LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap. Copyrighi No. Slielf..'...^ As, speeding over the hills and dells, The glad sound went of the Brookline bells! 06 And other bells, in the hamlets near, Clamored, and echoed the music clear; And cities heard, and a wide land knew The import well of the strange ado. It meant that down where the armies lay At Appomattox, that famous day, The veteran leaders. Grant and Lee, Had parleyed under the apple-tree, And signed the treaty that ushered in Repose and safety where strife had been. The clang and clamor — the sounds that rolled From the vibrant bells of Brookline told The march was ended, the vigil done, The last shot sped from the smoking gun; That the grim, long lines of blue and gray, lyike ghostly armies, would melt away. And never again embattled stand. In civil conflict, in all the land; And the starry flag alone should be The nation's emblem from sea to sea. Like a dream-wraith fades and disappears The cloud that darkened the battle-years; 107 Idle and useless, the bayonets rust; The cannon are silent, and covered with di The shot-torn banners in sleep are furled, And Peace, like a zodiac, belts the world. But long will the glad remembrance stay Of all that happened that April day — While Song rehearses, and History tells. How the children rang the Brookline bells. TO MINNIE. My "remembrance," gentle girl? Scarce you need to ask it, Since your friendship is the pearl Of my jewel-casket. Changeless as the minted gold Of the yellow guinea Is the tender thought I hold, Evermore, of Minnie, lOH 777^ ROSE SHE WORE. The rose she wore upon her breast, — Though "charming, quite!" the maid confessed, Could scarce her lovliness enhance; It had a name that came from France — It was the flower she loves the best. I bought the prize at her behest; 'Twas costlier than I had guessed; I found it by the merest chance — The rose she wore. So, I observed with little zest, When all the viols were at rest, As she and Albert quit the dance, And stood, exchanging glance for glance. How that sweet flower was crushed, and pressed,- The rose she wore. 09 THE BETTER DAT, Above the far horizon rim, The east is tinged with gray ; 'Tis coming, though its light be dim — The better day! 'Twill come in triumph when it comes, Howe'er it hastes, or lags; But not with trumpets, nor with drums, Nor battle flags. For war, and sounds of war, shall cease- The banners will be furled, And liberty prevail, and peace, In all the world. In that millennial, glorious time There'll be no poverty; And ignorance shall be a crime By law's decree. 110 And every man, at every turn, Shall garner in the sweets, And eat the bread he earns, and earn The bread he eats. And none his neighbor's name shall speak To blacken and defame; The strong shall guard and shield the weak From wrong and blame. We'll little heed an outworn creed, But try the better plan Of love, in thought, and word, and deed, To God and man. And full-orbed Truth all souls shall draw, Like some great central sun, And Right be one with Might, — and Law, And Justice, one. The good, the true, the wise, the great, All hail its herald ray; 'Tis coming soon, in glorious state — The better day! I!l AJV IDYL. Summer, with blazon of gold, glory of leaf and of blossom! Under an amethyst sky, under gray clouds as they pass! Shimmers the lake in the sun — white lilies float on its bosom. Blithe bees hum in the fields, the crickets chirp in the grass ! Loud is the bobolink's song, pipe the brown quail and the plover, Meadow-larks sing as the}' soar high o'er the verdurous hills! Song, and the joy of song, till the cup of the world runs over Brimmed with a tangle of tunes, pulsing with quavers and trills! Out from the maple shadows the sounds of mirth and laughter Float on the odorous breeze, from the children at their play,— Jubilant shouts and greetings, and the echoes follow after, Over the valle3''S and fields, and over the hills away! Joy is a sweet contagion — glad is the soul of the comer. Here in a garden of sweets, here in an Eden of song; As, seeking its solstice, the high-tide of life and of summer Rises, and rolls through the land, rises and bears him along! 13 CHILD- Q UES TIONINGS. My little, orphaned niece, upon my knee, Plied me with childish questions, new and strange. In eager tone. Some were beyond the range Of all my power to answer; two or three Touched and involved that brooding mystery Which we call Death, the while her soft, blue eyes Grew wear}' — waiting my delayed replies — In the dim twilight, by the summer sea. "Dear uncle! Wlw did my sweet mother die, And go to heaven? Is heaven beyond that star? And can wee Carrie ever go so far To meet her? Did God want her in the sky To tend ni}' baby brother?" Then the deep Night shadows held us, — and she fell asleep. 