
 Would give us all free homesteads an' they'd never cost a cent; 
 
 But Papa whistled softly an' looked a look of scorn 
 
 An' he muttered something else about a pig's eye an' a horn. 
 
 We used to go to Sunday school away up in the State, 
 
 An' they told us about streets of gold an' Heaven's golden 
 
 gate; 
 I bet if I was up th'ere, when the angels turned their backs 
 I'd throw a chunk of gold to Pa to help him pay his tax. 
 
 Winchester, O. T., December 16, 1895. 
 
170 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 ©MOBS 
 
 Some people are a hankerin' for other peoples' gear, 
 
 While some whose jobs' are threatened are a-shiverin' with fear. 
 
 They are racked with dire misgivin's as they toss on sleepless 
 
 beds. 
 And they dream they see the basket that is waitin' for their 
 
 heads. 
 But I aint got no misgivin's, an' I aint got any blues. 
 Just because I aint a-waitin' for no other feller's shoes. 
 
 I am just a bully fellow when they want my recommend. 
 And the great big teardrops glisten while they claim me for a 
 
 friend. 
 But when they land their oflfice and begin to crunch their pie, 
 I am just the same old Pilgrim; I am only little I. 
 Still I have the consolation, and it drives away the blues, 
 When I know I aint a-waitin' for no other feller's shoes'. 
 
 I am proud to think I always tried to treat my fellers right, 
 
 An' I'm glad no trickin' shyster has a string on my old kite. 
 
 I never fished for office and I never crunched no pie. 
 
 An' I'm sorty independent, though I am but little I. 
 
 'Tis the sunshine of contentment that will drive away the blues. 
 
 An' I'm glad I aint a-waitin' for no other feller's shoes. 
 
 Pilgrim's Repose, March 19, 1902. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 171 
 
 ALBUM UINBS 
 
 Heaven guard thy footsteps, little maid, 
 So mayest thou shun each ambuscade 
 
 And tempter's snare; 
 'Mongst roses lurk full many a thorn, 
 Fond idols' oft to dust are borne 
 
 'Mid grief and care. 
 
 Virtue lends hope immortal light, 
 Unwavering, ever, ever bright. 
 
 Ne'er dim nor pale; 
 Ever do right with conscience free, 
 And fairer treasures wait for thee 
 
 Beyond the vale. 
 
 The scythe of Time is mowing ever 
 
 'Right about a body's heels ; 
 And the change is wrought so clever 
 
 And so silently it steals, 
 Steals upon us unawares, 
 'Mid life's strife and joy and cares, 
 And we scarce can realize 
 How Time's old vehicle flies 
 
 Until youth has passed forever 'neath its wheels. 
 
172 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Memory is- swe'et if one has traits of worth; 
 
 Even the lowly may such traits possess. 
 Mortals should strive while here on this good earth 
 
 On those they meet some pleasure to impress', 
 So when this transient coil they shuflfle off 
 Some one may mourn and none their memory scoif. 
 So be this careworn face an open page, 
 Read o'er and o'er from youth 'til riper age. 
 When you have read my visage and these lines, 
 If one bright glimmer through the life mist shines', 
 Remember only that one radiant beam, 
 And let my faults glide down oblivion's stream. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bai'd 173 
 
 rRAGMBNTS 
 
 A little while 
 Dark clouds' may hide the sun, 
 Yet doubly brilliant is its radiant smile 
 When the dark mantled, ominous clouds roll by, 
 Leaving the sun, in grand supremacy. 
 
 Many a man for wealth hath sighed, 
 
 For wealth and ease and luxury; 
 Many a man in quest of wealth hath died, 
 
 Died in wretched poverty. 
 Beshrew the wealth, and ease that wealth may bring; 
 
 Contentment bringeth ease, denied a king. 
 
 What though the bright plumed birds are gaily singing 
 
 Their twittering notes of free wild m'elody, 
 Though sweetest flowers from Nature's heath are springing, 
 The doom bells of my broken heart are ringing, 
 
 No one loves me, no one cares for me. 
 
 A gift, however small, if friendship's token. 
 
 Is often prized above the diamond's sheen; 
 May the strong links that bind ne'er be broken, 
 And though the sad farewell must needs be spoken, 
 Distance divide and rivers flow between, 
 Kind thoughts will keep the leaves of memory green. 
 
 Do right today while yet in tender youth; 
 Do unto others as ye would that they 
 
 Should do to you, follow the paths' of truth. 
 
 Years hence, as backward o'er life's path ye gaze, 
 No vain regrets will mar your by-gone days. 
 
174 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 FARBWEbb, OLD MOMB 
 
 [Dedicated to my esteemed friend, C. C. Hahn] 
 
 Farewell, old home; I loved thee long and dearly. 
 'Twas hard to leave thy haunts and scenes forever, 
 But cruel fate, combined with sad reverses, 
 Has' so decided, and I humbly bow me 
 Before the rod that smiteth keen and sorely. 
 'Twas ever thus, misfortune's dark'ning shadows 
 Like sable pall do gather o'er my pathv/ay. 
 E'en when the welcome, genial sun of friendship 
 Had erst have shone to cheer me for a moment, 
 An April day of shadow more than sunshine. 
 
 Yet why give way at last to childish weakness? 
 
 In youth and manhood I have borne my burden. 
 
 And now as age creeps on and threads of silver 
 
 Gleam in my locks that once outvied the raven, 
 
 And steps, once agile, now infirm and uncertain, 
 
 Draw nearer to the silent river's margin. 
 
 Where gleam the snow white sails of death's lone ferry 
 
 Waiting to waft us from the mystic portals. 
 
 I must be strong; I will, so help me Heaven, 
 
 And silence every murmur dark and gloomy, 
 
 And kiss the wand of fate in meek submission. 
 
 Farewell, old home ; a silent heap of ashes 
 Alone remains to tell the passing stranger 
 This was the homestead of a wandering Pilgrim. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 175 
 
 'Twas here the house engendered inspiration, 
 And fairy spirits held their close communion 
 With one who loved their soft wings silent swishing- 
 Immortal visitants who visit mortals. 
 
 Farewell, my friends; forgive my only boasting. 
 Thank God alike the leaflets and the grasses. 
 Or grains of sand upon the ocean's margin — 
 A multitude, a host I may not number. 
 I may not take the hand in friendly parting; 
 I may not call each name in separate order. 
 May he who notes the tiny sparrow's falling, 
 And rules the destiny of men and nations. 
 Watch over all. "Farewell" in faith and friendship. 
 
 Pilgrim's Valley, O. T., March 25, 1894. 
 
176 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 ** I SHi^UL* NOT DIB " 
 
 [Last words of Ex-Governor Martin of Kansas.] 
 
 "I shall not die," the statesman said, 
 
 His breath came faint and slow, 
 While weeping friends around his- bed, 
 
 His cheeks were pale, his heart beat low. 
 Gloom boded o'er the darkened room — 
 All knew the final hour had come — 
 Yet as death glazed that noble eye 
 He calmly said, "I shall not die." 
 
 I shall not die — the veil was gone 
 
 Through sunlit portals of the blest; 
 His raptured eyes might feast upon 
 
 The haven of eternal rest; 
 The tree of life, the streets of gold, 
 That mortal eye may not behold; 
 Death's terror fled, without a sigh 
 He softly said, "I shall not die." 
 
 O mourner, lift thy downcast head, 
 
 No longer for the great man weep; 
 The noble statesman is not dead, 
 
 But only sleeps the righteous sleep. 
 The feeble tenement of clay 
 To dust may moulder and decay, 
 Yet far beyond the azure sky 
 The soul shall live and never die. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 177 
 
 Not dead! On Fame's immortal page, 
 
 In lines indelible and fair, 
 When Time is bent with hoary age, 
 
 Thy name will shine forever there. 
 And on the shaft above thy head 
 In yon lone city of the dead, 
 Will this inscription meet the eye, 
 Thy own last words, "I shall not die." 
 
178 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 TO b. G. r. 
 
 Farewell, and thou art gone 
 
 To seek a home beyond the mountain range ; 
 Full many a day thy friendship have I known, 
 How sad to think those happy days have flown. 
 
 The destiny of mortals ever change. 
 
 Farewell, and may the hand 
 
 That tempers to the poor shorn lamb the wind, 
 Shield thee and thine when in that far off land. 
 May health and fortune be at thy command, 
 
 And friends as true as those you left behind. 
 
 Farewell, we ne'er may meet 
 
 Again upon the river's nearer shore; 
 Yet careworn Pilgrims may each other greet. 
 And lay the sandals from their weary feet 
 In tnat bright land beyond the dark divide. 
 
Musings of tJic Pilgrim Bard 179 
 
 THB MAID OF BARBER 
 
 The foundation of this poem is laid in Barber county, 
 Kansas, during its early settlement. The Cow Boy, "Walt," 
 and "Malena, The Maid of Barber," are real and not fictitious 
 characters as might be supposed; for the rest of the tale I 
 have drawn largely on imagination, assisted by a thorough 
 knowledge of the country embraced in the poem. The story 
 from first to last covers a period of several years'. 
 
 THE COW BOY. 
 
 Oh ye who know the cow boy not. 
 Can never know his lonely lot; 
 Lightning and cyclone, wind and rain. 
 Will never make the boy complain; 
 And oft on night-herd trills his lay 
 To drive the drowsy hours away. 
 Or, sleeping, dreams of loved ones dear 
 Who mourn him lost for many a year. 
 Again he treads his father's hall. 
 And listens to his mother's call. 
 Broth'ers and sisters smiling come 
 To welcome the lost wanderer home. 
 But hark! His broncho sniffs the air, 
 A storm dissolves his visions fair. 
 Around him draws his slicker close 
 That gave him look of wandering ghost; 
 Tightens his cinch for direst need. 
 He dreads the cattle's wild stampede; 
 They scent the breeze and paw the ground, 
 Their bellowing notes the vales resound.. 
 Well does the boy his duty know, 
 
180 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Quickens liis movements (never slow), 
 And plunging by the long-horned sea, 
 Singing a low, weird melody. 
 The wild, stampeding herd is milled, 
 The morning dawns, the storm is stilled. 
 I know the "Cow Boy" in the East 
 Is oft compared to savage beast; 
 Shame, ever shame, should be the cry 
 In answer to the silly lie. 
 True, many a desperado mean 
 Has hid beneath the cow boy's sheen, 
 While correspondents, fond of show. 
 Report a dreadful cow boy row. 
 By him the stranger is revered, 
 And many a weary heart is cheered, 
 When wandering lone in darkest night, 
 A friendly cow camp looms in sight. 
 Oft have I shared their simple fare. 
 Slept with them on the desert bare; 
 The starlit sky for canopy. 
 The coyote's howl our lullaby; 
 While the poor Bard can wield a pen 
 Their title shall be gentlemen. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 'Twas night, the wind soughed mournfully 
 Through branches of the canon tree; 
 The lightning shone with vivid flash, 
 Mingled with thunder's deafening crash; 
 Windows of Heaven were op'ed amain, 
 In torrents fell the blinding rain; 
 Weird scenes like these weak mortals' may 
 Remind that they are dust and clay. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 181 
 
 Compared with that o'er ruling power 
 Who stills' the tempest's darkest hour. 
 
 Crouched 'neath the shelter of a tree 
 
 (That shook and trembled fearfully), 
 
 With elbow resting on his knee, 
 
 And long black hair unloosed and free, 
 
 His sunbrown face was deathly pale, 
 
 'Tis "Walt," the hero of my tale, 
 
 Holding the bronch's bridle rein 
 
 Inat crouches from the dashing rain. 
 
 Trembles the horse like an aspen leaf, 
 
 Or storm tossed ship in ocean reef. 
 
 Oft toward the camp he gazes back 
 
 And longs to take the lonely track. 
 
 Why waits' the lonely Cow Boy there, 
 
 Whose look betokens dire despair; 
 
 Why peer into the blinding rain. 
 
 Open his lips then close again, 
 
 As though h'e feared to speak the word 
 
 That still his inmost bosom stirred; 
 
 As though he dared not breathe the name. 
 
 The idol of his' bosom's flame. 
 
 Oft 'neath that canon's darksome shade 
 
 He whiled the hours with Barber's maid; 
 
 Their vows said o'er each trysting day, 
 
 To love, to cherish and obey 
 
 Each other 'till the hand of death 
 
 Should close their eyes on scenes beneath. 
 
 Full well he knew her sire forbade 
 
 His' courtship of fair Barber's maid, 
 
 Yet still he loved his idol dear. 
 
 Month after month, year after year; 
 
 Oft fell his tears like summer rain 
 
182 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Whene'er he thought his hopes were vain. 
 Full deeply had her father swore 
 That she should see him never more. 
 
 The rain has ceased, the wind is- still, 
 Bright shines the moon o'er dale and hill; 
 Still does the lad his vigil keep, 
 His eyelids ne'er betoken sleep. 
 He muses half aloud anon: 
 "Why does' Malena wait so long? 
 If aught befalls her woe to me, 
 None other can I love but thee." 
 Then as the words the actions suit, 
 Forth from his breast he drew a flute; 
 Wildly and weird the music fell, 
 Waking the echoes of the dell; 
 The mournful time to dirge like lay 
 Swells on the breeze then dies away; 
 As rolls the last sad notes along 
 He softly trills a lover's song. 
 
 "I wait for thee, dearest, to worship and love thefe, 
 
 Awaiting thee, all heart broken; 
 Sweetly the moon and the stars shine above me, 
 Yet I 'wait from my darlmg a token; 
 Oh the dreams of the past — 
 In my memory will last, 
 'Till life's brittle cord shall be broken. 
 
 Oh sad is the fate that has driven me from thee, 
 Out in the cold world so lonely; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 183 
 
 The bitter of life is forever for me, 
 And I drink to the dregs, for thee only 
 I would yield to despair — 
 If I knew thou wouldst care 
 For the Cow Boy, heart broken and lonely. 
 
 It may be e'en now you will try to forget 
 The past that will come again, never; 
 Ah, no! that true heart will not yield to regret, 
 Even down to death's cold, darksome river; 
 Then my idol and me — 
 When our spirits are free, 
 Over there, reunited forever." 
 
 Just as he ceased his plaintive lay 
 
 A shadow broke the moonlit ray; 
 
 The broncho starts and pricks his ears — 
 
 Deem not the Cow Boy was afraid. 
 
 The slightest sound black Moro hears; 
 
 Though hand upon his pistol laid. 
 
 Deep, peering in the leafy shade, 
 
 Perhaps some prowling beast he said: 
 
 "Would 'twere Malena; woe is me, 
 
 I fear mishap has fallen thee — " 
 
 His muse cut short with gladsome spring, 
 
 "Ho, Leo! dost thou tidings bring?" 
 
 It was Malena's faithful hound, 
 
 With scarlet cord his neck was bound, 
 
 And to the cord a tiny note, 
 
 A message that the maiden wrote. 
 
 Walt cut the cord, then bade him go. 
 
 That she, his idol, well might know 
 
 That Leo had his errand done; 
 
184 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Then soon a flick'ring firelight shone 
 Upon the message strangely brought, 
 Yet with regret and sorrow fraught. 
 "Bless thee, my Angel!" Walter said. 
 Thus ran the lines the Cow Boy read: 
 "My father has discovered all, 
 And heavily the blow may fall. 
 A prisoner I, within my room. 
 Close guarded as in living tomb. 
 Yet, though I perish, think of me, 
 Living or dead, still true to thee. 
 My sire is in the room beneath, 
 I dare not speak above my breath; 
 My vows are sealed with God above, 
 Death, only death, can conquer love. 
 Farewell, my Walter, fare thee well, 
 We ne'er may meet (I cannot tell) 
 On earth, yet we may meet above. 
 Where naught can mar our sacred love." 
 The Cow Boy read the missive o'er. 
 Each time he blessed the maiden more. 
 Then trembling as though half afraid, 
 He thus addressed the absent maid: 
 "Why, oh why, doth fate decree — 
 Barring me for aye from thee, 
 All lonely in the world so wide! 
 
 Each cross will have its crown, 
 
 Roses with thorns are strown, 
 Upon life's dark and troubled tide. 
 
 I will love thee forever — 
 
 Death only will sever, 
 We shall meet again beyond the dark divide. 
 
 The fire went out. the embers died, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 185 
 
 Still sat the Cow Boy by its side 
 
 Musing, until in eastern skies 
 
 The great day god began to rise. 
 
 The feathered songsters on th*e wing 
 
 The orisons of morning sing; 
 
 But morning sun with golden sheen, 
 
 The dew drops in its rays that gleam, 
 
 The twittering warblers' songs of glee 
 
 But mock the lone boy's misery; 
 
 Wh'en true love grasps the heart and mind 
 
 To other charms' that soul is blind; 
 
 But rousing from his reverie 
 
 He mounts and quits the canon tree, 
 
 And turning we^t in pensive flight 
 
 Soon o'er the hills is lost to sight, 
 
 And while he rides over hill and glade 
 
 Let us repair to Barb'er's maid. 
 
 Oh land of Barber, fair and free, 
 Ever the Bard will sing of thee; 
 Thy rugged hills, thy canons lone, 
 Whose shaggy sides with trees o'er grown; 
 Thy grass clad slopes and winding stream 
 Are subjects' fit for the poet's dream; 
 Yet brighter than the sunshine's gleam, 
 Reflected on the rippling stream. 
 And lovelier than the flowerets fair, 
 That waste their sweets on desert air. 
 Was she who through the valleys strayed. 
 The "Bonnie Lassie," Barber's maid. 
 Gentle at times' as timid dove. 
 That mourns and coos for mate to love; 
 Yet as the eagle fierce and proud. 
 When roused, nor cared the maid to shroud 
 
186 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 In guise of base hypocrisy. 
 
 Pure was her soul, her actions free. 
 
 Oh Barber's maid for thee this day 
 
 Will swell the minstrel's humble lay. 
 
 Dark was her eye, her statue tall, 
 
 Her raven hair unbraided all 
 
 Fell e'en below her slender waist; 
 
 Her garb might suit a prince's taste; 
 
 Yet in her bearing all may see 
 
 An emblem of simplicity. 
 
 No wonder, then, the maiden's heart 
 
 Was pierced with love's mysterious- dart 
 
 When "Walt," the Cow Boy, sought h'er hand. 
 
 The fairest Cow Boy in the land; 
 
 Sparkled his coal black eyes beneath — 
 
 His broad-brimmed hat with golden wreath. 
 
 Gentle his manner, proud his mien, 
 
 Malena deemed she ne'er had seen 
 
 So graceful and so fair a boy, 
 
 Her maiden heart was wild with joy. 
 
 Her mother had long since been dead — 
 
 She died of broken heart, 'tis saia; 
 
 She wept her darling child to leave. 
 
 This was her only cause to grieve; 
 
 For jealous, tyrant husband she 
 
 Showed neither grief nor sympathy; 
 
 While hypocritic, well feigned tear 
 
 The husband shed above her bier, 
 
 Then turned with sanctimonious air 
 
 The while he breathed an inward prayer. 
 
 His jealousy was at an end. 
 
 Thoughtless he said aloud: "Amen." 
 
 Scarce had the pious word been spoke 
 
 When on his eye a vision broke; 
 
 Parted the clouds and far above 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 187 
 
 He saw his oft insulted lore; 
 Angels her freed soul bore away 
 To sunshine of eternal day; 
 A sweet voice broke the stillness 'round. 
 Startled the recreant at the sound; 
 "Whither I go ye cannot come, 
 I bask in sunshine, thou in gloom; 
 Farewell, base man, with stony heart. 
 Farewell, we must forever part." 
 Whether the tale be true or not. 
 No more he lingered near the spot. 
 But wandered to the western land 
 Where sets the sun with landscape grand. 
 In one short night, dark rumors say. 
 His raven hair was turned to gray. 
 'Tis true and yet how passing strange 
 A villain scarce his ways will change, 
 'Till dancing on a hempen rope 
 He pass beyond the bounds of hope. 
 
 Malena, sweet and guileless child. 
 
 Came with him to the western wild, 
 
 And in a cabin, rude and lone, 
 
 For years they made their humble home. 
 
 At length the wilds began to yield 
 
 To herds of kine and farmers' field; 
 
 For westward did the poet say 
 
 The star of empire takes its way. 
 
 She hunted with him in the chase, 
 
 Ever with hopeful and smiling face, 
 
 Ever with zealous housewife care. 
 
 His food and sleeping to prepare; 
 
 Her father's whims she ne'er would mind, 
 
 Though often times to her unkind, 
 
188 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 For all too much as passed each year 
 'Resembl'ed she her mother dear. 
 
 One day from hunting he returned, 
 His very soul with passion burned; 
 He told what he was forced to do. 
 The haughty Cow Boy he had slew; 
 He dared my mandate to defy, 
 He courted death that he might die. 
 Soon as he spoke the damning lie, 
 The maiden fixed her gaze oh high, 
 A moment's silence dread and deep, 
 Her eyes were fire, she could not weep. 
 Then turning to her sire she said: 
 "Go, demon, go from Barber's maid; 
 Wash from your hands the guilty stain 
 And bid my Walter live again." 
 Then trembling on the maniac's verge 
 She murmured low a plaintive dirge: 
 
 "Low lies my only love — 
 Fair flowers will bloom above 
 
 His grave in the wild; 
 God of the orphan, heed 
 Me in my direst need — 
 
 Hear thy poor child. 
 Thou who doest guard and bless 
 Mortals in dark distress, 
 
 List to my humble prayer. 
 
 Take me from sin and pain, 
 Where loved ones meet again, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 189 
 
 O take me there. 
 Would that this head might rest 
 On that cold, lifeless breast. 
 
 O'er thy stilled heart. 
 Then in eternity- 
 Spirits from earth clods free 
 
 Never to part." 
 
 Sudden the maiden ceased to speak, 
 Quick fled the roses from her cheek, 
 Rigid her features; set in death, 
 Silent her pulse and gone her breath; 
 No more with life and strength supplied. 
 Her dimpled hands fell by her side. 
 One last sad smile of hope and love 
 Play o'er those lips that cease to move; 
 Fri'ends gather round in wild dismay, 
 And strive death's icy hand to stay; 
 But futile all, the spirit fled 
 And Barber's lovely maid is dead. 
 And soon the coffin and the shroud 
 Enclose that form so young and proud. 
 Neighbors and friends with solemn grace 
 Consign them to their resting place. 
 Just as- the sun was sinking down 
 His last rays kissed that lon'ely mound. 
 The rites are o'er, the prayers are said. 
 In silence slumbers Barber's maid. 
 Far on a height a horseman lone 
 Stood silent as' a bust of stone. 
 The Cow Boy, Walt, had witnessed all, 
 And as the darkness spread its pall, 
 And the pale "Lady of the Night" 
 Lent weird enchantment to the sight, 
 
190 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard, 
 
 Toward the grave tlie broncho turned, 
 
 And soon the turf behind him spurned. 
 