14 THE LADY MOON., The lady moon, a goddess bright, With shoulders gleaming bare and white, And stately head in rev'ry bowed. Leans from her balcony of cloud In the blue palace of the night. Dow^n peering from her queenly height, She pours her soft, refulgent light Upon a merry-making crowd — The lady moon! Apart, a maid and lover-wight, Their troth with eager tremblings plight, - Lips meet, and solemn vows are vowed The while, serenely fair and proud, Smiles sweet approval of the sight — The lady moon! Ii5 DESTIXr. A wise old mother is Nature, — She guideth her childrens' feet In many a flowery pathway; And her strong life-currents beat, Sometimes in intricate channels — As a mountain stream may run — But ever her purpose triumphs, And ever the goal is won. Her eyes are the eyes of Argus, And she utters her decree: The brook shall come to the river, And the river shall reach the sea. We have tailed to read the riddle Of the impulse and desire. That burn in the soul of being. Like the sun's great heart of fire, Impelling the bird, storm-drifted, To come to its sheltered nest. And the mother to bring her baby The warmth of her shielding breast; And the blossom to yield its honey As the spoil of the bandit bee, — While the brook goes down to the river And the river reaches the sea. But whatsoever we name it — Be it Destiny, or Fate — It leads the prince to his kingdom, The king to his palace gate; The lover shall taste the kisses That grow on the maiden's lips; And safe, in the land-locked harbor. Shall be moored the wand 'ring ships; And the soul shall gain its heaven — Where the white-robed angels be — And the brook shall blend with the river And the river shall wed the sea. 117 THE IDEAL FARMER. The Farmer is the lord of lands, The birth-right baron of the soil, Although the callous-badge of toil He wears upon his brawny hands. Woods, fields and streams, are his demesne, The open sky his temple-dome, — The altar of his love the home "Where rules the priestess and the queen. Like all of Nature's worshippers, He finds her treasures at his feet. And feels her warm life-pulses beat. And makes his life a part of her's. As Dawn unbars the gates of day. To ope the highway of the king. He wakens when the sparrows sing. And rises with the robin's lay. He traces in the mellow mold, Where'er his gleaming plowshare runs Dark lines for summer rains and suns . To print in characters of gold. His wheat-fields glow like skies of morn, And pasture-lands, and meadows green, And fruitful orchards intervene, Kncircled by the bannered corn. He watches, as the days go by — Ivike grenadiers in single file — The blossoms blow, the valleys smile; Or notes the tumult of the sky, — The lightning trim with fiery braid The foldings of a mantle-cloud. And thunders rolling far and loud. Like echoes of a cannonade. With rosy health, and wealth increased, The fairest fruits before him spread. He sits at table at the head,— The proud Macgregor of the feast. Good genii for him conspire To foil the troubles that annoy, And press the wine of every joy Into the cup of his desire. 119 The peut up dwellers in the town — That theater of petty strife — Know little how his larger life Keeps many a brood of follies down. And so I hold, and justly call This sturdy, independent man The foremost in the social plan — The helper, and the hope of all. 120 THE OLD AND THE NEW Out in the winter midnight, — Out in the darkness and cold, lyieth a fallen monarch, — Wrinkled, and hoary, and old; Broken his scepter lieth, His jeweled crown below. And his beard doth rest On his pulseless breast Like a drift of norland snow! Scarce had the Christmas holly, Woven into his crown, Twined with mistletoe, faded, Bven a leaf, into brown, — Scarce were the Christmas anthems. Matins, and vespers, sung. Till through wood and dell, Like a deep-toned bell. His knell by the winds was rung! 121 Spite of the tricks he played us,— On the ocean and the land — Kind was he as a father, And he led us by the hand. Ever bounty and blessing, Swept along in his train, And his golden sheaves, In the harvest eves. Filled many a loaded wain. So, lightly weighing our sorrows, And ever recalling our joys, Holding our moody spirits In quiet equipoise, — Doing with manly courage Whatever we find to do, We bury the Old In the damp, dark mould. And joyfully hail the New! 122 THANKSGIVING. The golden glow of autumn-time Hath faded like an ember, And on the dreary landscape lies The first flakes of November; Chill blows the wind through woods discrowned Of all their leafy glory, As thus the seasons in their round Repeat the endless story! The earth hath yielded up her fruits To bless the farmer's labors, And peace and plenty crown the lives Of cheery friends and neighbors; In fertile vales, on prairies broad, In homes by lake and river, Ten thousand thousand hearts unite bless the Gracious Giver. 123 Thanksgiving for the harvest full, The orchards' mellow treasures, The purple grapes, the golden corn, And all the joys and pleasures, And bounties rich and manifold, That make life worth the living, — For these, alike, the young and old. Join in a glad thanksgiving. The kindly pair, whose weight of years With frosty locks hath crowned them; Are seated at the festal board With all their children round them. The father giveth fervent thanks In homely phrase and diction. And stretches forth his aged hands In holy benediction. Thus friends, long sundered, re-unite, Recount each joy and pleasure — The annals of the fading past — And fill again the measure Of youth, and healthful joyousness. As in the glad time olden. When life was new, and skies were blue. And all the days were golden. 