 Walt leaped from saddle to the plain 
 
 And loosely dropped his bridle rem, 
 
 And kneeling by the silent mound 
 
 His beating heart gave all the sound; 
 
 Starting he said, "I must, I must, 
 
 Ne'er shall that loved one turn to dust 
 
 'Till her I see I love so well, 
 
 And kiss those lips one sad farewell." 
 
 Then by a sudden impulse stirred, 
 
 He grasped the headboard, smooth and hard, 
 
 And worked as seldom mortal did 
 
 Until he reached the casket's lid; 
 
 Then with the strength of giant's grasp 
 
 He broke the coffin's brazen clasp; 
 
 One instant as the face he eyed, 
 
 Those lovely eyes' are open wide; 
 
 "Great God! she lives, she lives," he cries, 
 
 While tears of joy well from his eyes. 
 
 Quickly he raised that form beloved 
 
 And placed her on the plain above; 
 
 "Mine, mine," he cried, "in life or death," 
 
 As gasped the maid with coming breath; 
 
 "I robbed the grave of victory, 
 
 My life, my love return to me." 
 
 ■ Oh, Walter," spoke the trembling maid, 
 
 "And art thou here in Heaven?" she said. 
 
 "Lost, ever lost on earth to me, 
 
 Y'et mine through all eternity." 
 
 "Maiden," he said, "though not in Heaven, 
 
 The past forgotten and forgiven; 
 
 If to some other land we flee. 
 
 Thy love is Heaven enough for me." 
 
 He told her all believed her dead, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 191 
 
 Then pointed to the grave and said: 
 "Let that a solemn emblem be 
 That thou art now forever free." 
 "Oh Walter, be it thus," she said, 
 Thine, ever thine, is Barber's maid; 
 And slumbering 'neath some other sky, 
 This head shall on thy bosom lie." 
 And as they filled the yawning grave 
 Each vowed to be the other's slave. 
 And while the night bird trilled his note 
 They 'rise and quit the lonely spot, 
 Malena on the broncho's back 
 That followed close on Walter's track; 
 Through canon dark and prairie wide 
 All fearless' did the maiden ride. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The eve grew late, and chill and damp; 
 At length they reached a lonely camp 
 Within a grove of stunted wood; 
 Long had the ranch deserted stood, 
 But soon a cheerful, welcome blaze 
 Startled the owl, and in amaze 
 The coyote further slunk away; 
 The mountain lion stood at bay. 
 Wondering what reckless being dare 
 To thus disturb his midnight lair. 
 "Here may we rest," did Walter say, 
 " 'Till on the morrow dawns the day." 
 Food from his saddle pocket took, 
 The water from the babbling brook; 
 The maid partook with humble zest. 
 Well pleased was Walter that his guest 
 Relished the food, though plain and rough. 
 
192 Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Food deemed by Cow Boy good enough; 
 
 Tlien by the fire his blankets laid, 
 
 Soon slumber wrapped the weary maid, 
 
 While Walter watched with tender care 
 
 His sleeping charge, so young and fair. 
 
 At last the morn began to dawn. 
 
 Sweet sang the larks on Nature's lawn; 
 
 Soft does the morning mocker sing 
 
 And trim th'e plumage in his wing. 
 
 When broken was their morning fast 
 
 One look the Cow Boy round him cast. 
 
 Then blushing hung his head to say 
 
 He deemed it best in man's array 
 
 That they should journey through the wild. 
 
 The while the maiden spoke she smiled, 
 
 "Thy will is mine, be what it may, 
 
 But where this guise of man's array?" 
 
 Then Walter said, "I have a suit 
 
 From head to foot, with hat to boot; , 
 
 Go try them on while I retire. 
 
 Consign your wardrobe to the fire. 
 
 I'll saddle Moro on the lea. 
 
 And at the door will wait for thee." 
 
 Nor had he long to wait, for soon 
 
 A form emerged from out the room 
 
 That made him start, although aware 
 
 Malena was the lad so fair. 
 
 She laughed aloud at his amaze, 
 
 Then blushed to mark his longing gaze, 
 
 Then gaily said, "Please call me Will, 
 
 I will be thy Malena still." 
 
 Both mounted on the broncho's back. 
 
 Again they take the lonely track. 
 
 The Cimarron passed safely o'er. 
 
 They camped upon its southern shore. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 193 
 
 While "Will" made camp-fire, Walter slew 
 A deer that passed too close in view. 
 Thus did they feast on Nature's game, 
 Brown roasted in the camp-fire's flame. 
 Then, weary, lay they down to sleep. 
 And soon are wrapped in slumber deep. 
 At early dawn the flesh of deer 
 S-erved them again for morning cheer. 
 At noon they stopped at Fort Supply, 
 'Twas here that Walter thought to buy 
 A broncho for fair "Will" to ride, 
 Saddle, with stirrups on each side. 
 Spurs, quirt and pistol, belt and knife. 
 With which to guard that precious life. 
 A bargain made, soon Walter came 
 With snow white broncho, sleek and tame. 
 Proud was' the maid, as ne'er before. 
 Soon as the noonday meal was o'er 
 Their forward journey they pursue 
 Till night her sable curtain drew. 
 Thus three days more they journeyed on. 
 O'er prairie wastes, through forests lone. 
 Naught met they on their lonely way 
 Their peace to mar, while songsters gay 
 Cheered them from bramble, bush and tree. 
 Dame Nature's' sweetest melody. 
 The third night in a canon lone. 
 Through which a brooklet trinkled down, 
 Beneath the boughs of cedar shade 
 At sunset hour their camp they made. 
 Malena built the camp-fire near 
 The brooklet running swift and clear. 
 The merry scenery around 
 Was mellowed by its babbling sound. 
 Crackled the fire as Walter came 
 
194 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 And from his saddle threw his game; 
 
 The haunches of a sleek, black bear 
 
 Must serve them for their bill of fare; 
 
 And through the fastness of the dell 
 
 The air gave forth a savory smell, 
 
 And well content those lovers dine 
 
 As king and queen on feast and wine; 
 
 As well content 'neath forest tree 
 
 As king 'neath royal canopy. 
 
 All day the clouds had low'ed, and now 
 
 Anon the Heavens sent forth a glow. 
 
 The flashing lightning served to warn 
 
 The wanderers of impending storm, 
 
 Yet in love's sweet security 
 
 'Neath spreading boughs of canon tree, 
 
 They care not though the storm may come, 
 
 Storm sprites will find them quite at home; 
 
 And lower as the camp-fire glows 
 
 Sinks man and maid in sweet repose. 
 
 Thrice two, the dreaming hours' glide by, 
 
 At once it seemed the angry sky 
 
 Parted, as poured the blinding rain. 
 
 The brooklet soon like billowy main 
 
 Rushed down the glen in fury wild. 
 
 Alas sweet sleep no more beguiled — 
 
 The eyelids of the luckless pair. 
 
 High 'mid the boughs with silent prayer 
 
 Malena waits. Walter has gone 
 
 To see the horses are undone, 
 
 For tethered on the grassy lea, 
 
 They must be drowned unless set free. 
 
 High rose the flood and kissed the feet 
 
 Of poor Malena in her seat 
 
 Of peril on the slender bough 
 
 That swayed like cradle to and fro. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 195 
 
 At times it seem'ed the angry flood, 
 
 Mingled with logs of drifting wood, 
 
 Would sweep the tree from out its path, 
 
 So dreadful was its surging wrath. 
 
 Poor maid what terrors crowd on thee. 
 
 Environed in a raging sea. 
 
 Thoughts fill her mind so dark and dread. 
 
 She feared that Walter might be dead. 
 
 Fondly she wished if it be so 
 
 That she might never live to know, 
 
 For, ah, than death she deemed it worse 
 
 To gaze upon the lifeless corse. 
 
 A rustle higher up the tree 
 
 Broke short her dreadful reverie; 
 
 Instinctively she upward gazed. 
 
 Two eyes like living coals that blazed — 
 
 Had well nigh turned her heart to stone, 
 
 Till now she deemed she was alone. 
 
 Some beast the torrents terrified 
 
 Had 'mong the branches sought to hide; 
 
 Perchance as much surprised as she 
 
 At such unlocked for company. 
 
 What should she do, she gasped for breath, 
 
 Sh'e saw no avenue but death. 
 
 How slowly drag the long hours by 
 
 'Till dawn appears in eastern sky. 
 
 The rain has ceased, 'tis twilight hour, 
 
 Still in the sky the dark clouds lower. 
 
 Dark, dismal day appeared at last, 
 
 The fury of the flood was passed; 
 
 And soon the brooklet in its bound 
 
 Gave forth its wonted rippling sound. 
 
 The coug'er bounded to the ground 
 
 And soon was- lost to mortal ken 
 
 Among the foliage of the glen. 
 
196 Musings of iae Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Descending from her frightful perch 
 
 The wretched maid began her search. 
 
 She shouted 'till her voice was hoars'e 
 
 As down the brook she bent her course; 
 
 At length, 'mong tangled drift and weed 
 
 She spies all dead her milk white steed. 
 
 Though whirls her brain, she mubt not faint, 
 
 With no bewailing nor complaint 
 
 She murmurs as she presses* on: 
 
 "Father above, thy will be done. 
 
 Yet bring my Walter back to me, 
 
 Or take me too on high with Thee." 
 
 Then sudden, as a bend she turned, 
 
 Last hope that in her bosom yearned; 
 
 Last fond hope in her bosom died. 
 
 The object of her search she spied; 
 
 Stretched on the sand the coal black horse. 
 
 And by his side the lifeless corse 
 
 Lovely as life. She could not trace 
 
 One sign of terror on his face. 
 
 Pale grew the maid, not death more pale. 
 
 And with one low, despairing wail 
 
 She threw herself upon his form, 
 
 O'er that cold heart her bosom warm. 
 
 Oh! death, relentless, grim and dark, 
 
 Here hast thou chose a shining mark. 
 
 The maid arose, her tears like rain 
 
 Fell fast upon the sodden plain. 
 
 She turned her wistful eyes away 
 
 And trilled a mournful, dirge-like lay. 
 
 'Sleep, Walter, sleep, while my vigils- 1 keep, 
 To frighten the wolves and the vultures away; 
 I have smoothed back thy raven hair. 
 
Musings of tlie Pilgrim Bard 197 
 
 Back from thy forehead fair, 
 Still is thy heart and thy hands cold as clay, 
 Sleep, Walter, sleep, while my vigils I keep." 
 
 "Sleep, Walter, sleep, while my vigils' I keep, 
 I will watch, for the goal of my journey is near. 
 Calmly I wait for death. 
 Glad will I yield my breath, 
 I feel that thy spirit is hovering here. 
 Sleep, Walter, sleep, while my vigils I keep." 
 
 Worn weak by fast and vigils lone. 
 Her reason tottered on its- throne; 
 The vultures hovered thickly o'er. 
 Slow circling o'er her head they soar 
 And watch with eager gaze each day, 
 With greedy eye, their certain prey. 
 As days wore on her reason fled, 
 The vultures soaring over head. 
 Nearer and n'earer grew apace, 
 Their dark wings fan her wasted face; 
 She chided them in frenzied tone 
 As spirits of the evil one. 
 
 "Dark winged ghouls, fly away, 
 
 Come again never; 
 I will watch day by day, 
 
 Forever and ever." 
 
 'Walter has gone for wings'. 
 White as the swan; 
 
198 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Farewell, then, earthly things — 
 We will be gone, 
 
 Though our bodies perish here — 
 
 Our free souls will disappear. 
 To a land where your darknings cannot come." 
 
 She ceased to speak, the silence round 
 Wa&' only broken by the sound 
 Of the lone brooklet murmuring by, 
 Singing the maid's last lullaby. 
 
 Thus ends my tale; farewell, sweet maid. 
 Scattered thy bones in forest glade 
 Where cedars cast their gloomy shade 
 
 Above thy lonely pillow. 
 The sting of death, the chilling gloom, 
 Is ne'er dispelled by guilded tomb 
 
 Beneath the weeping willow. 
 Though wolves and vultures feed upon 
 Thy body in the forest lone. 
 
 Thy soul is free forever; 
 Faithful till death, undying lore 
 Will have its just reward above, 
 
 Beyond death's darksome river. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 199 
 
 LAND or SAND 
 
 Impromptu lines written while nooning on Smoot's Creek 
 luring a blinding sand storm. 
 
 O bury me not in the land of sand; 
 The words came low from a granger man 
 As he wearily sat on the beam of his plow, 
 His face was wan and his heart beat low. 
 
 Battered and blow'd for three years past 
 By the raging wind and sandy blast, 
 Until now he felt that his end was nigh, 
 So he shut his fists and gave up to die. 
 
 I could not sleep, the granger said, 
 Where the wind and sand sweep o'er my head; 
 O grant the request of a worn out man 
 And bury me not in the land of sand. 
 
 I had ever hoped to be lowly laid, 
 When my time had come, 'neath the paw-paw shade 
 Where the loving hands of my own wife's- kin 
 Would dig me a grave that would not cave in. 
 
 His faltering voice was failing fast; 
 
 It seemed each breath would be his last. 
 
200 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 His eyes' had well nigli ceased to wink, 
 When a passing freighter gave him a drink. 
 
 Then he sprang to his feet with a sudden start, 
 Unhitched from the plow and hooked onto the cart, 
 His red-headed woman and children climb in, 
 And away they go to his own wife's kin. 
 
 As he seized the whip in his bony hand, 
 Farewell, said he, to the land of sand; 
 Farewell to the grave, I was just on its brink. 
 May God bless the freighter who gave me the drink. 
 
Musings of tne Pilgrim Bard 201 
 
 Rehearsed at the "Old Settlers' Picnic" in Paddock's Grove 
 on Upper Elm Creek, Barber county, Kansas, September 
 16, 1886, on the grounds where Esq. Paddock and his entire 
 family were drowned in the flood of 1885. 
 
 In this pleasant grove, by the winding stream, 
 Kissed by the rays of the sunlight's beam. 
 May the white wings of peace ever hover above 
 The multitude now in this beautiful grove. 
 
 Once the Red Man's wigwam nestled here, 
 
 And this land ye love, that each heart holds dear. 
 
 This land of plenty ye call sweet home. 
 
 Is the land where the Red Man used to roam. 
 
 Aye, often here 'neath this leafy shade 
 
 The warrior wooed the dusky maid 
 
 In his native tongue 'neath the moonlight pale 
 
 He told Miss Lo the oft told tale. 
 
 And she loved to listen, as girls do now. 
 To the sweet, fond words of a lover's vow. 
 Here, too, has the bison's shaggy h'ead 
 Shook off the sands from yon rivulet's bed, 
 While the timid doe and her spotted fawn 
 Bounded o'er nature's grassy lawn. 
 
202 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Where now the crow of the Chanticleer 
 Proclaims the hour of twilight near, 
 Once the prowling gray and the wild coyote 
 Told of nearing dawn with their dismal note. 
 But the wolf and coyote and game have fled 
 And the red-faced braves are scattered and dead. 
 Now the pale face tills the fallow land. 
 And homesteads dot the landscape grand, 
 And while in prosperity all rejoice. 
 List to the wail of sorrow's voice. 
 And deem not weakness a silent tear 
 To the memory of those who perished here. 
 
 Every bright and pearly dew drop 
 Falls like a weeping angel's tear. 
 
 And the ring dove's note 
 
 On the zephyr's float, 
 Mourning for those who perished here 
 In the cold, cold waves and the darkness drear. 
 
 The soil we tread is sacred 
 
 As the soil 'neath the churchyard yew; 
 
 While the household slept 
 
 The dark waves crept — 
 No farewell blessing, no fond adieu, 
 Closed those eyes forever to mortal view. 
 
 Sweetest flowerets fade and wither. 
 Chilled by winter's ice-fettered wraith. 
 But in joyous spring 
 When the warblers sing 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 203 
 
 Ttey are waked to life by the south wind's breath. 
 But none return from the house of death. 
 
 Oft we start with dread foreboding 
 At the gentle patter of rain, 
 
 And the thunder's crash 
 
 And the lightning's flash 
 Bring to mind those dreadful scenes again 
 When this valley was one vast billowy main. 
 
 When the cries of the doomed and helpless 
 Were born on the midnight air, 
 
 Vain, vain that wail, 
 
 For the flood and gale 
 Hushed forever the dying pray'r, 
 And death claimed the victims of dark despair. 
 
 Plant on the graves of the household 
 The evergreen tree and the rose, 
 
 And strew o'er each head 
 
 In the hallowed bed 
 Their leaves in memory of they who repose 
 Calmly unmindful of earthly woes. 
 
204 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 AN ObD ROAD 
 
 What memories crowd my mind as I gaze upon this land- 
 mark of the past! Winding like a giant serpent in its course 
 along the divides, through canyons and groves of timber, 
 cross streams with beds of changing quick sand, regardless 
 of all but one sole object, to lead the traveller to his destined 
 goal. Little dreamed the pioneer hunter who first marked 
 out the trail from point to point that he was to be the 
 fore runner of a mighty and prosperous people; that his 
 footsteps were destined to be followed by thousands' of home- 
 seekers each anxious to outstrip the other in the mad race of 
 civilization. But the old road is silent, its deep rutted paths 
 tell not of the dreamy past. Oft has its beaten track echoed 
 to the tread of the red denizens of the plains, to the hunter, 
 the trapper, the trader, the soldier and the immigrant. At 
 intervals may be seen the camping grounds where the weary 
 pilgrims found temporary respite from the trials and vicissi- 
 tudes incident to a journey, and joyfully would each one look 
 forward to the night camp by some clear stream of water 
 where, beneath the leafy grove in summer or the leafless 
 grove in winter, they would gather around the cheerful camp- 
 fire and partake of the evening cheer and refresh th'eir 
 weary bodies with sweet slumber that none but the wayfarer 
 knows in its true meaning, as on no other occasion does mor- 
 tal feel as much like he was sole proprietor of the Universe 
 as when he arises after a night's rest on nature's carpet be- 
 n'eath no pavilion save the starlit sky. But alas! the old road 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 205 
 
 is shorn of its glory. The painted savage has departed, his 
 moccasin tracks have faded from the sand, the trapper, the 
 freighter and the trader are things of the past and civilization 
 reigns supreme. 
 
 Winding, winding ever, 
 
 Through canons and valleys green; 
 
 O'er prairie and desert wold. 
 
 Summer and winter cold, 
 Crossing each quick sand stream, 
 Brooklet and river. 
 
 Winding, winding ever. 
 
 Toward the land where the sun goes down; 
 
 Yet not so lonely now, 
 
 Crossed by the fallow plow, 
 Cottage and stately town weary miles sever. 
 
 Winding, winding ever. 
 
 Now the rank sunflower nods by thy side. 
 
 Years hence thy grass grown track 
 
 Will bring past memories back, 
 When feet that have pressed thee have crossed the 
 
 divide 
 To the strand of that beautiful river. 
 
 Winding, winding ever. 
 
 Like our pilgrimage journey of life, 
 
 May it lead to the goal. 
 
 The bright home of the soul. 
 On that fair camping ground free from sorrow and 
 
 strife. 
 May we rest from our journey forever. 
 
206 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 A REQUIEM 
 
 Pride of the Osages' fallen and gone, 
 
 Sleep 'neath the waters that hide thee from view; 
 
 Silent thy slumber 
 
 Through days without number, 
 Gone is thy glory, thy warriors are few, 
 Over thy grave none will e'er come to mourn. 
 
 Sleep with the daughter that loved thee so well. 
 Who followed your footsteps wherever you led; 
 
 Beneath the chill water 
 
 Lie chieftain and daughter; 
 Sleep on for the "Bard" has thy requiem said, 
 While the winds and the wavelets will murmur farewell. 
 
 Thy fall was the knell of thy once mighty band ; 
 The bright signal fires' will be lighted no more; 
 
 No more in the valley 
 
 Thy warriors will rally — 
 Their footprints have e'en disappeared from the shore. 
 While the sweet Nescatunga rolls on o'er the sand. 
 
 While 'neath th'e blue river reposes thy clay. 
 Dost roam thy free spirit in hunting grounds free, 
 
 Where the flowers ever bloom, 
 
 And the sun and the moon 
 Never set, and the leaves never fall from th'e tree. 
 And the "Pale Face" will ne'er come to drive you away. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 207 
 
 As the snow 'neath the sun melts away in the spring 
 The once noble Red Man will soon be no more; 
 
 Not the eye of a hawk 
 
 Can discover a track 
 Where the warpath once wended from shore unto shore. 
 Lost are tom'hawk and quiver and broke the bow string. 
 
 The above lines are founded on a legend, told me by an 
 Indian, to the effect that a mighty chieftain, who was mortally 
 wounded in a battle with the whites, made a dying request 
 that himself and his daughter, who was killed in the same 
 battle, should be taken at midnight and strapped in canoes 
 and sunk in deep water in order that their enemies might 
 never know what became of them. AUTHOR. 
 
208 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 rirXEBN YBARS AGO 
 
 A poem in commemoration of the first Fourth of July- 
 Celebration ever held in Barber county. 
 
 All ye who care to listen to the Pilgrim's' simple rhyme, 
 I will backward turn the pages of the fated book of time, 
 And while the "Old Man" whets his scythe, another swath to 
 
 mow, 
 I will grasp the opportunity to sp'eak of long ago. 
 A merry crowd of neighbors came together here you know 
 To have a Celebration, it was fifteen years ago. 
 
 The birds they were a singin' in their roundelay of glee, 
 As their warbles are a ringin' now, to welcome you ana me. 
 And the leaves they kept a rustlin' up yonder in the trees, 
 Like the wings of the tiny fairies ever flappin' in the breeze; 
 People gathered from th'e north and south, and from the east 
 
 and west. 
 All bent on Celeb ratin', and we done our level best; 
 And many came from far away, full forty miles or more — 
 If they couldn't make it in a day, they came the day before. 
 The Cowboy on his broncho came to mingle with the throng, 
 Down trooping from the cattle ranch to help the ball along; 
 Gray haired men hitched up the critters, and came roUin' sure 
 
 and slow 
 To the Mule Creek Celebration, it was fifteen years ago. 
 
 Billy Bivans and John Dollar, masters of the violin. 
 Rendered instrumental music that to beat would be a sin; 
 And a choir of gentle voices swelled our country's anthems 
 loud. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 209 
 
 While cheers of approbation went a ringin' through the crowd, 
 Lindley read the Declaration from history's- sacred page, 
 And he done it ample justice with the dignity of sage; 
 Then Uncle John, the orator, who stands before you now, 
 Stepped forth upon the rostrum's edge and made his courtly 
 
 bow; 
 He dwelt upon the glories of our country and its sires. 
 And seemed to kindle every spark of freedom's* smoulderin' 
 
 fires, 
 And everyone who heard it said the speaker wasn't slow; 
 This was at our Celebration, it was fifteen years ago. 
 
 Uncle Mc. behind the counter, 'neath an elm tree's spreadin' 
 
 shade. 
 Sold the candy and the peanuts' and the circus lemonade; 
 True enough 'twas lacking something, and it might have be'en 
 
 the ice, 
 But everyone that tasted it pronounced it very nice. 
 We had dinner, yes sir, dinner, fit for any king or queen; 
 Roastin' ears and home grown 'taters blended with the pea 
 
 and bean. 
 And from over on Hackberry came the haunch of elk and bear, 
 And too numerous to mention was the balance of our fare. 
 No intoxicatin' liquor made a solitary show, 
 Coffee and the clear spring water served us fifteen years ago. 
 
 The afternoon began to wane, the sun was sinkin' low 
 When the fiddlers gave a signal that all dancin' people know, 
 And soon upon the platform, made of undressed Cottonwood, 
 The flower of all Barber's bonny lads and lasses stood — 
 And maybe I shouldn't tell it, yet the truth must have its 
 
 sway — 
 Many of those lads and lasses sported locks' of silver gray. 
 And we kept the dance a goin' till the sun was in the sky, 
 
210 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 And the mornin' breeze was blowin' on the fifth day of July, 
 And as we started off for home we parted with a cheer. 
 And not a single one of us was sorry we was here. 
 
 Sober thoughts come stealin' o'er me as I close these artless 
 
 lines — 
 A shade of sadness mingles' with and 'round fond memory 
 
 twines, 
 While something seems to whisper: "Tell us, Pilgrim, where 
 
 are they 
 Who assembled here together on that Independence day?" 
 Only a handful, as it were, of all that throng remain 
 To gather 'neath this sylvan shade and strike glad hands 
 
 again; 
 The earth is broad, divergin' paths led many wandering feet 
 To homes 'neath other balmy skies no more on earth to 
 
 meet; 
 Some with the Ferryman have crossed death's silent waters 
 
 o'er; 
 Peace to their disembodied souls upon the farther shore. 
 And if our lives are spared until our locks are white as snow 
 We'll ne'er forg-et the friends we met just fifteen years ago. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 211 
 
 IINGRATITUDB 
 
 There is a crime 
 
 Before the face of which all other crimes' 
 
 Sink, as it were, to insignificance. 
 
 A crime not to the law amenable — • 
 
 And yet so base, bo black — 
 
 As to outvie the plumage on 
 
 The raven's dusky wing. 
 
 Cover thy face with clouds. 
 
 Oh "Lady of the Night," 
 
 And thou oh! starry orbs 
 
 That look down on this sinful earth 
 
 From heaven's far off pavilion. 
 
 Cover your heads for shame 
 
 Or g'et thee back behind 
 
 The blue ethereal vapor 
 
 The while I name that name. Ingratitude. 
 
 Ingratitude! 
 
 The thought, the very word 
 
 Brings' to my bosom visions 
 
 Of the long, lost, dreamy past. 
 
 When a guileless child — 
 
 A prattling boy — 
 
 Scarce thirteen summers old, 
 
 Was reft of home and cast 
 
 Friendless and penniless 
 
 Upon the wide, uncharitable world; 
 
 A "Pilgrim" without sandals, purse or scrip; 
 
 A feeble boat 
 
 Cast out upon the stormy sea of life; 
 
212 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 No rudder and no compass, 
 
 Neith-er chart 
 
 To guide my youthful footsteps, 
 
 Prone to err, 
 
 Even as the sparks fly upward. 
 
 Oh ye who have a home 
 
 And friends and loved ones dear, 
 
 A home though humble — ' 
 
 Merely four square walls — 
 
 Be ye content, for ah, ye ne'er will know 
 
 The value of those precious woras — 
 
 "Sweet Home" — 
 
 Till all bereft ye roam 
 
 A lonely wanderer — in the wide, wide world. 
 
 Since then my walk has b'een 
 
 In paths diversified. 
 
 Oft have I heard the hollow sounding notes 
 
 Of Fame's immortal Lyre. 
 
 Yet like a tinkling cymbal in mine ear. 
 
 Deafened by prejudice, 
 
 Ever will sound the hollow notes of fame. 
 
 Wealth have I spurned 
 
 As idle, worthless dross; 
 
 For what is wealth ? Alas ! in one short hour 
 
 Does' Death make all men equal. 
 
 Rank has no power to cope 
 
 With Death's relentless hand; 
 
 Beggar and prince at last 
 
 Are equal, and the crawling worm 
 
 Will hold high carnival — 
 
 On prince's flesh as well 
 
 As on the beggar's cold and lifeless clay. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 213 
 
 Friends have I known — 
 
 Pretended friends who oft 
 
 Have shared with me my shelter and my food- 
 
 And warmed them at my fire 
 
 (Like the poor husbandman 
 
 Who in his bosom warmed to life 
 
 A frozen serpent, 
 
 Only to turn and strike him with its fangs.) 
 
 They, serpent like, when warmed and fed, 
 
 Have turned, and with high hand 
 
 Strove to destroy me. 
 
 A changing pageant 
 
 Is this mortal life here below. 
 
 How few — how very few — 
 
 Do Btop and in the mystic mirror gaz'e 
 
 Where they may see themselves' 
 
 Even as others see them! 
 
 Ah, no; they cover every fault 
 
 With many colored cloaks 
 
 And crowd 'each crippled virtue to the front 
 
 Whereon the world may gaze. 
 
 But I am weary, 
 
 And I must close my lines; 
 
 The curfew bells have tolled — 
 
 'Tis twilight hour. 
 
 How like life's close — 
 
 After long, busy years' the messeng"er 
 
 Comes silent and alone, 
 
 And bids us fold our hands 
 
 And close our eyes, 
 
 And gather up our weary feet in death. 
 
 Cummingsford, Dec. 12th, 1885. 
 
214 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 S&LblING THE tlOMBSTBAD— A GObbOQUY 
 
 Well, mother, I've sold out the gasted old claim. 
 And I got a cool hundred and fifty in dough; 
 
 Don't you think that a number one price, all the same? 
 You bet, as a trader I'm not rated slow. 
 
 You know we've been here between three and four years, 
 And we ain't got a dime or a nickel ahead, 
 
 And we've always been livin' twixt hope and twixt fear. 
 And sometimes you know we've been lackin' of bread. 
 
 When we planted our corn in the ground good and deep, 
 
 And tended it thoroughly ever so well; 
 'Bout the time that the tassel began for to peep 
 
 Hot winds came and blasted it deader than . 
 
 Now I'm goin' to pull for the east right away, 
 And I'm biddin' the sweet scented west a good bye; 
 
 If any one wants in this country to stay, 
 He may hang to the willows and sizzle and fry. 
 
 [PART SEICOND, OLD LADY CHIPS IN.] 
 
 Look here, old man, I'm gettin' hot 
 A listenin' to your plaguey rot; 
 You never 'mounted to a cuss 
 Except in kickin' up a fuss; 
 Yes, an' durn gast your ornery hide. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 215 
 
 You never yet were satisfied. 
 
 If you was where the pancakes grew 
 
 On trees by ponds- of honey too, 
 
 You'd twist the wrinkles on your face 
 
 An' want to hunt some better place. 
 
 There's Jones, just over 'crost the way, 
 
 He took his claim the very day 
 
 That we took ours, an' now I'll bet 
 
 There aint a livin' man can get 
 
 That claim from Jones, it aint for sale. 
 
 An' now, old man, "there hangs a tal'e." 
 
 Why is it Jones came here so poor 
 
 That no one thought he could endure 
 
 The hardships that homesteaders see, 
 
 The trials and adversity; 
 
 Now Jones is happy and content. 
 
 An' owes no livin' man a cent: 
 
 Jones rustles, there's the secret, sir, 
 
 An' sunup finds him on the stir. 
 
 Last fall while you was loafin' 'round 
 
 Jones planted a whole lot of his ground; 
 
 In winter wheat he sowed it all, 
 
 An' now he's flyin' high this fall. 
 
 I used to hear my mother say 
 
 Where there's a will there is a way; 
 
 It needs no great amount of skill 
 
 To plainly see you aint no will. 
 
 An' hark ye, when you pull your freight 
 
 Back to your worn out native state, 
 
 I'll stay right here an' hold the game. 
 
 Abandoned wife can file a claim. 
 
 An' never, sir, will it be said 
 
 My children lack their daily bread. 
 
 Good bye, old man, go back, go back, 
 
 For all I care, take up the track. 
 
216 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Be your home e'er so humble 
 
 Beware how you grumble; 
 
 Banish care and all your troubles smother. 
 
 Should the old woman quit you 
 
 The Devil will git you, 
 
 For what is home without a wife and mother. 
 
 Pilgrim's Den, near Winchester, Oct. 25, 1897. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 217 
 
 A UBGBIND or BARBER GOUINTY 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 It was years' ago I write of, 
 
 Ere the pioneer had ventured 
 
 To erect a habitation 
 
 In the chosen land of Barber; 
 
 Down among the hills of Barber. 
 
 With a hardy band of hunters 
 
 All equipped, I v/andered westward. 
 
 Over trackless, treeless prairies. 
 
 Where the cactus grew and flourished 
 
 And where fed the mighty bison, 
 
 Fed and fattened on its' grasses. 
 
 Where the coyote's yelp was mingled 
 
 With the gray wolf's howl discordant. 
 
 'Twas of chips we built our camp-fire — 
 
 Chips not of the oak or cedar. 
 
 Nor of ash, nor yet box-elder, 
 
 Yet this novel prairie fuel 
 
 Burned and blazed like lighted faggots. 
 
 Heated like the best of stone coal. 
 
 Like as many kings we feasted. 
 
 Feasted on the flesh of bison. 
 
 On the hump steak of the bison. 
 
 With warm biscuit and hot coffee, 
 
 And at night we spread our blankets 
 
 Down on nature's grassy carpet, 
 
 Slept and dreamed the day sports over, 
 
 'Till the rosy dawn of morning. 
 
220 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 All along this winding river 
 
 Will the white man build his wigwam." 
 
 Then he pointed to the northward, 
 
 Saying: "On yon elevation 
 
 There will soon he many lodges; 
 
 Pale faced squaws and white pappooses 
 
 Many as the leaves in autumn. 
 
 But the red man cannot hinder, 
 
 For he promised the Great Father, 
 
 And the whispering Spirit tells us 
 
 Never more to raise the tom'hawk." 
 
 Thus he spoke in words prophetic. 
 
 In the language of his people, 
 
 In the language of the Osage. 
 
 Thus he spoke the while we listened. 
 
 Then the warriors rose and left us. 
 
 Left us to our meditations. 
 
 Left us to our peaceful slumber 
 
 Close beside the rippling river. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Still sing we of sunny Barber, 
 Of the chosen land of Barber; 
 Of its valleys and its streamlets. 
 Of its rugged hills and canons. 
 Of its past and of its future. 
 Of its' woe and of its welfare, 
 'sooner than the Chief predicted. 
 Sooner than the "Bard" expected 
 Came the settlers o'er the border 
 Of the sunny land of Barber. 
 Logs were hewn and cabins builded. 
 Even as the Chief predicted; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 221 
 
 Men plowed fields while women planted, 
 Planted turnip, corn and cabbage. 
 But alas! there came no harvest. 
 One day came a swarm of locusts. 
 As with cloud the sun was darkened, 
 All the air was filled with humming. 
 All the ground was' thick with hoppers; 
 Stripped the earth of vegetation. 
 Left no tree leaf in the forest, 
 Gone was turnip, corn and cabbage. 
 Gone the squatter's dream of glory, 
 And like monuments of folly 
 Stood the cabins by the river. 
 Thus tormented, nothing daunteu, 
 Shouldered each his trusty rifle, 
 Saying: "We will slay the bison. 
 We can lire upon his carcass, 
 Send their hides to distant cicy. 
 They will bring us gold and silver. 
 Keep the lean wolf from our threshold 
 Till again the spring time cometh." 
 As the Chieftain had predicted, 
 Woe unto the timid brson. 
 For they slew them in the valleys. 
 On the hill-top, in the canons, 
 By each river, brook and streamlet 
 Lay the monarch of the prairie, 
 Hideless all and shorn of glory. 
 Wolf and coyote fed and fattened 
 On the carcass- of the bison. 
 And the vulture and the raven 
 Flapped their wings in glee and triumph. 
 Then the red men of the forest. 
 When they saw the wanton slaughter 
 Of the monarch of the prairie. 
 
220 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 All along this winding river 
 
 Will the white man build his wigwam." 
 
 Then he pointed to the northward, 
 
 Saying: "On yon elevation 
 
 There will soon be many lodges; 
 
 Pale faced squaws and white pappooses 
 
 Many as the leaves in autumn. 
 
 But the red man cannot hinder, 
 
 For he promised the Great Father, 
 
 And the whispering Spirit tells us 
 
 Never more to raise the tom'hawk." 
 
 Thus he spoke in words prophetic. 
 
 In the language of his people, 
 
 In the language of the Osage, 
 
 Thus he spoke the while we listened. 
 
 Then the warriors rose and left us. 
 
 Left us to our meditations. 
 
 Left us to our peaceful slumber 
 
 Close beside the rippling river. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Still sing we of sunny Barber, 
 Of the chosen land of Barber; 
 Of its valleys and its streamlets, 
 Of its rugged hills and canons. 
 Of its past and of its future, 
 Of its' woe and of its welfare. 
 Sooner than the Chief predicted. 
 Sooner than the "Bard" expected 
 Came the settlers o'er the border 
 Of the sunny land of Barber. 
 Logs were hewn and cabins builded, 
 Even as the Chief predicted; 
 
 I 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 221 
 
 Men plowed fields while women planted, 
 Planted turnip, corn and cabbage. 
 But alas! there came no harvest. 
 One day came a swarm of locusts, 
 As with cloud the sun was darkened. 
 All the air was filled with humming, 
 All the ground was' thick with hoppers; 
 Stripped the earth of vegetation. 
 Left no tree leaf in the forest, 
 Gone was turnip, corn and cabbage. 
 Gone the squatter's dream of glory, 
 And like monuments of folly 
 Stood the cabins by the river. 
 Thus tormented, nothing daunteu, 
 Shouldered each his trusty rifle. 
 Saying: "We will slay the bison, 
 We can live upon his carcass. 
 Send their hides to distant cuy. 
 They will bring us gold and silver. 
 Keep the lean wolf from our threshold 
 Till again the spring time cometh." 
 As the Chieftain had predicted. 
 Woe unto the timid bison. 
 For they slew them in the valleys, 
 On the hill-top, in the canons. 
 By each river, brook and streamlet 
 Lay the monarch of the prairie, 
 Hideless all and shorn of glory. 
 Wolf and coyote fed and fattened 
 On the carcass' of the bison. 
 And the vulture and the raren 
 Flapped their wings in glee and triumph. 
 Then the red men of the forest. 
 When they saw the wanton slaughter 
 Of the monarch of the prairie. 
 
222 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Lit a bonfire on each hilltop, 
 Like BO many blazing comets; 
 'Twas the signal of the Osage 
 For the scattered braves to gather 
 At the wigwam of their Chieftain 
 On the banks of Nescatunga; 
 Soon as' all the fires were lighted 
 Well each red man knew the meaning, 
 And from out each grove and canon 
 Came the dusky, painted savage. 
 
 THEI COUNCIL. 
 
 Nighc had drawn her sable curtains 
 
 Over valley, hill and canon, 
 
 Mingled with the ghostly starlight 
 
 On the banks of Nescatunga. 
 
 Westward from the land of Barber, 
 
 Just across the western border 
 
 Of the chosen land of Barber, 
 
 Lay the village of the Osage. 
 
 Art may boast of famous pictures, 
 
 All the world may laud the artist. 
 
 But to me the scenes of nature 
 
 Have a charm far more enchanting; 
 
 Thus the village of the Osage, 
 
 By the rippling Nescatunga, 
 
 Though its buildings were but wigwams 
 
 Made of bark and water rushes 
 
 Woven by the dusky savage. 
 
 Ribs they made of cedar saplings, 
 
 Stove and furnace all were lackmg. 
 
 At the top they left an opening 
 
 Where the poles were lashed together; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 223 
 
 Then they built a single camp-fire 
 
 In the center of the wigwam. 
 
 From its blaze the smoke went upward 
 
 Like the chimney of the furnace. 
 
 But a scene, though not enchanting, 
 
 Yet a scene well worth relating, 
 
 Now transpiring at the council, 
 
 Must command our marked attention. 
 
 See, the council fire is lighted. 
 
 Skins of bison spread around it. 
 
 Round its blaze sit painted warriors, 
 
 Silent as the gloom of midnight — 
 
 Silent as so many statues, 
 
 Waiting for their Chieftain's wishes, 
 
 Waiting till they know his pleasure. 
 
 Then uprose the mighty Sachem, 
 
 Seemed his visage stern as iron, 
 
 Tender feeling all departed, 
 
 Fiend incarnate rose before them. 
 
 In the language of the Osage 
 
 Thus he spoke unto his warriors. 
 
 In the language of his people. 
 
 Thus he spoke the while they listened: 
 
 "Warriors, age will tam'e the eagle. 
 
 And your Chieftain's limbs are weary; 
 
 Many moons have come and faded. 
 
 Many times the leaves have withered. 
 
 Many times the snows have fallen 
 
 Since I first became your Chieftain. 
 
 Happy hunting grounds are waiting 
 
 Far beyond the starry limits. 
 
 Lands of never-fading forests. 
 
 Filled with streams of purest water; 
 
 Forests where the deer are plenty, 
 
 Vall'eys broad, where roam the bison. 
 
224 Musings of tJic Pilgrim Bard 
 
 In that land there is no darkness, 
 
 Sun and moon will shine forever; 
 
 There the children of the Spirit 
 
 Will never more knov/ cold or hunger; 
 
 There the Pale Face cannot follow, 
 
 Yet my work is' not completed, 
 
 For the ever whispering Spirit 
 
 Calls his children to the warpath. 
 
 Warriors, you have come together 
 
 At the signal of your Cnieftain, 
 
 You have come with bow and arrow. 
 
 You have come with deadly rifle. 
 
 You have come with knife and tom'hawk. 
 
 Step by step the hated Pale Face 
 
 Dog our footsteps late and early; 
 
 Follow us o'er desert prairie, 
 
 Follow us o'er flood and river. 
 
 Trail our pathway through the forest. 
 
 Wantonly they slay the bison, 
 
 Drive the game like chaff before them; 
 
 Soon our squaws will cry with hunger, 
 
 Soon will wail the young pappooses; 
 
 We will have no food to give them, 
 
 We will have no skins to clothe them. 
 
 Warriors, we must lift the tom'hawk 
 
 Buried long in peaceful slumber — 
 
 We must go upon the warpath; 
 
 We must slay the pale intruder, 
 
 We must burn his wooden wigwam." 
 
 Thus he spoke in tones of thunder. 
 
 In the lajQguage of his people. 
 
 In the language of the Osage, 
 
 Thus he spoke the while they listened. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 225 
 
 THE SCALP DANCE. 
 
 Suddenly, as the Chief ceased speaking, 
 Forward came the head musician 
 With his drum of hoop and dog skin; 
 For his drum sticks he had chosen 
 Cross bones of departed coyote — 
 Of the hungry, thieving coyote. 
 All at once, as if by magic. 
 Forth there came an Indian maiden, 
 'Twas the Chieftain's only daughter. 
 Thick and long her raven tresses 
 Reached below her wampum girdle; 
 Crown she wore of eagle feathers 
 Gaily painted many colors. 
 While her garments all were beaded 
 Even to her scarlet leggings. 
 On her tiny feet were slippers 
 Fashioned of the finest doe-skin. 
 White and fringed with rainbow colors. 
 In her hand a spear she carried. 
 On its point not flag or banner. 
 But a long and shining scalp lock 
 Torn from some uphappy victim 
 In the days that have no record. 
 In the center of the circle 
 Stands this dusky, savage beauty. 
 Holds aloft her horrid trophy. 
 By her side the head musician, 
 With his drum of hoop and dog-skin 
 And his drum-sticks of the coyote. 
 Gives the signal for the war dance. 
 Every warrior grasped his tom'hawk 
 Then began the weird cotillion, 
 While their wailing song was mingled 
 
226 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 With the thumping of the war drum. 
 Thus th'ey danced, as if for wages, 
 Sung and danced like fiends infernal; 
 Danced until the perspiration 
 Shone upon each dusky forehead. 
 Then the horrid scene was over 
 And each brave had sought his wigwam 
 To make ready, for tomorrow 
 They must go upon the warpath. 
 
 [Note. — Cantos III, IV and V of this poem were destroyed 
 in the fire of July 4, 1893, and were never rewritten.] 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 227 
 
 PROM RBMINISGBNGBS OF BARUY DAYS 
 
 To whom the green sward is like bed of down, 
 
 With no pavilion save the starlit sky, 
 Upon whose locks the evening dews have shone — 
 Who often sleeps among the wilds alone 
 
 The while the coyotes sing his lullaby. 
 
 Gladly would I backward turn time's mystic wheel 
 
 And make this' land again a desert wild; 
 I care not what the future may reveal, 
 But memories of the past will o'er me steal; 
 Again I would be nature's reckless child. 
 
 Cummingsford, Feb. 25, 1886. 
 
228 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 THOSE WHO WORB THC BLUB 
 
 Comrades, time creeps slowly onward, 
 
 All our heads are frosted o'er; 
 S'oon the time and place that knows us now 
 
 Will know US' never more. 
 One by one fall leaves of autumn 
 
 Till the ground they thickly strew; 
 One by one like leaves of autumn 
 
 Fall th'e wearers of the blue. 
 
 Yes, our eyes are growing dimmer, 
 
 And our teeth are giving way, 
 And cannot chew the hard tack 
 
 As we chev/ed it many a day; 
 But the heart is just as loyal, 
 
 And the purpose just as true 
 As when in line of battle 
 
 Stood the wearers of the blue. 
 
 Once the flower of our country, 
 
 And its bulwark and its pride; 
 O'er us waved the starry banner, 
 
 Round us death on every side; 
 Comrades falling, bleeding, dying. 
 
 Precious life blood dyed the heath; 
 Was it love of fame or glory 
 
 Drove us in the jaws of death? 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 229 
 
 When we left our mothers weeping, 
 When we left our loved ones dear, 
 
 Shades of sadness o'er us creeping 
 As we brushed a silent tear; 
 
 Was it love of fame or glory- 
 Bade us bid those ones adieu. 
 
 Leaving home for fields of battle, 
 Where the deadly missiles flew. 
 
 No, 'twas to preserve the nation 
 
 That we donned those suits' of blue; 
 Men from every rank and station 
 
 Soon were warriors tried and true. 
 Scouting, drilling, raiding, camping. 
 
 Battles fought on every hand; 
 Earth re-echoed v/ith the tramping 
 
 Of that blue-clad spartan band. 
 
 Now 'tis past, time ever fleeting 
 
 Heals the breach twixt friend and foe; 
 History alone repeating 
 
 Deeds of valor long ago. 
 They who rallied round Old Glory 
 
 One by one pass o'er the tide; 
 Few are left to tell tne story 
 
 Of the days men's souls were tried. 
 
230 ' Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 SONG OP THE BOINB Pll>GRI|V1 
 
 [Written with a bullet on the shoulder blade of a buffalo, 
 on Eagle Chief, I. T., September 19, 1879.] 
 
 O I sit by my camp-fire so lonely. 
 My faithful old watch dog and me; 
 With my mules near in sight 'k 
 
 I have camped for the night, i 
 
 While my wagon is close on the lea. 
 
 think of the poor bone Pilgrim, 
 Ye who are safely at home; 
 
 No one to pity me, no one to cheer me, 
 As o'er the lone prairie I roam. 
 
 1 roam all day long o'er the prairie, 
 And down in each canon so deep. 
 
 And when darkness comes on 
 I must camp all alone 
 With the coyote to sing me to sleep. 
 
 think of the poor bone Pilgrim, 
 
 Ye who are safely at home; -'?^ 
 
 No one to pity me, no one to cheer me, | 
 
 As o'er the lone prairie I roam. 
 
 1 pass by the home of the wealthy. 
 And I pass by the hut of the poor, 
 
 But none care for me 
 
 When my cargo they see. 
 And no one will open the door. ' ' 
 
 O think of the poor bone Pilgrim, . "; J 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 231 
 
 Ye wlio are safely at home; 
 No one to pity me, no one to cheer me, 
 As o'er the lone prairie I roam. 
 
 There's a place as we joureny to market 
 Where the Ninnescah River doth flow; 
 
 There we camp on the strand 
 
 And fill each head with sand 
 To make up for shrinkage, you know. 
 O think of the poor bone Pilgrim, 
 
 Ye who are safely at home; 
 No one to pity me, no one to cheer me, 
 
 As o'er the lone prairie I roam. 
 
 Once I was cheerful and happy, 
 With dear loving friends and a home. 
 
 But hard times' and drouth 
 
 Took the bread from my mouth, 
 And now a poor Pilgrim I roam 
 O think of the poor bone Pilgrim, 
 
 Ye who are safely at home; 
 No one to pity me, no one to cheer me, 
 
 As o'er the lone prairie I roam. 
 
 They say there is rest up in Heaven, 
 vV^here Pilgrims forever may camp; 
 
 How I hope it is so. 
 
 For there's no rest below. 
 No matter how cheerless or damp. 
 O think of the poor bone Pilgrim, 
 
 Ye who are safely at home; 
 No one to pity me, no one to cheer me. 
 
 As o'er the lone prairie I roam. 
 
232 Musings of the Pilgrim, Bard 
 
 b/VYING BY THB CORN 
 
 The cultivator creaks and squeaks 
 
 As back and forth we gc; 
 Minutes' and hours and days and weeks 
 
 We've straddled row by row; 
 Our weary work is soon complete, 
 
 Our shovels sadly worn; 
 With wince and sigh 
 And watery eye 
 Lightly we press th'e old plow se.a+. 
 
 As we lay by the corn. 
 
 The politician flies his kite 
 
 While sitting in the shade; 
 Like withe his web drawn tight 
 
 And schemes already laid; 
 While we poor plebians plod along. 
 
 Our country's hope forlorn. 
 Our garments wet 
 With honest sweat. 
 And wake the echoes with our song 
 
 As we lay by the corn. 
 
 The preacher in his solemn look, 
 And sombre garb arrayed. 
 
 Heels -elevated, with his book, 
 The sunshine doth evade; 
 
 He's hatching up a bran new scare, 
 Us sinners all to warn; 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 233 
 
 We'll catch it right 
 Next Sunday night — 
 We're ready for his bill of fare 
 When we lay by the corn. 
 
 The doctor, with his case and cane. 
 
 In easy surrey rides, 
 Between our cornfields down the lane. 
 
 But narry a row bestrides; 
 He smiles' to see the crops look gay. 
 
 And chuckles, half in scorn. 
 For pills and squills 
 That cure our ills 
 He reckons how the crops' will pay 
 
 When we lay by the corn. 
 
 The rich man in his carriage fine 
 
 Sfweeps o'er the road hard by; 
 O'er prancing steed he draws the line 
 
 Close netted from the fly. 
 While our poor plugs the plow must draw 
 
 Day long from early morn; 
 And whale and flail. 
 With nose and tail, 
 For flies are thick with hungry maw, 
 
 When we lay by the corn. 
 
 Life is too short and space too brief 
 
 To skin each guilty one, 
 But such as me have no relief 
 
 Till plowing corn is done; 
 
234 Musings of the Pilgrim EarcC 
 
 Unheeding all both man and beast 
 Both rest and ease must scorn. 
 Until some day 
 Our lifeless claj-, 
 With limbs outstretched toward the east. 
 Are laid by like the corn. 
 
 'Tis done; and now with anxious fears 
 
 We wait perditions' wind 
 That comes to cook our roasting ears 
 
 And leave dead stalks behind; 
 We watch the brazen noonday sky 
 
 Until the close of dawn, 
 Then lay awake, 
 And shake and quake 
 For fear the breezes of July 
 
 Lay by for good cur corn. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 235 
 
 TUB riRST PROST 
 
 An unwelcome visitor entered the valley Friday night- 
 Came upon us without bidding, 
 Came upon us all unwelcome. 
 Never knocked he for admittance; 
 Spread his mantle o'er our valley, 
 Spread his mantle white and hoary; 
 Crimped the tender vines and leaflets, 
 Pumpkin vines and sweet potatoes. 
 Melons late and green tomatoes 
 Ceased their growing, dead as doornails. 
 Like a burn'd boot, pinched and puckered. 
 Puckered up their leaves and quit us. 
 
 See the little barefoot urchins 
 On that chilly, frosty morning; 
 Round the old cook-stove they hover. 
 Spread their hands above the griddles. 
 Patient mamma, cooking breakfast. 
 Moves around with utmost caution. 
 Steps with care among the children 
 Lest some tiny barefoot suffer. 
 Soon the gladsome sun outshining 
 Caused the frosty robe to vanish, 
 Yet another and another 
 Soon will follow, soon will follow, 
 'Tis a plain and timely warning. 
 Be prepared, the winter cometh. 
 
236 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 TRIBUTE TO A COMRADE 
 
 Again the shadows fall, 
 
 A noble heart doth ceas'e 
 Its wonted heat, and all 
 That's mortal, now enwrapped in funeral pall 
 
 Slumbers in peace. 
 
 Along the river drear, 
 
 Thy weary steps hath trod, 
 Nearer and still more near. 
 Until thou didst the welcome summons hear, 
 
 Come home to God. 
 
 We'll strike glad hands once more. 
 
 Our ranks will form again. 
 With comrades gone before. 
 In glad reunion on the other shore, 
 Fair "Aiden's" plain. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 237 
 
 rOUNDaiNG A CITY 
 How Wellington Game to Be 
 
 In the month of February, 1871, C. R. Godfrey and Dr. P. 
 A. Wood of Paola, Kansas, started on a prospecting tour to 
 the great southwest, with a view to bettering their financial 
 condition. Their conveyance consisted of a spring wagon, 
 well stocked with camp equipage and supplies, including 
 plenty of "Godfrey's Cordial," a medicine that afterwards be- 
 came a household necessity in the "days that tried men's 
 souls." I have often thought had it not been for the cordial 
 and Shearman's prepared flour the little colony might never 
 have pulled through and the name of Wellington might be 
 among the dust and debris of the forgotten past. To the 
 wagon was hitched a span of sleek ponies and taking all in 
 all everybody pronooinced it a pretty good outfit. 
 
 After drifting southwest for several days Godfrey and 
 the Doctor arrived at Meridian, a townsite that had recently 
 been designated by the state authorities as' the capital of th'e 
 new county of Sumner. Here they were cordially received by 
 the town company v/hose members were driving stakes and 
 boasting of the bright future that lay before their infant 
 metropolis. 
 
 Alas, how oft do fairy dreams deceive, 
 And air-built castles vanish into mist. 
 
 The oldest inhabitants' of the Slate Creek Valley hare 
 well nigh lost trace of the proposed city of Meridian. The 
 
238 Musings of the Pilgr.m Bard 
 
 recent Pop legislature of Kansas should have passed a bill 
 appropriating funds to erect a cast-iron monum'ent of folly 
 on the site of each of the busted boom towns in western Kan- 
 sas', Meridian among the number. 
 
 Returning to Paola, Messrs. Godfrey and Wood at once 
 began preparations to move their effects to the new El Dorado. 
 I and my family had wintered in Paola and were billed for 
 the Smoky Hill country, when Doctor Wood came to me and 
 offered a good round price if I would haul a load of the God- 
 frey drug store to their destination. One way was as good to 
 me as another, provided that it led in the direction of sunset. 
 
 Everything being in readiness a start was' made early in 
 the month of March with the roads in a horrible condition. 
 The names of the party as far as I can remember were C. R. 
 Godfrey, Dr. P. A. Wood, Major Randall, Henry Fargo and 
 wife, Frank Fargo, the Thralls brothers, Joe, Elsie and Ed, 
 Fess Clayton, George McWilliams, Doc Murlin and the writer. 
 
 As we journeyed westward the roads became much 
 smoother and we made better time. Nothing worthy of note 
 happened until we reached the town of Douglass in Butler 
 county. Here within the past few days had taken place one 
 of the largest wholesale lynchings ever occurring in Kansas. 
 Five men had been strung up in the very grove in which we 
 were camping, and the ends of the ropes from which the vic- 
 tims had been cut down still remained on the trees. 
 
 We arrived at the Arkansas River at Richard's Ferry and 
 gave the old man fifty cents per team to carry us to the mid- 
 dle of the stream and dump us out in the quicksand. 
 Shortly afterward we saw in the distance what all at first 
 
Musings of tlie Pilgrim Bard 239 
 
 took to be a mirage, but it proved to be a "sure enough." town. 
 As we neared the suburbs it seemed to me that the carpenters 
 at work on the four or five buildings in process' of erection 
 made all the racket possible to attract the attention of the 
 emigrants. On inquiry we learned that the name of the 
 thriving little city was Belle Plaine, the future county seat of 
 Sumner county. Here upon inquiring the way to Meridian 
 we were informed that the road went no further, but that a 
 couple of laden teams had passed the day before enroute to 
 that place. So we took the trail and late in the afternoon 
 hove in sight of some tents and shanties on a knoll, "Yonder 
 she is', boys," cried the enthusiastic Dr. Wood; "and by all 
 the gods there wasn't a house there when we left."' 
 
 Soon we had halted in front of a tent on Main street 
 wberein the proprietor. Old Newt, stood behind a cottonwood 
 plank that filled the place of a bar, ready to dispense Hostet- 
 ter. Home or Log Cabin Bitters. As the Doctor entered ex- 
 tending his hand to the proprietor, he remarked: "This is 
 
 Meridian, I suppose?" "Meridian !" exclaimed Old Newt. 
 
 "Mister, this is Sumner City, the county seat of Sumner coun- 
 ty." We all laughed but the Doctor, who remarked as he 
 turned around, "Boys, it's on me; what will you have?" 
 Whether the fellow at Belle Plaine who gave us the informa- 
 tion of the destination of the teams was mistaken or whether 
 he maliciously lied, we never knew, but of one thing we were 
 morally certain, Sumner county was to have plenty of county 
 seats, and we afterwards learned (in the language of the 
 classics) "There were still others," 
 
 After camping over night on S'late Creek we turned down 
 
240 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 •stream, for on this same stream the city of Meridian was 
 located. About noon we reached our destination and went 
 into camp. After caring for our teams we strolled out in search 
 of the town company. We knew we were in town for the lots 
 were carefully staked, but the houscb- had not yet material- 
 ized. At last we came upon an old dilapidated tent in which 
 were seated four members of the town company playing 
 sevenup as if their lives were staked on the result of that 
 particular game, and they never let up until the game was 
 finished. 
 
 We all returned to camp except Godfrey and Wood who 
 remained a short time in council. They soon joined us and 
 informed us' that the company had given them to understand 
 that all former overtures were off, and ihat they, the Meri- 
 dian Town Company had a sure thing of it and proposed to 
 hold on to it, but that they would give Mr. Godfrey and the 
 Doctor each a town lot whereon to build. Godfrey, Wood and 
 Randall held a council, and the next morning they rode up 
 the creek to reconnoiter. We stayed in camp and had a good 
 time. About noon they returned and after dinner they di- 
 rected the teams to pull up the creek, and that night we 
 camped on vv^hat afterwards became the original townsite of 
 Wellington. It was then unclaimed government land. 
 
 The town was surveyed and platted by Capt. L. K. Myers. 
 It was originally laid out on a public square or park after the 
 manner of Paola, but owing to the desperation of the town 
 company in the distribution of town lots in order to secure 
 the county seat, the plat was afterwards changed and the 
 square cut into lots. All hands went to work cutting crooked 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 241 
 
 hackberry logs on Slate Creek, and soon the old log drug 
 store, with its great glass front (which had been taken to 
 pieces and hauled from Paola), loomed up, and Sumner county- 
 had still another county ceat. Other buildings followed as 
 fast as material could be procured, and before the frost 
 glistened on the buffalo grass Wellington was well and se- 
 curely founded. Years have passed, many pretentious build- 
 ings' have been erected, but none will be cherished in the 
 memories of the old settlers like the old log drug store. 
 
242 Musings of the Pilgrim Baril 
 
 A DAY DROAM 
 
 Not long since in casting about for a suitable stick to 
 fasten the cap sheaf on one of my wheat stacks, I came across 
 a piece of cedar that once served as a tepee pole, a rib from 
 the portable dwelling of the roaming red denizens of the 
 wilderness and plains. 
 
 While shaping this relic of barbarity to suit its new and 
 unintended purpose, my imaginative mind wandered back to 
 the long ago. In fancy I saw the dusky semi-clad squaw, 
 armed with tomahawk and butcher knife, sling her pappoose 
 over her shoulder with about as much grace and caution as a 
 hobo slings his bundle over his callous back, and wend her 
 way to the neighboring thicket or cedar canon. She singles 
 out a cedar sapling from six to eight inches' in diameter, and 
 after felling it and denuding it of its branches she Teisurely 
 begins to hack and hew with the tomahav/k, accompanying 
 the blows with choice selections of vocal music that reminds' 
 one of the low, jerky wail of a tired bull dog. After she has 
 hacked and h'ewn the stick to its proper size (about two and 
 a half inches in diameter), which often consumed an entire 
 day, she then proceeds to put on the finishing touches with 
 the knife, shaving it round and smooth, then with the point 
 of the knife sh'e mortices a hole about an inch wide and two 
 inches in length near the top end of the pole. When enough 
 poles have been made a strip of rawhide is' passed through 
 one hole after another and then tied, and the frame of the 
 noble red man's lodge is ready to be erected, which is easily 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 243 
 
 done by standing the bundle on end and spreading the bottom 
 ends, after the manner of a tripod, and the lodge is ready for 
 the tepee cloth, which was formerly made of skins of wild 
 animals and by some tribes' it was woven of Basswood bark 
 and rushes and called "Puckaway," but of late years the uncle 
 and guardian of these dusky denizens furnished them with 
 waterproof canvass. When a village moves the strap that 
 holds the poles together is' slipped over the head of a pony, 
 half the poles on each side, and one end left to drag on the 
 ground, the cloth is folded and packed on the pony's back, 
 and still on top of the establishment rides Mrs. Lo and the 
 pappooses. But I am awakened from my untimely reverie by 
 th'e boys yelling, "Are you going to be all day sharpening 
 that stick?" 
 
244 Musings of tne Pilgrim Bard 
 
 A BUFPALO GMASB 
 
 Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, 
 
 Knock all these big houses plumb out of sight. 
 
 Give us the frontier, with grass-covered plain. 
 
 Give us our buffalo hump-steak again. 
 One balmy morning in the spring of 1872, a dark, moving 
 mass appeared on the ridge west of Wellington, and soon the 
 whole face of the earth was hidden from viev/ as with a 
 cloud, and the cry went up from the denizens of the infant 
 city, "Buffalo! Buffalo!" All was flurry and excitement. 
 Many of our people, fresh from the east, had never before 
 beheld the monarch of the prairie in the glory of his' free- 
 dom. Soon every available animal of the equine species was 
 brought into requisition. After the meager supply of saddles 
 was exhausted, blankets were strapped on, and last of all, 
 gunny-sacks partially filled with hay, were improvised, and 
 away dashed the flower and chivalry of \vellington, helter, 
 skelter, pellmell, bent on the capture or annihilation of the 
 entire herd. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, the writer aid not participate, 
 and my memory is that I was the only knight errant who 
 remained in the town. I could not bear to think that 
 "None be left to guard the strand 
 Save women weak, who wring the hand." 
 As the lengthening shadows denoted the approach of 
 evening and the cuckoo owl in the prairie dog town had 
 taken up his twilight refrain, the hunters straggled back 
 singly or in pairs, hungry, thirsty and weary, bringing with 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 245 
 
 them more experience than m'eat. Some of those who were 
 well mounted and equipped succeeded in bringing down 
 some game, but the majority took their pay in fun and ex- 
 citement. Jim Baker, mounted on his fleetest race horse, 
 succeeded in roping a calf, which he brought back to town 
 alive. An amusing incident, the outgrowth of the chase, must 
 not escape notice. 
 
 Bill Nixon, who was running a paper in Belle Plaine and 
 who was an ardent supporter of his town for county s'eat 
 honors, kept the glowing headlines' in his paper to the effect 
 that Belle Plaine was the center of the "great valley of the 
 Ninnescah," and therefore would always be the center of 
 population, as all west of said valley was a trackless, tree- 
 less desert, unfit for anything but a stamping ground for 
 buffalo and a rendezvous for the prowling coyote. This' of 
 course was strategic buncombe and every partisan of Welling- 
 ton was always ready to refute it, as we all knew Wellington 
 was situated in the geographical center of Sumner county 
 and must needs be the coming metropolis. But I digress. 
 
 After the hunters had slaked their thirst and pppeas'ed 
 their hunger they all assembled at Gifford's to recount in 
 detail the experiences of the day's chase. All were in good 
 ■spirits excepting Dr. P. A. Wood, who seemed so reticient 
 and unlike himself that I at last ventured the query: "Doc, 
 what's the matter with you?" "Well," said he, "by the gods 
 of war. Bill Nixon ain't far out of the way after all, for I tell 
 you what we are on the very edge of the great American 
 desert and the country west of this never can or will 
 be settled up, and I think we're left." What a wondrous 
 
246 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 change! More than a quarter of a century has passed, and 
 now the thrifty farmer may stand on the front porch of his 
 comfortable residence and look down into the valley of Slate 
 Creek on a prosperous city. The great American desert has 
 been erased from our maps and has long since ceased to be 
 a "bugbear" to bar the progress of civilization. 
 
 The thrifty farmer tilled the fallow soil 
 Whereon, years past, the bison's hoof resounded. 
 
 And as his wont, he rests him from his* toil 
 
 'Mid acres broad of waving grain surrounded. 
 
 A fragment bone from out the furrow cast 
 
 May still remind him of the long, long past. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 247 
 
 A STORY or »LirrAbO DAYS 
 
 "Some reminescences are pleasant, while many are 
 wrought with dang^er and privation. The intolerable heat 
 and holocausts of perdition winds; and the ice laden blasts' 
 of the howling blizzard; the wonted feast on the juicy steak 
 from the bison's hump; and the unwonted fast when the 
 starvation girdle is drawn until a human form resembles that 
 of a wasp, and lean coyote; the terrapin, the lizzard and the 
 vulture are eagerly devoured without grace or seasoning — 
 down the same throat goes the choice viands and alas full 
 oft to be followed by unsavory food that only hunger renders 
 palatable. A draught of pure crystal water, fit nectar for 
 the gods, is often followed by stuff that only resembles water, 
 in that it is semi-liquid, and one must use his teeth for a 
 strainer and then spit out the debris. But to my sketch. 
 It was August, 1871. We were camped on a high divide 
 where for two days we had been engaged in jerking buffalo 
 meat. Now as many of my readers are unfamiliar with the 
 ways of the plains slaughter and packing houses, a short 
 detail s"eems in place. As' many choice buffalo as are needed 
 are killed in the evening. After skinning the animals the 
 entire night is occupied in cutting the meat into strips of 
 convenient size; as fast as prepared the strips of meat are 
 spread on the grass to cool. In the morning two wagons are 
 driven side by side, far enough apart that picket ropes extend 
 from one wagon to the other; on those ropes the meat is 
 hung and without the pressure of a button the hot winds 
 
248 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 does the rest. I tiave known meat to be cured ready for 
 packing with one day's hot sun and wind. Meat thus* cured 
 without salt will keep for an indefinite length of time. 
 When salt is used the meat is more palatable but more liable 
 to injury from dampness or worms. So much for the plains 
 packing companies, and I resume my sketch. The sun rose 
 red and fiery as it had done for many mornings and we made 
 hasty preparations to resume our journey owing to the fact 
 that the last of the water in the kegs had been exhausted at 
 supper the evening before, and we knew that water could 
 not be reached before about noon, but that was nothing out 
 of the ordinary, so we wended our way eastward. I had long 
 been accustomed to hot winds but I don't believe I ever felt 
 such heat before nor since and have superstitiously surmised 
 that some of the escape valves might have gotten out of fix 
 on the furnaces of perdition. At last about on'e o'clock in the 
 afterngon we reached the sandy margin of the stream, or 
 what had been a stream, and where four days previous we 
 had filled our kegs. Now it was dry, nothing but a dry bed 
 of parching sand from which the intolerable rays of the sun 
 glinted with redoubled fury. Nothing daunted, a shovel was 
 procured and one after another we plied our strength in 
 search for the sunken treasure. At times we would reach 
 damp sand, and would ply the shovel with renewed vigor 
 when all at once the whole business would cave in and we 
 must commence almost at the beginning. But at length 
 when an excavation had been made fully twelve feet across 
 and as deep as a man's head, we were able to dip a pint at a 
 time, and perchance 'twere better as no one drank to excess. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 249 
 
 After our thirst was' quenched we turned our attention to 
 the poor horses, and we commenced dipping carefully pint 
 by pint until two pails of water had been given to the four 
 horses. 
 
 All at once the ground seemed to tremble, and we saw 
 farther up the creek a countless herd of buffalo, maddened 
 with thirst, swooping down from the plains to the dry bed of 
 sand. We wondered and waited. Into the creek they gather- 
 ed in a solid mass bellowing and pawing until little could be 
 seen but a cloud of sand. For an hour they kept up the 
 melee when they became quiet and commenced to pull out. 
 S'o busily were we engaged that no one noticed our well and 
 on looking around to our amazement it was filled with water. 
 Ah, then we knew that the shaggy monarch of the prairie 
 knew how to "cause water to spring forth in dry places." 
 
 After the herd had disappeared we went up to where 
 they had h'eld their pow-wow and there was water in abund- 
 ance. Boys, said I as we wended our way back to our 
 wagons', boys, that makes the story of Moses smiting the 
 rock tame reading! 
 
 We camped for the night by the Buffaloidentially pro- 
 vided pool and in the morning resumed our journey mentally 
 and physically refreshed. 
 
250 Musings of tlie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 PANORAMIC RBMIINISGBINGBS 
 Holiday Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 On this occasion my musing mind reverts to my late home 
 in Barber county, Kansas. One by one my former friends and 
 associates pass in panoramic pageant before me. I can see 
 scenes solemn and scenes ludicrous. One of the latter char- 
 acter I must give a rub for the sake of old, very old, times. 
 Scene: A portly doctor running frantically across Main 
 street in Medicine Lodge amid a fusillade of bullets' that he 
 supposed were fired at him, but in reality were fired in the 
 air by a lot of bums to frighten the dispenser of pills and 
 squills. Into the house of a widow lady he rushed, down on 
 his all-fours and under the bed, calling out in maniacal tones: 
 "Let me get under here for God's sake; them damn fools are 
 going to 'sassinate me." 
 
 ^ ^ ■^ ^ ^ Hi 
 
 Scene two: The mysterious disappearance of Eli's 
 whiskey. Liquor tasted so strongly of Elm Creek that Eli 
 began to suspect the driver of the Hutchinson stage — a two- 
 horse buckboard, driven by Bill Horn — of extracting and 
 adulterating. Accordingly word was sent to the drug house 
 at Hutchinson to seal all orders before shipping. Orders' 
 were strictly obeyed, jugs were sealed, Eli gave an exhibition 
 
 of his old-time levity as he remarked, "By , old Bill will 
 
 come in next time with a hot box." Let us see. Bill arrived 
 smiling (and smelling) complacently as usual. On examina- 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 251 
 
 tion the jugs were found lacking in quantity, althougli sealed 
 securely with the great seal of Myers Bros'. Eli roared, sent 
 bitter denunciations to the drug house and received answer 
 that jugs- contained full measure when shipped; could not 
 account for the shortage; try again. Again and again the 
 jugs were sent back and forth, empty and part full. Eli's 
 only resort was a rectifying process, known only to himself, 
 to make amends for the shortage. 
 
 Let us digress' a moment from the main scene. 
 
 Enter Bolliver, just from the range — Got any good 
 whiskey, JUili?" 
 
 Eli — "You bet I have, four years old, vintage of '70." 
 
 Eli pours out a glass full which Bolliver greedily grasps 
 and fills his mouth and as' quickly spits it out on the floor 
 with an hurried oath. As soon as he could regain his breath 
 he gasped: "Eli, give me some you made last night; that 
 stuff's too d d old." 
 
 One day as Eli was getting the empty jugs ready for re- 
 turn to be refilled he accidentally dropped one and it was 
 broken to pieces, and with the breaking dawned a light on the 
 mystery, for in the bottom of the jug there were twenty-one 
 small holes drilled with a nail and so nicely plugged with pine 
 plugs as to defy detection. The jugs were never again 
 sealed and to Bill's credit be it said he never took any more 
 whiskey from the jugs than he wanted. 
 
REMINESCENSES OF THE 
 EARLY DAYS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 About nine miles west of the city of Medicine Lodge 
 may be seen a high, peculiar looking hill or mountain that 
 rises abruptly from the valley of a small creek hard by. It 
 is almost round, and although not perpendicular, yet it is' so 
 steep that it is with difficulty that one can reach its lofty 
 summit. Many of the early settlers can distinctly remember 
 when the summit of this mount, perhaps an acre in extent, 
 was densely fringed with stunted cedar trees', which caused it 
 to present a weird, romantic picturesque appearance. 
 Like many other mounds in Barber county, this mount 
 (Flower Pot Mountain), has a legendary history. What I 
 know concerning this particular mount I will relate. Until 
 what I have to relate transpired I was an unbeliever in 
 ghosts, nor did I believe that the departed spirits ever re- 
 visited the earth, yet on this occasion I both saw and heard, 
 "What much has changed my skeptic creed." But to my 
 story : 
 
 One day, about the last of January, 1871, I left camp, near 
 the junction of Elm creek with the Medicine river. I was 
 afoot and alone, and unarmed, except that I carried a Spencer 
 rifle and two Colt's 44's. I struck out in a westerly direction 
 over hills and through canyons that now appear to be but 
 
254 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 barren gulches, but at tbe time I write of, the sides as well as 
 the bottoms were covered with trees so dense as almost to ex- 
 clude the light of the noonday sun. I wandered aimlessly 
 along until I came full in sight of the "Flower Pot" moun- 
 tain, the sight of which impressed me to such an extent that 
 I resolved to visit it and explore its lofty summit. 
 
 It seemed quite near but long before I reached it I began 
 to think it was a "mirage," but at last I arrived at its base 
 and began the ascent of its rugged side. When I had 
 reached a point from which I could look through the foliage 
 out on the plateau, I was somewhat surprised at seeing a 
 huge buffalo grazing complacently on the rich sward of 
 buffalo grass that covered the entire summit, excepting that 
 portion occupied by the fringe-like trees. My first impulse 
 was to let him go, as I had little use for so much meat, yet I 
 could not resist the temptation of killing a buffalo in such a 
 romantic place, so with one shot from my Spencer I laid him 
 prone on the earth. As the Bun was low in the horizon, I 
 knew I could not reach camp before a very late hour, perhaps 
 not before morning, so I concluded to pass the night on the 
 mountain. Instead of filling me with terror I must confess 
 that I liked the romantic situation, for whether it is' due to 
 my early training or whether on account of my guileless con- 
 science, I always feel a sublime security when alone in the 
 wilderness, with no watch over me save He who holds the 
 destiny of men, as well as nations, in His omnipotent hands. 
 
 Though far from the haunts of my kindred men, 
 On prairie wild, in secluded glen, 
 The Father, who notes e'en the sparrow's fall. 
 Wherever we be He is ruler o'er all. 
 
 Having divested the "monarch of the prairie" of his' 
 hide I set about to prepare my evening meal, for if anytliing 
 will sharpen a man's appetite it is to climb the hills and 
 cross the canyons on foot, and I was both tired and hungry. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 255 
 
 My meal was not, perhaps, to a queen's taste, as it consisted 
 entirely of choice bits of the animal's flesh which I roasted 
 over a bright fire of cedar faggots. Supper over I spread the 
 hide of the animal before the cheerful fire, and reclining on 
 it I lighted my pipe and was soon lost in a cloud of smoke, 
 and meditation. Weary at length I wrapped the shaggy man- 
 tle around me and was soon asleep. 
 
 It must have been near midnight when I was suddenly 
 awakened by the most heartrending and unearthly cries I 
 ever heard. I tried to rise but was paralyzed with terror; 
 the entire summit of the mountain was radiant with a weird 
 unearthly light similar to a continuous glare of lightning; 
 everything had a ghastly look and I began to think I had 
 passed the confines of mortality and had entereed that land of 
 perpetual sunlight, excepting that the sounds I heard would 
 have been far more likely to emanate from the land of 
 Erebus than of Paradise. 
 
 Out near the center of the plateau a scene was trans- 
 piring that chilled the blood in my veins. About a score of 
 hideously painted savages were dancing frantically around a 
 blazing fire and in the midst of the flames I could distin- 
 guish two human beings bound to a stake and being roasted 
 alive. The Indians were howling and yelling like demons, 
 yet above all I could hear the plaintive and despairing cries 
 of the doomed and helpless victims. I closed my eyes upon 
 the dreadful scene. All at once stillness reigned; the ghostly 
 orgy was ended, while chaotic darkness threw her mantle 
 o'er the mountain. I began to think it was all at last but 
 a feverish dream, and had about resigned myself to sleep 
 once more when a hollow voice at my side, so near that I 
 started and sat bolt upright, addressed me saying: 
 
 Stranger, you are the first of my race that has set foot 
 on this mountain since my husband and myself were burned 
 alive at the stake. Rest here until the sun appears in the 
 morning, then repair to the eastern edge of the mountain; 
 
256 Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 there you will find a cedar tree with a dead limb pointing 
 northward. Beneath that tree you will find a large flat stone; 
 lift the stone and be governed by circumstances. What 
 you have seen and heard this night actually took place many 
 years ago; since then this mountain i±as been haunted. 
 Farewell! I shall never again address you." 
 
 The voice ceased and darkness and silence reigned su- 
 preme. 
 
 After the voice ceased I relapsed into a nervous slumber, 
 from which I was shortly aroused by the incessant howling of 
 the wolves. I started to my feet, for the animals, doubtless 
 attracted by the smell of blood from the dead buffalo, were 
 already uncomfortably near. I could distinctly see their 
 eyes in the darkness and hear the snapping of their teeth, as 
 they quarreled over their anticipated prey. I stirred the 
 dying embers of my fire and threw on a few dry limbs, which 
 had a quieting effect on the brutes, and caused them to slink 
 farther back into the darkness, but I slept no more. I filled 
 and lighted my pipe and anxiously awaited the coming of 
 the morn. It seemed an age to wait, but at last the eastern 
 horizon became tinted; "'twas twilight's sacred hour." I 
 made a hasty meal, similar to my supper, consisting entirely 
 of buffalo meat. My mind was filled with anxiety concerning 
 what I had witnessed during the night, and I resolved to fol- 
 low the directions given me by the spirit voice, and therefore 
 I anxiously awaited the appearance of the sun. Just as I had 
 finished my repast and filled and lighted my pipe the great 
 day god began to rise over the eastern hills. I hastened in 
 the direction indicated by the spirit and soon came to the 
 tree precisely as described, the dead limb pointing northward, 
 but the stone was nowhere to be seen, and not until I had be- 
 gan to doubt did I find it under several inches of dirt and 
 debris. I cannot describe my feelings as I was about to un- 
 earth this mystery. It seemed something like a link between 
 the living and the dead, and doubtless could my photograph 
 
Musings of the Pugrim Bard 257 
 
 been taken as I stood under that ancient cedar tree, through 
 whose branches glimmered the rays of the morning sun, it 
 would have portrayed anything but mirth. In all my life 
 I have never before felt such a strange sensation. Yet what 
 was hidden there must be revealed, and I set myself to the 
 task. When I had removed the stone I found an excavation 
 in which was deposited among dry leaves a tin box about one 
 foot square. It was painted green and was securely locked 
 with a small brass padlock. I removed the box, and after I 
 had recovered my breath and nerves, I set about opening it, 
 and as the spirit had said nothing about the key to the box, 
 I took it for granted that I must burst it open; and only after 
 some difficulty did I succeed in raising the lid. As I did so, 
 I imagined a faint odor or musty smell exuded from it. But 
 to the contents, which were as follows': 
 
 One ear of Indian corn, bright and yellow as if but a day 
 had elapsed since it was plucked from the stalk; also a hand- 
 ful of wheat, as plump as when it was threshed; four small 
 braids of hair of different colors; a certificate of marriage, 
 showing that on the 12th day of November, A. D., 1832, Evan 
 Day and Lenora Blackwood were joined in the holy bonds of 
 matrimony, at the city of New Orleans, by the Rev. David 
 Green; also a roll of manuscript, yellow with age, yet en- 
 tirely legible, having been carefully written in a lady's hand- 
 writing. To the manuscript was attached the following note: 
 
 August 2, 1854. — To any one who shall discover these 
 treasures I make this request. As I have been informed that 
 only another sun shall rise until my husband and myself, 
 the last survivors of our ill-fated little colony, must perish 
 in the flames on the summit of this mountain. You will find 
 enclosed a full and true account from the time we left St. 
 Louis up to this date which will appear in due dates and 
 forms. I can not but think that these valleys will be peopled 
 by my race; that the dreadful savage must yield to the in- 
 evitable. Iherefore, in the face of the dread angel of death. 
 
258 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 I request that whosoever shall find this manuscript shall pub- 
 lish it and let the world know of the troubles and trials of 
 our happy yet ill-fated little colony. Farewell forever, fare- 
 well. LEONORA DAY. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 259 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Note. — The reader will observe that my part of the "remi- 
 niscences" ends with the introduction of the hidden manu- 
 script written by Mrs. Day. I shall faithfully copy the same, 
 as I wish to preserve the original copy. Had I the licenBe 
 of a novelist I might color it somewhat, but in the face of the 
 circumstances under which it fell into my hands, I should 
 expect to see the angry spirit of Mrs'. Day rise up and rebuke 
 me if I changed a sentence. AUTHOR. 
 
 LEONORA DAY'S JOURNAL. 
 
 St. Louis, Mo., March 13, 1849. 
 We are all ready to start to California, the fabled land 
 of gold. Our company consists of sixteen men, seven women 
 and nine children — in all thirty-two souls. We have thir- 
 teen wagons made exclusively for the overland route to 
 California. The boxes or beds' of the wagons are water-tight 
 and divided into three compartments, each having a lid that 
 fits securely over the top; such vehicles are termed "double- 
 need for immediate use, also a supply of ammunition. In the 
 middle box we carry our surplus' clothing, books, papers, etc., 
 deckers." In the front box we carry such provisions as we 
 while in the rear box is stored away provision sufficient for 
 the journey. On each side of the wagon is a five-gallon cask 
 for carrying water over dessert places, while the whole estab- 
 lishment is covered by heavy bows and canvas-. Each wagon 
 is drawn by three yoke of oxen, under control of experienced 
 drivers commonly called "whackers." While the drivers are 
 yoking and hitching the cattle, or as they call it, "stringing 
 them out," let me describe one of the most prominent 
 persons in our train, the Old Mountain Trapper who has 
 agreed to guide us as' far west as the mountains, where he will 
 remain, and from whence he informs us we can employ a 
 friendly Indian, (heavens, how the idea of an Indian makes 
 
260 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 me shudder), for the remainder of the journey. He is a 
 queer looking specimen of humanity, perhaps forty-five years 
 of age and about five feet ten inches tall; his complexion 
 betokens constant exposure; his bony hatchet-face is covered 
 with a grizzly beard, while his iron-gray hair reaches far 
 below his shoulders; his keen black eyes denote a vague 
 restless disposition; he is' minus his right ear while the left 
 ear is Blit in four or five places. He is clothed in buckskin 
 from head to foot, from his cap a tail-like fringe of various; 
 colors reached down his back below his' waist, his pantaloons 
 (or leggings as he calls them) are fringed on the outside 
 seams with human hair, black as the plumage on the raven's 
 wing. He carries a long, dangerous-looking rifle, a pair of 
 pistols and a long knife with buckhorn handle. He goes by 
 the name of Old Drab. He is mounted on a lean, wiry, gray 
 pony, with heavy mane and tan, and a hawk-like eye that be- 
 tokens the restlessness of its owner. His saddle, the trap- 
 per boasts, is of his own make. I cannot tell what it is 
 made of for wherever there is room for it there is a brass- 
 headed nail. His bridle has no bit, but consists simply of a 
 rawhide rope with a noose on one end. Both rider and pony 
 understand each other so well that a bridle would be a super- 
 fluity. We are to embark on steamboats as far as Independ- 
 ence, Mo. From thence our guide informs us we will take 
 the Santa Fe trail, as that leads us farther south where we 
 will find grass for our animals sooner than on the trail 
 farther north; he informs us that several large trains have 
 passed over this route to California. But the cattle and 
 wagons have all embarked and we step on board the "Time 
 and Tide," a portion of our train having embarked on this 
 boat and the remainder on the "Evangeline." The whistle 
 is' blown, the gangplanks are drawn in and the tinkling of 
 the bells denote that we are moving out on the bosom of the 
 father of waters. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 261 
 
 Independence, Mo., March 15, 1849. 
 We reached this town this morning at 9 o'clock. We 
 have disembarked and are moving out on the trail used prin- 
 cipally by the traders and trappers between this point and 
 Santa Fe. At 4 o'clock p. m. we camped on a beautiful 
 stream of swift, clear water, the banks of which are heavily 
 timbered. Supper over, we gathered round our bright camp- 
 fire, the men to smoke, the women to talk of by-gone days', 
 while the children play at hide-and-go-seek until tired, at last 
 they are stowed away in the tented wagons. "Drab," said I 
 to the "old trapper," "tell us a story; you certainly have a 
 good stock of them, so tell us an adventure to pass away the 
 time." " Waal," said the old trapper, as he refilled his pon- 
 derous pipe and lighted it with a burning brand from the 
 fire, "I reckon as how I know suthin' as may interest you, 
 but at the same time it may sorty skeer you, but howsumever 
 I'll tell you a mild one this time, and raise j^ou by degrees a 
 zero at a time. So here goes": 
 
 THE TRAPPER'S STORY. 
 
 " 'Twar about two years ago come October. I war in the 
 mountains about two hundred miles south o' the great Salt 
 Lake. Injuns waar thick, whew! I tell you they waar thick, 
 and to meet a good Injun was to meet one as hed been dead 
 so long that the smell o' him wouldn't attract the coyotes or 
 John-crows. Painters and grizzlies waar thick, likewise every 
 other wild animal that the good God reckoned would stand 
 that climate. I lived several years in a cave where, after I 
 hed shet the door, the Devil himself couldn't sorty git in. 
 Here I stored my furs until trappin' season waar over, when 
 I would strike trail for the 'river.' The red devils looked 
 for me often, but they never found me until one afternoon 
 when I waar returnin' from lookin' arter my traps. When 
 within about a mile from my cave the very ground seemed to 
 
262 Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 open up and let out Injuns. I thought my time hed come to 
 said over the wells o' the new Jerusalem, when all to onct I 
 felt the airth givin' way under my feet. Down, down I went, 
 and from the time that elapsed I must hev fell and slid nigh 
 a half mile, while the dirt and trash that follered me nigh 
 about choked me. I begun to reckon as how I waar sure goin' 
 to the Devil, and waar tryin' to think of some winnin' re- 
 marks to say to his Satanic Majesty. I struck bottom. I got 
 down on all fours' and felt around. The bottom waar level, 
 solid rock, cold and damp. I stood up and tried to touch 
 suthin', but nary touch. I seemed to be in a world o' dark- 
 ness and hed it all to myself. But by hokey I must hev a 
 lite. Now I know you all wonder where Old Drab got a lite 
 from. Waal, I'll tell you: I hung on to my rifle, 'Old 
 Zip,' here she ar, this identical old sister. If I waar goin' to 
 the Devil I would hang on to her. Waal, ye see this patch 
 box. I always carries- it full o' baar grease and patches. So 
 I fumbled around thar in the darkness and made a wick out- 
 en the patchen and pushed it down in the gre'ase; then I took 
 my flint and steel and a small bunch o tow and soon had a 
 first-class flamboiler. Waal, folks, when my peepers sorty got 
 used to the lite, I looked around and by hokey I never seed 
 sich a site afore. There must hev bin fifteen or twenty hu- 
 mans sittin', standen' and layen' around that ar room. They 
 waar all mighty finely dressed in buckskin ornamented with 
 all colored beads and other fancy toggeries. Thinks I whaar 
 the devil are I — am I dreamin', or what do this mean? When 
 I hed recovered my breth, I begun to talk to a big copper-col- 
 ored son-o'-a-gun that stood near me, but he never as much 
 as turned his hed, and I began to remunerate, TVTio are I, 
 where are I, and what the aevil do all this mean? I rubbed 
 my eyes to make sure I waar awake; then I punched the fel- 
 ler with my gun, and by hokey he waar solid rock. I moved 
 keerfully around among em' and every mother's son of 'em 
 waar solid as millstuns; so waar the bows, arrows', spears, 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 263 
 
 tomahawks and trinkets all stun. By hokey, ses I, are this 
 the valley o' petrifaction, and are I to become like these fel- 
 lows? Are Old Drab, the terror o' the mountains, to be trans- 
 formed into a dornick? Not if this haar court knows herself, 
 and she thinks she do. So I began to hustle around to keep 
 my blood from conjealin'. I left the silent, stony gatherin' and 
 begun to move up on the ghostly tabernicle. It waar about 
 thirty feet to the ceilin', which seemed to be hung with 
 icicles, any more than they didn't drip. Some places waar 
 a hundred feet wide, and as I moved along I thought I could 
 hear runnin' water, when all to oEct I cum to a pond about 
 fifty feet across whar the water whirled round and round at 
 such a rate that it sounded like the grinding of a mill, but I 
 kept on goin', thinkin' I had better make tracks while the 
 lite lasted. I can't tell how far I traveled, but seemed near a 
 mile. My lite war gettin' dimmer, and I begun to think it 
 waar all over with Old Drab, when I came to a suddent stop. 
 'Twaar the end o' the cave, but seein' a hole in the wall large 
 enough for me to crawl into, I began to enter it on all fours, 
 as I well knew that it waar certain death to remain whar I 
 waar. Sometimes I could stoop and walk and sometimes I 
 hed to crawl, but imagine my joy and surprise when I cum 
 out inter my own cave." 
 
 Thus ends the trapper's first story, and we wonder, this 
 being a mild dose, what he calls' a full-sized one. And as it is 
 getting late we will retire, but, being my first attempt at 
 camping, I know not whether it be to sleep or study. 
 
264 Musings of the Pfgnm Bard 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On the Trail, March 30, 1849. 
 Nothing worthy of notice has transpired since the last 
 entry in my diary. The weather has been so rough that we 
 have made but little progress on our journey. We are camped 
 near a village of Pottawatomie Indians; they are holding 
 some kind of a gathering. Old Drab says' one of their 
 number has died and they are fixing to plant him, so I will 
 describe the ceremonies. As these are the first Indians I 
 have seen I must confess I am not favorably impressed with 
 them, either individually or collectively. They lack very 
 much filling the picture of the noble red man as portrayed by 
 artists in the east, and if there is anything noble about 
 them it don't crop out, for instead of that noble look and 
 high intelligent forehead, they have a sneaking look with low 
 brows surmounted with coarse, black hair, that hangs' in two 
 braids down their backs often reaching below the waist. 
 They are dressed every one about after the same style, each 
 pant leg is a separate garment tied with a string around the 
 waist. A piece of cloth is then tied about the waist and 
 allowed to hang down partly for ornament although it doubt- 
 less adds much to the comfort of the wearer; including a 
 blanket this makes up the wearing apparel complete. But to 
 the burial. They have been singing and dancing around the 
 lodge of the dead Indian ever since we came into camp, but 
 now they have ceased while four of their number enter the 
 lodge and soon reappear, carrying the copper-colored corpse 
 in a kind of chair; he is in a sitting posture, his' features are 
 rigid and his eyes are still open and staring. As they emerge 
 from the lodge a blanket is thrown over the head of the 
 corpse so that his spirit may not see the direction in which it 
 is borne, and as soon as the pall-bearers are out of sight of 
 the lodge, half a dozen squaws tear the lodge down as quickly 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 265 
 
 as possible and destroy all traces of the earthly abode. This 
 the trapper informs us is done so that the spirit may never 
 return to its' former haunts, but keep on to the "happy hunt- 
 ing grounds." But I must follow the motley procession, 
 which has arrived at the top of the knoll, where, from 
 appearances, a number of the tribe have been buried. The 
 grave, a shallow hole in the ground, is ready, and in it they 
 place the dead still in a sitting posture. All his earthly 
 effects are likewise thrown into the grave; he is then cov- 
 ered with another blanket, then with earth, and we think 
 the last sad superstitious rites are over. But not so, for the 
 pony of the dead Indian, a magnificent coal black, is now 
 being led up to the grave, and no sooner has his front feet 
 touched the fresh earth than his throat is cut from ear to ear, 
 and he sinks with a groan upon the grave of his master. 
 This the trapper informs us is done m order that the de- 
 parted brave may have a pony to ride to the happy hunt- 
 ing grounds', and perhaps he will ride it after he gets there. 
 This done, the squaws of the dead hero advance to the head 
 of the grave and deposit some provisions, supposed to be 
 sufficient for the spirit's journey, each one now returns to 
 the village as quickly as possible, and each in a different 
 direction, and we likewise returned to our camp. Supper 
 over, we surround our camp-fire. The old trapper has been 
 telling us about the different modes of burial practiced by 
 the different tribes. Some leave their dead on the top of the 
 ground and build a pen around them, while others put the 
 corpse on a scaffold, and still others put them in the tops of 
 trees; yet all have the same superstitious idea concerning 
 a hereafter. A happy hunting ground where game of all 
 kind abounds, and where the grass is forever green and the 
 leaves never fall from the trees, and springs of pure, clear 
 water flow forever. But enough at present, for Old Drab, the 
 trapper, has agreed, at the request of those present, to tell us 
 how he came to lose his right ear and nave the left organ so 
 badly mutilated, and we will listen to another. 
 
266 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 STOiRY OF THE OLD TRAPPER. 
 
 " 'Twaar nigh about eight years ago I waar trappin' in the 
 Wind River mountains. I hed made a pretty good haul and 
 waar only waitin' for it to git warm enough to circulate on 
 the trail. I waar intrudin' on the Flat Heads and Shoshones 
 Injuns. I waar camped in a hole in the side o' the mountain 
 pretty well up toward the top. I tell yer I hed to keep a 
 sharp lookout, for the rascals knowed I waar in the kentry 
 and wanted to wipe me out, as much on account o' the value 
 o' my furs as on account o' their dislike for a lily white gen- 
 tleman like me. One night they waar a campin' on a sort o' 
 a bench on the mountain about a quarter o' a mile below me; 
 the side o' the mountain waar mighty steep between them and 
 me, and seein' their lite, I crav/led out, and holdin' on to a 
 'weesach' bush, I waar kinder interviewin' 'em when the 
 bush gave way, and spite of all I could do, I slid down, down, 
 until, by hokey, I landed plump sock dab right among the 
 red varmints. Surprised, skeered, waked up! Waal, you 
 .better reckon they we^re all o' that conjined. To jump the 
 game waar out o' the question, so I sorty made myself to 
 home, while they surrounded me and begun to question me 
 in thaar language as to whaar I hed cum from. I pointed to 
 the moon, which waar then high in the sky, but that tale 
 wouldn't pan out, for they grabbed me and tied my hands 
 behind me, and then began their torturin"me. They first 
 took a red-hot iron and run it through my right lug, but I 
 never as much batted my eyes. This seemed to make 'em 
 mad, and a big, weather-beaten son-o'-a-gun walked up to me 
 and drew the edge o' his scalpin' knife across my cheek, 
 whaar ye see these here scars, and then cut my left hearer 
 smack off close to my hed, and I never as much as grunted. 
 He then began to carve my remainin' lug, but all at onct he 
 stopped, a new idea hed struck him. I knowed by his motions 
 he waar orderin' a fire. I waar to be roasted alive. What I 
 
Musings of tlie PUgrim Bard 267 
 
 done must be done immejiately, so I gathered all my strength 
 and made a leap, I knew not whaar. 'Twaar all the same 
 price whether I broke my neck or remained to be roasted. 
 Down, down I went, over the side o' the mountain, slidin' 
 and rollin', till finally I fell full length in a small creek at the 
 base o' the mountain. I waar wet as a drowned rat, but man- 
 aged to waller round till I got out o' the creek, and to my joy 
 the water had loosened the thong that bound my hands and 
 I war again a free community. My hed waar a clot o' blood, 
 but I waar glad it waar no worse. And makin' my way round 
 the base o' the mountain, I soon crep' up into my own man- 
 shun, whaar I greased my wounds' with taller and soon fell 
 asleep." 
 
 Thus ends the trapper's second story, and though a little 
 tough, yet one look at him will convince even a skeptic of its 
 truth and veracity. But it is now late and we must retire 
 for the night. 
 
 On the Trail, April 28, 1849. 
 Since the last entry in my diary we have been slowly 
 progressing on our journey. The weather has faired up and 
 the grass is quite green, while the early wild flowers are oc- 
 casionally in bloom. Innumerable wild birds of various 
 plumage cover the plains as we advance. Game is abundant 
 and we are having a splendid time. We have passed through 
 several Indian villages, but all the red people seem friendly 
 at present, but all alike are consummate beggars, and if we 
 were to give one out of ten what he asked for we would 
 have to return for supplies in three days' time. We are en- 
 camped for the night on the big Arkansas river, near the 
 point where the great bend throws the stream farthest to the 
 north. This is a singular looking stream, at least to me. It 
 is at low water from one to three-fourths of a mile in width, 
 and but for the quicksand is everywhere fordable. Unlike 
 most of the streams we have crossed, its banks are entirely 
 
268 Musings of the Pilgnm Bard 
 
 destitute of timber, and for fuel we burn what is called buf- 
 falo chips, of which there seems to be abundance, and I 
 must confess, laying aside all prejudice, they do make a first- 
 rate fire. The old trapper has informed us that the river 
 shows a slight rise, and that in the morning we must cross 
 it, for fear it might detain us for several days, as it often rises 
 when least expected. He says he has seen the entire valley 
 submerged when there was no rain for two months. He 
 says this is due to snow in the mountains at the river's source. 
 He has already crossed and re-crossed several times, looking 
 out the best way for us to cross the wagons. He says the 
 cattle must be driven across' several times to settle the bottom, 
 so that the wagons v/ill not sink to rise no more. But it is 
 now late and we must retire, with minds full of dread fore- 
 bodings for tomorrow. 
 
 April 29, 1849. 
 This morning the sun rose clear, but was soon obscured 
 by an ominous looking cloud which Old Drab, being withal a 
 little superstitious, consider a bad omen. The river has 
 risen about two feet during the night, but he says we must 
 cross or lay up no telling how long. St) the work is begun. 
 The cattle are pushed into the stream and driven over and 
 back twice; then they are yoked and twelve yoke hitched to 
 one wagon and so on until the last wagon was about mid- 
 stream, when it was observed to sink suddenly out of sight. 
 The old trapper, who had crossed very trip, was riding along- 
 side of the wagon, and in some unknown manner was caught 
 and taken down beneath the water and sand never to rise 
 again, and it was with no small amount of labor that the cattle 
 were unhitched and driven out, just as darkness began to set- 
 tle over the scene. Weary and despondent our little band are 
 encamped on a little knoll on the second bottom. The river 
 has risen steadily all day, and we wish ourselves back on the 
 opposite side of the river with our trusty guide alive, but 
 such is one of the scenes in mortal life. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 269 
 
 As we were sitting around our camp-fire studying over 
 the events of the day, we were suddenly startled by the 
 appearance in our midst of a strange looking individual. 
 Whence he came we know not, until he drew near to our 
 circle, and with uplifted hands and eyes looking heavenward 
 he invoked the "Keeper of Hosts" to rest his blessings upon 
 this wandering little band. The weird, unearthly appearance 
 of the speaker, the hollow sepulchral voice, together with 
 the earnest manner in which he spoke, caused us to wonder 
 what manner of being he was. He was clothed in a long 
 black robe or cloak, with a heavy bindin^- of bright red and 
 a large red Roman cross on the back. His head was without 
 covering and his long disheveled hair and beard were white 
 with the frost of many winters. After he had finished his 
 benediction, he shook hands with all present. He then ad- 
 dressed us as follows: "Pale-faced brothers' and sisters, I 
 was warned in a dream three nights since, of your perilous 
 situation, and have made my way hither in order that I may 
 aid you, if in my power, to pass in safety from the tangled net 
 into which you have fallen. The wily savages are aware of 
 your presence in the country and have been apprised of your 
 coming for several days. Your guide who has just met a 
 terrible though justly merited fate, was a traitor of the bas- 
 est kind, whose deeds of darkness would put to shame the 
 most inhuman savage. You have been on the wrong trail ever 
 since you started on your journey. It was the intention of 
 that fiend in human shape to deliver you into the hands of 
 the Indians, as he had done many others. But the Lord dealt 
 with him as he richly deserved, and his crime-blackened soul 
 has gone to the regions of eternal darkness. Brothers, it 
 would take too long to tell you my Btory; time is' precious, 
 and, moreover, I must not be seen in your camp at any time 
 unless at the last moment; I come to save you from torture. 
 I am the mighty medicine man of three tribes; I am known 
 among them as "White Spirit of the Whirlwind." I am 
 
270 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 both feared and reverenced by these superstitious people, and 
 yet I must be careful, for they are wily as well as' super- 
 stitious and at the first indication of treachery on my part or 
 lack of fidelity to them I would die a horrible death. My 
 absence is accounted for in the following manner: Every 
 full moon I go up on the summit of the Flower Mountain 
 to find out what are the wishes of the Great Spirit concern- 
 ing his people. To them the mountain is sacred and not one 
 of the Indians dare ascend it except at my bidding, and I am 
 even now supposed to be on the mountain in a trance. 
 Brothers, your retreat is cut off on the north by the flooded 
 river. You have but one alternate; you must follow my direc- 
 tions and with the help of the Lord, I will strive to bring you 
 through the perils that surround you on every hand. Should 
 the Indians discover you, never appear the least uneasy, for 
 they will never attack you as long as you appear to be going 
 farther into the toils of their net. And now take heed, I will 
 leave you as mysteriously as I came, yet I will be nearer at 
 all times than you may imagine. In five days' travel you will 
 come to the Great Medicine Village of three tribes. And in 
 order that you may not go astray, I will lay at intervals 
 along the route a cedar bough, the top pointing in the 
 direction you must go, and every night just after dark, I will 
 put a light like this (here he took phial from his pouch 
 and poured a few drops of fluid on a stick, which on being 
 lighted sent forth a bright red blaze) on the highest point 
 near your camp. If you have deviated to the right or left 
 the light will always appear on the side you must bear to, 
 but always look for the light. I will now bid you farewell 
 and God alone knows under what circumstances we will meet 
 again. In the morning take the direciion indicated by the 
 tongue of the foremost wagon. Once again, farewell," and 
 in a moment he had vanished in the impenetrable gloom. We 
 looked at one another in blank amazement, and with no slight 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 271 
 
 degree of apprehension concerning what we had seen and 
 heard. But all agree that on the morrow we could do nothing 
 better than follow the directions given us by the strange in- 
 dividual, and with heavy hearts we seek our couches. 
 
272 . Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 May 7, 1849. 
 After a toilsome journey over a waste of prairie almost 
 void of anything that adds to human comfort, we are at this 
 date camped on the west side of a river much smaller than 
 the Arkansas', and differing from it in every particular ex- 
 cept the quicksand bottom. There are some beautiful groves 
 of timber along its banks, while all the ravines are lined 
 with trees in the glory of full leaf. The river is called by 
 the Indians "River of Lodges;" also "White Medicine." The 
 surrounding country is rough; almost mountainous', while 
 the streams are swift and clear. The soil, if soil it really 
 is, looks like the dust of overburned brick. The timber 
 consists of Cottonwood, elm, hackberry, with now and then a 
 cedar to make up the variety. Surely this must be the 
 fabled land of enchantment and we confidently expect to 
 find the fountain of immortal youth. In all my life it has 
 never been my lot to behold a lovelier picture than that pre- 
 sented to our dessert-worn eyes this May evening. High 
 rugged hills frown down on us from the west like as many 
 castles of the feudal ages. The sun that has been par- 
 ticularly obscured during the day has put on his mantle of 
 glory, and is fast sinking in the distant western horizon. As 
 I look around over the lovely landscape, I am led to wonder 
 for what purpose God has' created this lovely land. But I 
 digress from my subject, and a retrospective view of our 
 journey for the past eight days is necessary in order to con- 
 nect the links in my memorandum. After leaving our camp 
 on the Arkansas river, we followed the directions given us 
 by our mysterious guide. Here and there we found the 
 promised cedar bough which was unmistakable evidence that 
 we were on the right track, and served to give us confidence 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 273 
 
 in our self-offered friend. Then, too, the promised light 
 always appeared soon after dark, and we were reminded of 
 the journey of the children of Israel who were guided by a 
 pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Occa- 
 sionally we saw bands of Indians but they never came near 
 us, which gave us' continued uneasiness, as all the Indians 
 we saw before we crossed the Arkansas, had been far too 
 familiar, and the strange conduct of these Indians led us to 
 believe what our mysterious guide had told us was correct, 
 namely, that they would not attack us as long as we were go- 
 ing farther into the toils of their net. Game has been abundant 
 and we have had as many as five kinds of flesh at one meal. 
 But to return to our camp beneath the spreading- elms and 
 cottonwoods on the banks of the bonny Medicine. We have 
 a bright camp-fire for the evening is quite chilly. Dark 
 sullen looking clouds are rising in the north and the low 
 muttering thunder mingled with vivid streaks of lightning 
 warn us of an approaching storm, but beneath our strong 
 bows and canvas we feel secure. We had no sooner gotten 
 safely beneath the shelter of our "double-deckers," than the 
 rain began to fall in torrents. So dreadful was the night 
 that it was impossible for me to sleep, although I was the 
 only one in camp who was not sleeping soundly. Thus 
 the hours dragged wearily on and the rain still fell as if the 
 windows of heaven had been thrown open wide. It must 
 have been near morning when we were startled by the sound 
 of a human voice, that rang out above the noise of the temp- 
 est (all recognized it as the voice of our mysterious guide, 
 The White Spirit of the Whirlwind), crying: "Fly for your 
 lives; a terrible flood is upon you." The voice ceased but 
 the warning came none too soon, for the roaring, hissing, 
 seething flood was instantly upon us, and as soon as the 
 remnant of our camp-fire was extinguished chaotic darknes-s 
 reigned supreme, save when a lurid blaze of lightning 
 showed the surroundings after which all was doubly dark. 
 
274 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 My husband clung to me and we resolved to die as we had 
 lived, together, if die we must, and indeed it looked as. if 
 death was inevitable; instinctively we grasped hold of the 
 limb of an elm tree and lifted ourselves up among the 
 branches. Higher and higher we climbed, yet the rising 
 water followed us. At last we could go no higher, yet still 
 the angry torrent arose until we stood waist deep in water. 
 Day at last began to dawn. Dark ominous looking clouds 
 hung in the horizon. The rain had somewhat abated and 
 the flood having spent its fury was slowly receding. We 
 began to look around us and "merciful heavens," we were in 
 the midst of a vast ocean of water, almost as far as the eye 
 could reach everywhere a waste of water met our gaze. 
 Although we were unaware of it until now, we could see here 
 and there some of our companions clinging for life to the 
 tops of neighboring trees, yet we knew many of our illfated 
 little band must have been swallowed up m the raging flood, 
 so suddenly had it come upon us. Wearily the hours drag 
 on and we anxiously await for the water to subside until we 
 can see who of our company are left to tell the heartrending 
 story. Not a vestige of our train remaineed in sight; cattle, 
 wagons and all were gone, no one could tell whither. Not 
 until afternoon were we enabled to descend from the trees, to 
 find that in the grove where we had camped the water had 
 been fifteen feet deep. 
 
 Soon all the survivors of our company were congregated 
 together, when it was found that all the children, nine in 
 number, had perished, also three women and four men. 
 Three husbands bitterly bewail the loss- of a wife and two 
 children each, while the parents of the other three children 
 refuse to be comforted. One of the men that is missing had 
 no kinfolks in the company, yet all were his friends and we 
 loved him as a brother. 
 
 A fire was soon kindled, on a rise of the ground that had 
 escaped inundation, which we were sorely in need of, for we 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 275 
 
 were in a sorry plight, not having a dry thread on us. But 
 for the precaution taken by my husband, we should have 
 been without the means to start a fire. But, fortunately, pre- 
 viously to leaving St. Louis he had privided himself with a 
 small tin match safe in which he carried "Lucifer" matches. 
 This he always took the precaution to keep filled, and al- 
 though we were so thoroughly drenched, yet to our great joy 
 it was- found that the matches were perfectly dry. What a 
 sad spectacle our little company presented on this gloomy 
 day. What we have already passed through seems like a 
 dream, and what yet remains in store for us fills us with ter- 
 ror and apprehension. One woe is not passed until, behold 
 another woe cometh. Even as we were standing around our 
 fire, wondering what next would befall us, a band of hide- 
 ously painted Indians came yelling and screeching upon us. 
 To resist was useless, and to attempt to fly was sheer mad- 
 ness, and we were ruthlessly seized and half dragged and half 
 led in a westerly direction for perhaps six miles, when we ar- 
 rived at what I supposed was one of the Indian villages. It 
 contained about seventy-five lodges. On and on we were hur- 
 ried until at last we were arraigned in front of a large, white 
 lodge made of bleached skins, where to our wonder and joy 
 we found our mysterious friend, the White Spirit of the Whirl- 
 wind. He came forth to the doorway of the lodge, but gave us 
 no welcome, nor sign of recognition. No one would have sup- 
 posed by his actions that he had ever before met us. He stood 
 for a long time looking toward the heavens without uttering a 
 word. Then, with his gaze still riveted on things above, he 
 spoke to us in a tone scarcely audible, yet in our own tongue: 
 "Brothers, the Indians are resolved on your destruction. 
 They think the Great Spirit is angry with them because 
 they have not destroyed you ere this. They think that is 
 the reason the great flood came. I have done all in my power 
 to save you, yet unless some unseen hand interposes, you 
 will all be burned at the stake as soon as preparations can be 
 
276 Musings of the Pilgrim xiard 
 
 made. Yet be of good cheer, for the Lord may yet deliver 
 you, yet never by word or sign must any of you appear to 
 recognize me, or all is lost, therefore be careful. The braves' 
 have gone to prepare their votes for life or death. They will 
 each bring an arrow and drop at the door of my lodge. If 
 the points of the arrows are all red, your doom is sealed; if 
 green, you will be allowed to remain in the tribe, but can 
 never leave it. But once again farewell.' Still the old man 
 stood motionless, with his gaze bent on the rumbling clouds, 
 that grew blacker and blacker. The wind that had been 
 blowing hard all day had lulled till scarcely a leaf was mov- 
 ing on the trees. It seemed as nature and nature's Grod were 
 cognizant of what was transpiring and held their breath in 
 awful silence. At length the council was ended and the war- 
 riors filed past the door of the lodge, and to our horror each 
 one of them dropped an arrow with a crimson point. Too 
 well we all knew the dreadful meaning conveyed in this silent 
 lottery. We were all to perish at the stake, and we even 
 envied those who had the night previous found a grave be- 
 neath the turbulent waters of the ^Vhite Medicine. But 
 we had little time to ruminate, for we were seized and bound 
 to adjacent trees, as many as four being tied to the same 
 tree. Dry cedar faggots were piled high around us, and the 
 fiend-like executioner was coming with his torch. 
 
Musings of tnc Pilgrim Bard 277 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 But he never reached the funeral pyre, for, like Abra- 
 ham of old, he was commanded, "Stay now thine hand." 
 Yet although doubtless the command was given by the same 
 omnipotent being, yet it was given in a far different manner, 
 for in less' time than it takes to record it a terrific hurricane 
 swept the valley, tearing its way through trees and everything 
 that came in its track. More than half the lodges in the vil- 
 lage were swept from the face of the earth, together with their 
 savage occupants. The Indian who was about to apply the 
 torch to the faggots around us was' caught in the maddened 
 gale and dashed to pieces before our astonished eyes. The 
 gale subsided, and although the pittiless rain poured inces- 
 santly upon our benumbed and half-clad persons, yet we were 
 thankful for the momentary respite from so terrible a death, 
 even though we confidently expected the torture would be re- 
 newed. As the rain began to subside, we looked around us 
 and saw the big white lodge was still standing and in the open 
 doorway stood the venerable White Spirit of the Whirlwind, 
 with his gaze bent intently on the threatening heavens above 
 him, while all around him, prostrate on the earth, with their 
 faces downward, lay the survivors of the village. Then with- 
 out looking toward us he once more addressed us, saying: 
 "Brothers, you have been miraculously saved from a terrible 
 death. The Indians think the Great Spirit is angry with 
 them for preparing to put you to death. They think I have 
 'Stilled the hurricane, and now suppose me to be conversing 
 with the Great Spirit. You will shortly be released from 
 the stake, as I shall threaten them with other plagues unless 
 they do my bidding. You will be brought to my lodge, and 
 again let we warn you in no way to recognize me and all is 
 well. He then let his gaze fall on his prostrate congregation 
 and made them a long harangue in the Indian tongue, where- 
 
278 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 upon they all arose and made haste to cut the thongs that 
 bound us. We were then conducted to the white lodge, 
 where a comfortable fire was blazing, around which we gladly 
 gathered, as we were sadly wet and chilled. Some of the In- 
 dians soon appeared, bringing us some meat, which was quite 
 welcome, as we had eaten no food since the last night's sup- 
 per. After which a number of robes were spread around the 
 fire, and as it was now dark we were given to understand that 
 we were to pass the night in the white lodge. During the 
 night our venerable friend managed to converse with us' in the 
 same vacant way in which he had conversed during the day. 
 He told us the Indians were afraid to set us at liberty, even if 
 we had the means to prosecute our journey, but they had one 
 and all agreed to allow us to remain with them and that we 
 would be perfectly safe so long as we never attempted to 
 leave. He advised us to go in the morning and look after the 
 bodies' of our lost companions and train; that likely all the 
 bodies could be found, and perhaps some of our wagons, 
 which contained all our worldly goods, might have floated 
 out or lodged in a drift. He also advised that cabins might 
 be built and other work done to give the lonely valley the 
 appearance of home. And with our minds full of plans for 
 the future, we lay our weary bodies down to rest. 
 
 May 9, 1849. 
 As soon as it was light this morning we set out to see if 
 we could find anything of our missing companions or discover 
 anything of our missing train. Arriving at the scene of our 
 last camp, we started down the river, and ere we had proceed- 
 ed half a mile, we began to see evidence of the sad catastro- 
 phe. All the running gear of the wagons lay scattered along 
 the route; also many of the oxen still in the yokes, as we sel 
 dom ever unyoked until after midnight, and by this means 
 they were caught in the flood and soon drowned. About two 
 miles below our fated camp we came upon one yoke of oui 
 cattle high up on a pile of drift and still living. It seems 
 
Musings of tJie Pilgrim Bard 279 
 
 that the chain had caught in the floating drift, and that they 
 had thereby been saved from drowning. Gladly did we ex 
 tricate them from their famishing condition, and as gladly did 
 they take to the rich grass on the neighboring bluff. Still 
 farther down, where the river bottom on the west side of the 
 stream is perhaps a mile in width, we found three of thd 
 wagon boxes, including the one my husband and myself had 
 occupied, and on examination it was founa, to our great joy, 
 that the contents were but slightly damaged. Here we re- 
 solved to camp, for the day was already far spent. A bright 
 fire was soon blazing, and while the women set about making 
 preparations for the night, one of the men was sent back after 
 the oxen and wagon, and the rest of the men continued the 
 search for the missing bodies. About sundown the men were 
 all in. They had found all the bodies but one: that of a woman, 
 whose heart-broken husband refused to be comforted and wan 
 dered all the long, long night up and down the murmuring 
 river, calling his loved wife by name. But alas! that loved one 
 gave back no answer, and the sighing of the night wind in the 
 trees, mingled with the murmur of the waters, was all the 
 sound he heard. A bright tire had been kindled near where 
 the dead were carried together, in order to frighten away the 
 wild animals, while the men took turns watching over the 
 lonely western morgue. Morning dawned at last, and it was 
 decided to bury the dead on a knoll hard by our camp, and 
 while a part of the men went with the team after the bodies', 
 the rest prepared a grave long enough to contain the entire 
 number Bide by side. In the absence of coffins, the graves 
 were lined with boughs from the elm trees, which also fur- 
 nished a covering, after which the earth was replaced, and we 
 left them to moulder, "dust to dust/' far from native home 
 and loved ones, in the wild west. But although sad and solemn 
 the Bcene to contemplate, yet we knew not but we should 
 even envy them the rest wherewith they were blest, for a fate 
 far worse, perhaps, awaited in store for those who remained; 
 
280 Musings of tne Pilgrim Bard 
 
 yet we trusted to that unseen arm that had thus far preserved 
 us. 
 
 After the burial it was' determined to remain where we 
 were, while the search was continued for the missing woman. 
 But although the banks of the stream had been closely 
 scanned for many miles, yet we found no trace of her or 
 aught else of our effects. At night as we surrounded oiur 
 camp-fire, plans for the future were discussed. Plan after 
 plan was suggested, but as often discarded as impracticable, 
 but it was finally decided that the following day should be 
 spent in looking up a suitable place for a permanent camp, 
 and weary with the day's excitement we retired to our beds 
 of cedar boughs. 
 
 May 10, 1849. 
 
 The sun rose clear and bright; the feathered songsters 
 warbled forth their morning lays from almost every tree. 
 All nature seemed glad on this lovely spring morning. 
 Breakfast over, three of the men shouldered their rifles, 
 taking with them ammunition sufiicient for - a three days' 
 tramp, they started in a western direction and were soon 
 lost to view over the divide that lay west of us. The day 
 was employed, by those who remained, in overhauling and 
 taking an inventory of what remained of our earthly effects. 
 They consisted of a good supply of powder, lead and flints, 
 some writing material, several changes of clothing, a box of 
 assorted field and garden seeds, a part of a set of carpenter's 
 tools, flour, salt and a supply of Lucifer matches. Of course 
 there were many minor articles too small to claim mention, 
 yet all of which we felt would come in good play in the 
 future. Strange to say, not a single Indian has visited us 
 since our departure from the village, but several times we 
 have seen them at a distance on the highest points and we 
 well know they have kept a constant watch on all our move- 
 ments. Night at last came but no tidings from the thi^e 
 men who were gone to look up a camping place. It was late at 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 281 
 
 night and we had about concluded to retire, as the three men 
 who had left in the morning told us not to be the least uneasy, 
 in case they did not return for a day or two, as they had no 
 fears but that they could retrace their way when they chose 
 to do so; but as I said we were about to retire, when we were 
 startled by a cry that at first we took for that of a panther, 
 but soon realized that it was the voice of a human being 
 apparently in distresss. We looked at each other in blank 
 amazement, for we were filled with a vague superstition and 
 we knew not if it were the voice of the living or the wander- 
 ing spirit of the dead. "Help! help! for God's sake, help! I 
 am sinking in this horrible water." The voice had scarcely 
 died away when the half crazed husband of the missing wom- 
 an sprang to his feet, crying: " 'Tis her; 'tis the voice of my 
 own lost Nora, living or dead; 'tis her voice. Oh, Nora! my 
 lost one, speak once more, living or dead, speak yet once 
 again." But the echo of his own pitiful voice alone answered. 
 Weary at last the rest of us retired, but no sleep visited the 
 eyes of the lonely half crazed husband, and morning found 
 him sitting by the dying camp-fire, gazing gloomily into the 
 dying embers as though trying to see through them into the 
 future. 
 
 May 11. 
 Another clear beautiful morning dawned, and as we sur- 
 rounded our morning repast, not a word was spoken re- 
 garding the mysterious voice we heard the night previous, 
 for all seemed to wish to forget it as we feared it was a 
 harbinger of evil. About 5 o'clock, p. m., our hearts were 
 made glad by the sight of the three men who had left the day 
 before. Two of them were carrying something between 
 them on a pole, that on nearer approach proved to be the 
 ham of a buffalo that had been killed by them the evening 
 before. Eagerly we crowded around them to hear them 
 relate, that about seven or eight miles west they had come to 
 as lovely a little valley as ever the eye beheld. They had 
 
282 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 followd the clear winding stream (that flowed through the 
 midst of the valley) for perhaps six miles, where there was 
 an abundance of timber and pure water. There they had 
 determined to locate. Anxiously did we await, and at thfe 
 break of day on the morning of the 12th of May, we started 
 for the beautiful country that our forerunners promised us 
 lay just beyond the divide. Two of the men were left to 
 look after what could not be taken at the first load, until the 
 team could return on the following day. About noon we 
 reached the winding little stream and halted for dinner upon 
 its grassy banks. True enough our worthy friends had not 
 overdrawn the picture. What a lovely little stream, and 
 what a beautiful valley lay on both sides of it. Hills small 
 and great lay to the north and west, and could it be possible 
 — or were our eyes deceiving us — all seemed to see it as it 
 were at the same time, the Flower Mountain loomed up in 
 the distance like an evil spirit sent to remind us that Para- 
 dise and its counterpart were uncomfortably together. Just 
 as the sun was sinking over the western hills, we reached 
 the spot selected for our home in the wilderness, and in- 
 deed it seemed as if nature had been lavish in her prepara- 
 tions for our reception. The eminence on which we de- 
 cided to locate is entirely surrounded by timber. The main 
 creek from four to six feet in width, runs on the east of 
 us, while a branch of the same creek runs on the south 
 and along its banks are several springs of clear cold water. 
 Game of almost every description abounds, from the stately 
 buffalo down to the timid hare, and the woods are fairly alive 
 with wild turkeys. As we surveyed the lovely landscape, we 
 thought we were in part remunerated for the suffering, pri- 
 vation and danger through which we had passed, by even a 
 temporary abode in this lovely valley. 
 
 May 13, 1849. 
 This morning we had a dainty dish for breakfast, in the 
 shape of water cress, that we had gathered from a pond near 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 283 
 
 one of the springs, and when cooked with meat it made quite 
 a palatable pottage; and as it was the first thing in the 
 vegetable line that we had eaten for some time we all relished 
 it, for as the old adage says, "Hunger is the best of sauce." 
 After the morning meal, the team was again started for our 
 former camp on the river. My husband and I, assisted by all 
 who remained in camp, resolved to plant some garden seed, or 
 as they used to say back home, "make garden." A suitable 
 spot was selected just south of the trees that lined the bank 
 of the small creek. The soil was quite sandy and we had no 
 difficulty in digging up a good-sized patch. Various kinds 
 of seeds were planted, and when we had finished our labor 
 for the day, many were the conjectures as to whether we 
 should ever "gather where we had strewn." Near the gar- 
 den spot stood an ancient cottonwood tree, and upon the 
 trunk of it my husband carved the following inscription: 
 "MAY 13, 1849. PLANTED FIELD AND GARDEN SEED. 
 'IN THE MORNING SOW THE SEED, AND IN THE EVEN- 
 ING WITHHOLD NOT THY HAND.' E. DAY." At night we 
 sat for many hours around our camp-fire discussing plans 
 for the future. It was decided to build as many cabins as we 
 needed in the form of a village; and that the village should 
 be named "Day Vista," the first part in honor of my husband 
 and myself, and the second on account of the beautiful view 
 obtained from our location. And with thoughts full of bright 
 hopes for the future as well as boding fears we lay us down 
 to rest. 
 
284 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 May 28, 1849. 
 
 Nothing worthy of note has transpired since the last 
 entry in my diary. The garden seeds we planted on the 
 13th are all up and growing nicely. I never saw a finer pros- 
 pect, so far, for a garden. The men have made a kind of plow 
 of the fork of a tree, and have commenced farming on a larger 
 scale; they are preparing ground for turnips, as we have 
 abundance of seed of this vegetable. We have two cabins 
 erected already in Day Vista, built of cottonwood logs. 
 Spacious fire-places are built in the farthest end from the 
 door. They are built of stone, of which there is- an abundance 
 in the hills close by. We are comfortably situated, although 
 rather crowded. We will build more house-room as soon as 
 we can get the time to do so. I had almoct forgotten to men- 
 tion that the roof was nothing more nor less than dirt. They 
 are made after the following manner: After the cabin i^ 
 erected to the square, a large log is laid on the top in the 
 center, which gives it the slant or pitch; large poles are split 
 and laid flat side down as close together as possible, after 
 which the crevices are filled with mortar made of the red 
 clay, then earth is piled on it to the depth of about one foot. 
 
 As we were sitting out in front of the cabins', enjoying the 
 pleasant summer evening, we were somewhat startled by the 
 sudden appearance of the White Spirit of the Whirlwind. But, 
 nevertheless, we welcomed him, and a hearty shake of the 
 hand ensued all round. He told us he had anxiously awaited 
 the coming of the full moon, as he could then account for his 
 absence while visiting us. He had much to say to us, and 
 was well pleased with the progress we had made in our new 
 home. He commended us on our zeal in trying to farm. He 
 said he had been apprized of everything that was going on 
 among us each day, and that the Indians* seemed pleased as 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 285 
 
 well as surprised at everything we had done. He inquired 
 whether the other body had been found, as the Indians had 
 informed him that we had buried all but one of the dead. He 
 stated that the reason he wished to know particular about it 
 was that two nights before, while the braves were holding 
 their "Spirit Dance" (which they never fail to hold once a 
 month, two days before the moon is made, for these supersti- 
 tious creatures suppose the moon is made new out of whole 
 cloth every time it fulls), they were terribly frightened by 
 the appearance in their midst of a half-clad female form with 
 long, shining locks of auburn hair streaming in the breeze. 
 She seemed either a spirit or a maniac; her words were 
 wildly spoken, and with frantic gestures she called aloud for 
 help; said she was sinking in the horrible water. As might 
 have been expected, the dance suddenly ceased, and each and 
 all of the Indians prostrated themselves on the earth, face 
 downward, which seemed to frighten the poor maniac, who 
 suddenly disappeared in the darkness, still crying: "Help! 
 help! for God's sake help! I am sinking in this horrible 
 water!" "When the frightened Indian arose," said he, "I 
 told them it was' the wandering spirit of some one of the 
 people that had perished in the flood. I also told them that 
 the air all around them was always filled with spirits, that 
 seldom appeared in the flesh, and whenever they did so it 
 was for some purpose, perhaps to warn them of impending 
 evil. The braves were terrified beyond measure and the 
 squaws began wailing their funeral chant, the same as if one 
 of the number was already dead." After the old man had 
 concluded his story we compared it with the voice that had 
 so startled us in our camp on the river some nights previous*, 
 and all concluded that the poor woman had not perished in 
 the flood, but had been cast ashore a raving maniac, perhaps 
 destined to perish in the hills of hunger, or fall a prey to 
 some wild beast that lurked in the densely timbered gulches. 
 All the while the old man was relating the strange story, 
 
286 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 the husband of the maniac sat motionless as a statue, but 
 just as the conversation wa&' concluded, he sprang to his feet, 
 stretching his arms toward the heavens and gazing steadfast- 
 ly in the same direction, he cried: "Nora! Nora! my own 
 lost Nora! I see her yonder — yonder with the angels. Nora, 
 I am coming — c-o-m-i-n-g!" These were his last words, as 
 he fell to the ground and died without a struggle, although 
 when we reached him the blood was gushing from his mouth, 
 nose, and ears. Tenderly we raised him and placed him upon 
 a couch, but his spirit had forever flown, where perhaps ere 
 long he will meet the idol of his love and affection in a 
 brighter, better world — he will meet his' lost loved one, Nora. 
 During all this- scene the White Spirit of the Whirlwind had 
 sat silent. His mind seemed to revert to the dreadful, dreary 
 past. At length he spoke, as follows: "Brothers, this to me 
 is torture, for it reminds me of scenes that are forever 
 past, and yet continually haunt me. Some time I will tell 
 you my story, but 'twere long to tell, and for the present you 
 have sorrow enough. But I must bid you farewell. If noth- 
 ing should happen I will visit you again when the moon is 
 full, and in the meantime if I wish to communicate with you 
 I will so inform you by my crimson light, which you will 
 see on the summit of the hill, about one mile west of this, and 
 should you see it, repair instantly to the spot, for it will only 
 appear when your lives are in jeopardy, or when I have news 
 of the utmost importance to communicate. Farewell broth- 
 ers, farewell sisters." And with a wave of the hand he dis- 
 appeared from view, and left us to our meditation and 
 slumber . 
 
 May 29, 1849. 
 What a glorious morning. The birds sing gay and 
 sweetly from the leafy groves, as if to mock us with their 
 morning orisons. Far different are our feelings, as we make 
 preparations to perform the last "sad rites over the body of 
 our departed friend. The grave was dug about half a mile 
 
Musings of tne Pilgrim Bard 
 
 287 
 
 south of camp, on an eminence that overlooks the surround- 
 ing country. The sun was just at the meridian when our 
 little funeral cortege reached the open grave. I had found 
 among my effects after the flood, a Bible, a hymn book, and a 
 church discipline. From the latter book I read ihe beautiful 
 burial service, after which we consigned him to his last rest- 
 ing place beneath the prairie flowers. On a head-board my 
 husband inscribed the following: 
 
 1 Died, 
 
 May 28^ 
 
 18Jf.9 I 
 
 Aged 
 
 21 yrs. 
 
 , 6 
 
 mos. 1 
 
 "■Thou 
 
 feedest 
 
 them 
 
 with 
 
 tears, and givest 
 
 therti tears ' 
 
 to drink 
 
 in great 
 
 measure.'^ \ 
 
 — LXXX 
 
 Psalm. 
 
 
 
 S'lowly and sadly we wended our way back to our wilder- 
 ness home and resumed our evening duties as the twilight 
 shades' had begun to deepen. 
 
 January 1, 1850. 
 
 I have made no entry in my journal since May 29, 1849 
 
 partly because the daily routine of our lives has been about 
 
 the same, but principally because I fear I shall exhaust my 
 
 failing supply of writing material. Henceforth I shall only 
 
288 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 be able to give the most particular events, together with a 
 synopsis of minor notes. I shall also in the future write more 
 closely, in order to economize in the way of paper. 
 
 The White Spirit of the Whirlwind has visited us at 
 each full moon. Five entire visits were consumed by relating 
 to us his heartrending personal experience among the wilds, 
 a synopsis of which I have carefully copied and preserved, 
 and should it ever be my lot to be able to communicate with 
 the outside world, to escape from my present captivity, I 
 shall give it to the public. We have reaped an abundant 
 harvest in proportion to the limited amount of seed planted, 
 as we had only a small amount of the several kinds of field 
 and garden seeds, except turnips. Of these, I am happy to 
 state, we have an abundant supply for all purposes. The 
 most of the corn, wheat, potatoes, etc., are carefully stowed 
 away for seed next spring. The oxen are sleek and fat, al- 
 though they have had nothing except grass to eat, which 
 now, although apparently dead, seems as nutritious as in 
 midsummer. We have had no snow, but little frost, and 
 up to this date the streams have not been frozen. We have 
 erected three more cabins in our miniature town, one of which 
 we use for a store-house, in which we keep grain, vegetables, 
 etc. We have also built a shed for the oxen and fenced our 
 garden in, as the buffalo come up the valley occasionally in 
 such vast herds that it is with the greatest difficulty that we 
 keep them from overrunning our village. I am often re- 
 minded of "Alexander Selkirk" during his stay on the island 
 of Juan Fernandez, and I cannot help repeating the beautiful 
 and touching stanza: 
 
 "The beasts that roam over the plain, 
 
 My form with indifference see. 
 They are so unacquainted with man 
 
 Their tamen6ss is shocking to me." 
 
 During the month of November four of our men became 
 
Musings of me Pilgri^m Bard 289 
 
 homesick and made up their minds to strike out and try to 
 escape to civilization. But notv/ithstanding they started 
 soon after dark they were overtaken before daybreak and 
 taken to the Indian village, where there lives hung on the 
 same thread that doomed us all to die on our first arrival at 
 the village. Five times did the braves vote before it was 
 decided by the "green arrows" that they might return to 
 captivity instead of being burned at the stake, although 
 they were given to understand that a second attempt of any 
 one to escape would end in the death of all the members of 
 the colony, for it was believed by them that the men were 
 sent as spies to bring help to liberate those who remained. 
 Last night we congregated in the largest one of the cabins to 
 hold a watch-meeting, as it was- New Year's eve. We had 
 quite an experience meeting. Below I give the register of 
 the name, age, etc., of each surviving member of our colony. 
 It will be seen that we represent almost as many nations as 
 we are numbers. I would be glad had I space to give the 
 experience of each one as they related it, but space forbids: 
 
 ! 
 
 Evan Day, born February 1, 1810, Lx)ndon, England. 
 
 Lenora Day, born May 12, 1816, New Orleans, Louisiana. 
 
 James Wrightman, born October 9, 1816, Philadelphia, 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 Susanna Wrightman, born October 11, 1817, Liverpool, 
 England. 
 
 Patrick Stranahan, born January 20, 1800, Dublin, Ireland. 
 
 Bridget Stranahan, born December 9, 1811, Cork, Ireland. 
 
 Marion Armsby, born February 20, 1812, New York City, 
 New York. 
 
 Catherine Armsby, born March 3, 1814, New York City, 
 New York. 
 
 Stephen McDonnald, born April 2, 1807, Aberdeen, Scot- 
 land. 
 
 Heftel Stanletz, born May 19, 1816, Guyanna, Brazil. 
 
290 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Elenio Corda, born August 11, 1809, Santiago, Buenos 
 Ayres. 
 
 David Maitland, born July 21, 1834, Bowling Green, Ken- 
 tucky. 
 
 Israel Noble, born September , 1833, Morgantown, In- 
 diana. 
 
 Enoch Taylor, born September 19, 1811, Lafayette, Ind. 
 
 Today we have enjoyed a New Year's dinner, which but 
 for the absence of bread and pastry could not be excelled. 
 The day was spent in a social visit, and not until a late hour 
 did we repair to our cabins and couches' for the night 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 291 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 September 16, 1852. 
 With a heavy heart I again resume my diary. For al- 
 most three months I have been confined to my room^ and 
 part of the time wholly unconscious of what was transpir- 
 ing around me, and I find on recovering that the unwel- 
 come messenger of death has entered our little fold and 
 taken from us five men and one woman. W© were all 
 stricken down about the same time with a fever which 
 baffled the skill of any one in our little band. My husband 
 tells me that but for the medicine given me by the White 
 Spirit of the Whirlwind, I, too, would certainly have died, 
 but thanks to his skill I am still on the land and among the 
 living. The first thing I ate on my recovery was part of a 
 fine, large watermelon, of which we have an abundant sup- 
 ply of very nice large ones. We also have almost every 
 kind of vegetables, all we can make use of. Today being 
 Sabbath, assisted by my husband, I walked out to our little 
 cemetery beneath whose silent mounds slept those whom I 
 had last remembered seeing in life and health. How forcibly 
 I was reminded of the passage, "In the midst of life we 
 are in death," and "Be ye also ready." Slowly and sadly 
 we wended our way back to our home, for I was almost 
 exhausted, and yet I felt better satisfied with my visit to the 
 silent city of the dead than if I had not undertaken it. All 
 the survivors of our colony seemed overjoyed at my recovery 
 and expressed their joy in many ways. Nothing was too 
 good for me and tears came to my eyes as' I acknowledged 
 their heartfelt homage. I know not for what purpose the 
 Allwise Ruler has spared my life, yet I know it is his right- 
 eous will that it be so, and all present joined in a hymn and 
 prayer to Him who even notes the sparrow's fall. 
 
292 Musings of ine Pilgrim Bard 
 
 September 17. 
 
 Today, in company with my "husband, I wandered out 
 north perhaps- three miles. It seems that everywhere I go 
 nature presents some new feature. We ascended a high hill 
 from the rugged summit of which we could view the sur- 
 rounding country. It seemed like a pinnacle that overlooked 
 the world. In all my life I never witnessed a grander scene; 
 anxiously I turned my longing eyes toward my far-away 
 home, where I first beheld the light of day. Alas, even now 
 the friends' of my youth are thinking of me as one that is no 
 more; they are thinking of my auburn tresses as a tropty in 
 some horrid savage's lodge. Oh, how I longed tor wiags like 
 the eagle, that I might fly away to my childhood home. 
 But hark! what do we hear. "Help! help! for God's sake 
 help. I am sinking in this horrible water." Instinctively we 
 looked in the direction from which the voice emanated, and 
 beheld a figure that to my dying day I shall never forget. 
 
 It was evidently our maniac friend, but "great God!" we 
 had long since believed her dead. How she managed to sub- 
 sist so long seemed a mystery, perhaps' never to be unraveled. 
 She was less than two hundred yards distant. She sat on a 
 huge boulder, and with her long, bony fingers, was combing 
 her hair, that hung below her waist. What her garb consist- 
 ed of I could not well make out, but seemed to be the skin 
 of a bufCalo. Indeed, she looked more like a wild beast than 
 a human being. At the instigation of my husband we 
 cautiouslv attempted to approach her, but no sooner did we 
 start in that direction, than with a terrible cry of "Help! 
 help! for God's sake help! I am sinking in this horrible 
 water!" she disappeared over the mountain side and was lost 
 to view. And as night was coming on, we slowly retraced our 
 steps to our home, w^eary and perhaps a little despondent. 
 When we returned, supper was already waiting, and "bread," 
 the first I had eaten in eighteen months, was smoking on the 
 table. I was informed that bread had been made several 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 293 
 
 times during my illness, of grated corn, a grater having been 
 made out of a tin pan, A hominy mortar was also being 
 prepared, in which to beat hominy, as the most of the corn 
 was already hard enough to shell. They raised about two 
 hundred bushels of good corn. The evening was spent in 
 reading, singing, and my companions recounting to me what 
 had happened while I was unconscious, and not until a late 
 hour did vv^e retire for the night, after which it was several 
 hours before sleep visited my eyes, and even then, it was a 
 troubled, dreamy sleep. I dreamed that I was dead and had 
 entered the land of perpetual sunshine. I both saw and con- 
 versed with all the departed members of our little colony. 
 Strangest of all I saw Nora 'Raymond. She no longer looked 
 that wild, maniac look, but her angelic face was wreathed in 
 ftmiles, as she came with open arms to meet me. She told 
 me she had been in that bright land ever since she was 
 drowned in the flood, but that her poor tenement of clay had 
 ever since been wandering about on earth, and that she had 
 no control over it. For what object it was permitted to thus 
 roam at large she knew not, but said that God knew best and 
 "He doeth all things well." 
 
 September 18, 1852. 
 When I awoke the sun was shining in my face, and 
 gathered around my bed were all the members of our com- 
 pany. My husband told me that, frightened at the flushed ap- 
 pearance of my cheeks, they attempted in vain to awaken me, 
 and for more than an hour they feared my spirit had forever 
 flown. I attempted to rise, but was unable to do so, until as- 
 sisted by my husband. I had overdone myself on the pre- 
 vious day, and it was feared by all that the fever was return- 
 ing. My husband resolved, come what might, that he would 
 visit the White Spirit of the Whirlwind. He therefore set 
 out, accompanied by two of the men, unarmed, and carrying 
 a kind of flag made of bleached fawn skin. In addition to 
 this each man carried a melon as large as- he could possibly 
 
294 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 carry. On the melon my husband carried and scratched: 
 "Wife is sick again; give me some more medicine for Heaven's 
 sake." 
 
 As luck would have it most of the braves were absent on 
 some kind of an expedition when the men reached the 
 village. They were taken to the big white lodge where they 
 laid down their presents. The White Spirit of the Whirl- 
 wind explained to the Indians that their white friends had 
 come in peace and had brought them a present that was good 
 to eat. He then cut the melon my husband carried in such 
 a way as to destroy the writing, and after taking a mouthful 
 to satisfy them that it would not make them dead, they all 
 ate greedily as long as a mouthful lasted. The White Spirit 
 of the Whirlwind went into his lodge and in a short time 
 returned with a small curiously fashioned purse, which he 
 gave as a present in return for the melons. They were then 
 allowed to return unmolested. On opening the purse it was 
 found to contain several whitish-gray powders, with direc- 
 tions written on each, and by bed-time I was so much 
 strengthened that I could walk around without assistance, 
 which was the source of great joy to our entire community. 
 
Musings of the rug rim Bard 295 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 October 12, 1853. 
 Last night as' we were sitting in front of our cabins, on 
 Main street, the moon had risen, but gave little light, as 
 a thick vapor or fog overspread the valley. We were quite 
 weary after the labors of the day and were taking it easy, 
 although the mosquitoes were so thick that it was neces- 
 sary to keep a smudge to keep them from devouring us, but 
 withal it was quite pleasant. We were talking over our 
 hardships and trials, our privations and triumphs, until the 
 hour was quite late, and we were about to retire, when 
 looking to the west we saw a bright red glimmer, which 
 v/e all at once recognized as the signal of tne venerable 
 friend, the White Spirit of the Whirlwind. My husband 
 and two others immediately repaired to the mound from 
 which we knew the signal light shown, which was to warn 
 us that something unusual had, or was about to occur. As 
 they drew near enough to be heard the light was sud- 
 denly extinguished and a low sepulcherai voice broke the 
 death-like stillness, saying: "Brothers, I fear the hour has 
 come when you are all to be destroyed. The Indians have 
 just returned from an unsuccessful attack on an emigrant 
 train on the main trail beyond the Arkansas river. They 
 are holding a dreadful mourning and incantation dance, the 
 most dreadful I ever witnessed among them. Many of their 
 best warriors as well as two chiefs were killed. They are 
 dancing, yelling and wailing all in the same voice, while they 
 inflict the most frightful wounds on their own persons in 
 order to appease the wrath of the Great Spirit. They 
 attribute their disaster to the fact that they have allowed you 
 to remain so long among them, and now have decided to burn 
 each and every one of you at the stake on the mountain of 
 sacrifice. They commanded me have all in readiness by 
 
296 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 the time the moon was straight over the mountain which will 
 be by the time I return. Yet be brave, be of good cheer, for 
 the One who has delivered you out of so many perils yet 
 liveth; verily Jehovah reigneth. But ouce more farewell; I 
 must be gone." When the men returned they found all the 
 rest of us bound with our hands tied behind our backs, and 
 they, too, were instantly seized and likewise bound. One of 
 the cabins was' already in flames and the wretches were pre- 
 paring to set fire to those that remained, when all at once 
 there appeared on the roof of the burning building a sight that 
 all who witnessed will remember while life lasts. It was a 
 wasted female form; her face was haggard and wan and her 
 eyes burned like living coals of fire, while her long auburn 
 hair streamed in the night wind and almost touched the 
 flames that surrounded and threatened to envelop her. She 
 made frantic gestures with her arms and screamed in the 
 most pitiful and suplicating voice. "Help! help! for God's 
 sake help. I am sinking in this horrible water." All eyes' 
 were riveted on the terrible spectacle, but even as v/e looked 
 she disappeared in the gloom, Btill shrieking, in her weird 
 maniac voice: "Help! help! for God's sake help. I am 
 sinking in this horrible water." On looking around not a 
 single Indian was in sight. The apparition that had so 
 startled us had as effectively dispersed the superstitious 
 wretches. While we stood quaking in dread lest they should 
 return. A voice from out the darkness spoke unto us, say- 
 ing: "For he hath looked down from the height of his sanctu- 
 ary. From Heaven did the Lord behold me earth. To hear 
 the groaning of the prisoner, to loose those that are appointed 
 to death." The last words had scarcely died away when the 
 White Spirit of the Whirlwind appeared on the scene, knife 
 in hand, and set us at liberty. As he shook us all by the 
 hand, he told us we had nothing further to fear now, for he 
 had warned the Indians not to kill their white brethren, as 
 they would certainly incur the displeasure of the Great 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard ' 297 
 
 Spirit. He told us that the Indians still supposed he was on 
 the Flower mountain, and that when he came down he in- 
 tended to tell them all that had happened, which would in- 
 crease their superstition. He told us to go right ahead a&' 
 though nothing had happened and he had no fear that we 
 would again be molested. "But," said he, "is it not strange 
 that this poor, demented creature lives so long in these wilds 
 and is so seldom seen? What she subsists on I am unable 
 even to guess." I then told him my strange dream concern- 
 ing her, and that I had almost come to the conclusion that 
 she was a supernatural being, for I was out a few days since 
 alone, gathering wild plums and grapes. As' I was about to 
 enter a ravine I saw the most wonderful sight I ever wit- 
 nessed. The ravine seemed more like a glen of ancient Scot- 
 land, so dense indeed I hesitated as to whether I shouldr 
 enter it or not. But, although I say it myself, I am no cow- 
 ard, and I started down the declivity when a sight met my 
 astonished gaze that I shall never forget. (I have always 
 been skeptical concerning ghosts until we were so uncere- 
 moniously cast into this strange land.) There on the green 
 sward, beneath the shade of a mulberry tree, lay this same 
 poor maniac, and for her companions she had a she bear and 
 two cubs, which seemed to think as much of the poor maniac 
 as they did for their mother. And the poor, demented crea- 
 ture fondled and played with the cubs as though she really 
 loved them, although we all remember Nora Raymond as a 
 timid, nervous woman, who would almost become frightened 
 at her own shadow. As I finished my v/onaerful story the 
 old White Spirit of the Whirlwind bowed his head and said: 
 " 'Tis God alone who knows if this poor creature is a living 
 being or a spirit. With him all things are possible. But I 
 must again bid you farewell, and may the benediction of the 
 Father above ever abide with you. Farewell! " 
 
 October 13, 1853. 
 This morning five of the Indians, including one of the 
 
298 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 head chiefs, came to our villa. The sight of them at first 
 gave us uneasiness, but when we saw they were all un- 
 armed, we knew they meant no mischief, I'hey brought us 
 a present of five buffalo robes, the inside of which were 
 painted in the m.ost beautiful and fantastic colors. They 
 also presented us' with a bow and arrows, and gladly did we 
 observe that the fiint-like points of the arrows were all green, 
 which signified that we would be allowed to remain in our 
 semi-captivity, at any rate for the present, without further 
 interruption. Before leaving, they all seated themselves on 
 the ground in a circle, and made signs for us to do likewise. 
 When all were thus seated they bowed their heads and 
 covered their faces with their hands, as we suppose, to make 
 us understand that they were "much sorry" for what they 
 had done, and as a kind of covenant that thej^ would do so 
 no more. The chief then took from his pouch a pipe which 
 was made from some kind of bone and proceeded to fill it 
 with some kind of leaves, and he started to the fire to light 
 it, I lighted a Lucifer match and handed it to him which 
 caused so much wonder and consternation that I feared it 
 would break up the meeting, but he lighted his pipe and after 
 taking a whiff or two passed it to the one next him, and so on 
 around the circle. I always had an aversion to tobacco in 
 any form, and although there was not a particle of the 
 noxious weed about it, yet it was certainly a cross for me to 
 bear, but I deemed it my duty to conform to their supersti- 
 tious customs and so the pipe went from mouth to mouth 
 and we all smoked once in our lives anyvv'ay. As they were 
 about to take leave of us, we gave them all the vegetables 
 they could carry, with which they were highly pleased. 
 They made signs that gave us to understand that they 
 desired us to visit them, an invitation that had never before 
 been extended. We gave them to understand as best we 
 could, that we could do so and invited them to do likewise, 
 and with many bows and gestures they left us. 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 299 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 May 2, 1854. 
 Last night we had one of the most teri'ific thunder 
 storms I ever remember having witnessed. It seemed as if 
 the elements were at war and that they were visiting their 
 displeasure on the earth. For hours a continuous glare of 
 lightning made everything as light as day, save that the 
 light was more weird and unearthly. As we stood in the 
 open door-way contemplating the awful grandeur of the 
 scene, a sight met our gaze that chilled our blood with horror; 
 a sight that we shall remember to the hour of death. Far up 
 in the branches of an aged cottonwood tree, stood the poor 
 maniac, Nora Raymond. She stood erect on a slender limb 
 that swayed beneath her weight and seemed to enjoy the 
 terrible surroundings. She threw her arms up and wildly 
 uttered that heartrending cry: "Help! help] for God's sake 
 help. I am sinking in this horrible water." Scarcely had 
 she finished the sentence when a blinding flash, accompanied 
 by a dreadful shock that almost paralyzed us all, seemed to 
 ■shiver the tree to atoms. When we had recovered sufficiently 
 from the shock, we repaired to the spot, and there at the root 
 of the tree lay the body of the poor wandering maniac. Her 
 face pale and emaciated, was turned up to the pittiless rain; 
 her long auburn hair fell back from her graceful and intelli- 
 gent forehead, her hands were clenched and her eyes seemed 
 set in death. Tenderly we lifted her seemingly lifeless body 
 and carried it into one of the cabins. Tenderly we closed 
 those mild blue eyes' and folded those white hands; not, how- 
 ever, without some misgivings, as' the body appeared warm, 
 but we all believed that death had entered the tenement 
 clay, and set his inevitable seal upon that beautiful brow. 
 It was near the hour of eleven o'clock, p. m., when Mrs. 
 Wrightman and I were keeping lonely vigils over the dead 
 
300 
 
 Musings of tlie Pilgrim Bard 
 
 body of the unfortunate maniac, when we were startled by 
 the supposed corpse rising to a sitting posture and gazing 
 vacantly around her. The wild maniac look had left her 
 eyes and she looked herself once more. She recognized both 
 Mrs. Wrightman and myself and shook both our hands, 
 although she was weak as a child. She inquired for her hus- 
 band, and on being told that he was no more, she calmly 
 fonded her hands across her breast, closed her pale blue eyes 
 and sank in death without a word or murmur. This morn- 
 ing we buried her beside her husband in our little cemetery, 
 and we all felt as' though the separation of the mortal with 
 immortal part of the body had long since taken place, and 
 that the disembodied spirit of Nora Raymond was even then 
 looking down from the regions of perpetual sunlight on that 
 wilderness burial. Upon a simple headboard my husband 
 carved the following inscription: 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 301 
 
 Sadly we returned from the burial of our unfortunate 
 friend, and indeed it seems as though all our ways are strewn 
 with the thorns of misfortune and disappointment. 
 
 July 30, 1854. 
 We are all alone, that is, my husband and myself. All 
 the other members of our colony have departed this life and 
 entered upon the dread hereafter. God in Heaven knows 
 what the ending will be, but in Him we put our faith and 
 trust. Gladly would I pass over the soul-trying scenes of the 
 last few days without having to record them, but it is a sol- 
 emn, sacred duty, and perhaps the last I shall fulfill. On the 
 night of the 26th, all our little colony, with the exception of 
 my husband and myself, started for the settlements. As we 
 knew it would certainly end in disaster and death, we refused 
 to accompany them. They took the oxen and wagon and 
 enough provisions for the journey, and with many tears and 
 wishes of God speed, we bade them farewell. But alas! they 
 were scarcely started when the Indians were upon them. 
 The White Spirit of the Whirlwind was with them when the 
 Indians came upon them, which so enraged them that the 
 poor old man was instantly killed. The others were taken 
 to the Indian village, and last night we could distinctly see 
 the light of the funeral fire on the Flower mountain, which 
 too well told us of their awful fate. They all undoubtedly 
 perished in the flames, and it seems only a question of a few 
 short hours when a like fate awaits my husband and me. To 
 escape is entirely out of the question, and we must resignedly 
 await the dreadful end. I knov/ not whether it is possible 
 for the spirits of the departed to visit this earth again, but if 
 such a thing be possible, I shall certainly return to haunt 
 these inhuman wretches. If it be God's will my spirit will 
 return to these valleys which I have loved so dearly, that 
 have seemed so like a paradise to me. But for the present I 
 must stop writing, as my mind is troubled and my heart is 
 heavy and sad. 
 
302 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Thus ends the manuscript of Mrs. Day. I have endeavored 
 to faithfully copy it from first to last, in accordance with 
 her dying request, omitting nothing exc pt that part per- 
 taining to the White Spirit of the Whirlwind, which I shall 
 also copy and give to the public at no aistant day. There 
 have been many comments on my story, and perhaps grave 
 doubts' have been expressed as to its veracity. I shall not 
 stop to discuss this point with the doubting Tmomasses, but 
 am content that every one shall draw his own inference. 
 Thanking my numerous readers for the interest they have 
 taken in my Reminiscences, I bid you one and all adieu. 
 
Mu8li}<j8 of the Pilgrim Bard 303 
 
 INDEX 
 
 After the Fire 21 
 
 Album Lines 171 
 
 A Memorial Poem 139 
 
 An Address to a. Slow Mule 149 
 
 An Indian Legend 44 
 
 An Interview with the Shade of "Sitting Bull" 120 
 
 An Oklahoma Blizzard 67 
 
 An Oklahoma Legend 81 
 
 An Old Road 204 
 
 A Reminiscent Chapter 91 
 
 The Lost Child of the Cimarron 92 
 
 A Requiem 206 
 
 A Thanksgiving Roast 25 
 
 A Vidette's Story 62 
 
 Beautiful Land 71 
 
 Blue and Gray 49 
 
 Child's View of the Situation 168 
 
 Christmas Eve 40 
 
 Christmas, 1898 73 
 
 Colloquy with the Old Year 100 
 
 Cono, An Indian Legend 157 
 
 Contemplation 53 
 
 Dead in the Philippines 15 
 
 Decoration Day 96 
 
304 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Dirge to the Dying Year 116 
 
 Eat 'Em Jack 80 
 
 Farewell Old Home 174 
 
 Fifteen Years' Ago 208 
 
 Fragments 173 
 
 From Reminiscences of Early Days 227 
 
 Grandmother's Story 103 
 
 He Giveth His Beloved Sleep 86 
 
 Home Light 38 
 
 Impromptu Lines 114 
 
 Ingratitude 211 
 
 "I Shall Not Die" 176 
 
 Land of Sand 199 
 
 Laura = 106 
 
 Laying by the Corn 232 
 
 Legends of Barber County 217 
 
 Lines on the Death of a Child ' 145 
 
 Lines on the Death of a Fellow Bard 153 
 
 Lines written on an aged tree 11 
 
 Maceo 66 
 
 March Wind 13 
 
 Midnight Soliloquy 117 
 
 Milestones There Be 99 
 
 Mother 43 
 
 My Dugout Home 60 
 
 Night Thoughts 155 
 
 Old Settlers' Reunion 201 
 
 On the Death of a Comrade 119 
 
 On the Death of a Friend 77 
 
Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 305 
 
 On the Death of General Sherman 136 
 
 Retrospect 107 
 
 Retrospective Soliloquy 78 
 
 Rumination 51 
 
 Satirical Ode to an Old Gray Horse 129 
 
 Selling the Homestead 214 
 
 Shoes 170 
 
 Song of the Bone Pilgrim 230 
 
 Square Deal 125 
 
 Stay By Your Job 88 
 
 Thanksgiving Eve, 1898 84 
 
 Thanksgiving Thoughts 65 
 
 The Blind Indian 47 
 
 The Dying Year 1891 132 
 
 The First Frost 235 
 
 The Flood 141 
 
 The Harvest's' a Gittin' Done 127 
 
 The Homesteader's Dream 146 
 
 The Hunter's Camp 28 
 
 The Last Man 34 
 
 The Maid of Barber 179 
 
 The Western Homestead 55 
 
 The Western Normal College 39 
 
 The White Slave 134 
 
 Those Who Wore the Blue 228 
 
 The Wrecked Train 69 
 
 To a Bed Bug 137 
 
 To L. C. F. 178 
 
 Tribute 87 
 
306 Musings of the Pilgrim Bard 
 
 Tribute to a Comrade 236 
 
 Under the Elms 19 
 
 Visitin' 90 
 
 Waona, The Hunter's Daughter 166 
 
 When It Rains 36 
 
 When Times Git Good Agin Ill 
 
 Whippoorwill 151 
 
 Winter Thoughts 17 
 
 Sketches — 
 
 A Buffalo Chase 244 
 
 A Day Dream 242 
 
 Founding a City , 237 
 
 Panoramic Reminiscences 250 
 
 S'tory of Buffalo Days 247 
 
 Reminescences of the Early Days 253 
 
NOV 23 1903