124 Thanks to the Pilgrim Fathers, then, Whose little goodly leaven Works out through all the buried years This sweet foretaste of heaven. And to the Lord, whose bounteous gifts Make life well Avorth the living, — Who dwells above, whose name is Love- Be evermore thanksgiving! 125 THE PRESIDENT LIVES. [These lines were written in Washington, D. C, July 25th, 1881, when President Garfield's physicians had just posted a bulletin announcing that the wounded man would recover from the murderous shot fired by Guiteau— a prediction that sadly failed of fulfillment.] "lo Triumphe!" — at last! Joyful, thrice joyful the sound! Speeding the wide world around, Swifter than wing of the blast! Healing, and solace, it gives — Rolls the dark shadow away — Murder is robbed of its prey — Lo! the good President lives! Patience, that will not complain — Marvellous courage, and strength, . Slowly emerging at length • From the red furnace of Pain! 126 Holding all hearts in his hand , Fused into one in this hour, Faction is shorn of its power — Bitterness dumb in the land! Fan him, all life-giving airs — Make the quick fever-pulse calm; Bring to him healing and balm — More than we ask in our prayers! Love hath no chaplet to give, Richer than that on his brow; Ivong may he wear it, as now — Long may the President live! 127 HESPERUS. His silver lamp fair Hesper lights, Above the mountain's crest; No more the fierce tornado smites With heavy hand the rocky heights, — The winds are lulled to rest. The bright lake, like a beauteous child, Sleeps by the autumn wood; No foot disturbs the dead leaves piled, — No sound in all the forest wild To break the solitude, Save, from the foot of yonder hill. Where vines and willows throng, The drowsy tinkle of a rill, And one lone, homeless whip-poor-will Singing her evening song. 128 Oh! that our lives, like this sweet hour, Might glide serenely by, Without a cloud of ill to lower, And dim the light, or mar the power Of Hope's bright star on high! CO MP A NIONSHIP. In quiet mountain valleys, miles between, Two little brooks welled up, the rocks among. And down their narrow channels danced; and sung Their liquid songs; and flashed their silv'ry sheen. In the unshaded spots of forests green. Till on a shelving ledge their waters hung One little moment, tremulous, — then flung Them o'er the brink into a pool serene, Wherein they met and mingled — happy streams! Two shining currents braided into one! So, in our lives, two comrade-spirits blend ; And sweet as fairy music heard in dreams. Is Love's triumphant song, the while they run The earthly race, — companions to the end. 129 OCTOBER. Full wealth of pleasing sights October brings ns — rare delights Of golden days, and moon-bright, silver nights. The very air is wine, And cordial, in its crystalline, Cool sweetness, and we drink the nectar fine. Some small, white flowers — the pledge Of the dead Summer — star the edge Of the wide field's embroidery of hedge. The mountains wear their hoods Of cloud with softer grace; there broods A royal splendor over all the woods. Leaves, red as sunset skies, — Leaves, opulent with T3''rian dyes. Or gold, or brown, a glory and surprise! 130 And scarlet berries shine; And wild grapes, filled with ruddy wine, Are meshed and held in tangled nets of vine. Some migrant birds we know, Whose notes in rippling music flow, Are heard no more. Ah! whither did they go? Perhaps in far-off isles Of Indian seas, where summer smiles, Kach song we love some weary heart beguiles. Yet, the brown quail is here, Piping, in treble, full and clear, His song of home, and sweet content, and cheer. The red-wing spreads his wings Above the ripening corn, and sings — Nor sweeter notes leaped from Apollo's strings. And, shrill, the noisy jay, A blue-coat cynic, day by day. Scolds in the walnut tree across the way. He scolds because, perchance. He sees the darker days advance. When Winter comes to couch a frosty lance; 131 Because the forest's crown Of splendid leafage, drifting down, Will leave his realm a landscape, bare and brown. So moves the painted show — Mirage of Summer! till the glow Of Autumn dies, amid the falling snow! THE OPTIMIST. As oft the darkest pool reflects, at night. The everlasting stars that fill the sky. And we, beholding, almost deem they lie Like orient jewels, scintillant, and bright, Upon its bosom, — so Heaven's kindly light Is mirrored in the soul that you and I, Perchance, in our intolerance, pass by As sordid, base, and unregenerate quite. I hold the concept false — that this fair earth Whirls madly onward in a dance of death; Nay, every soul some germ of good enspheres, Which God, himself, shall quicken into birth — Despite our narrow creed, and shibboleth — And it shall blossom through the endless years! WINTER BIRDS. Fair is the sky, for the cloud-rack is lifted, — Bright will the day be, though dark was the morn ; Warm was the morn, but the strong wind has shifted Into the north — where the blizzards are born. White coward mercury goes down to zero, — Darting about flies a veteran jay. Braving the breeze, like a blue-coated hero, — Seeking his supper, I venture to say. Neighbors pass hurriedly, mantled and muflled — Great coats, and seal-skins, to keep out the storm — Plump little quail, with their plumage beruffled. Search in the hedge for a nook that is warm, That latest blast from the boreal bellows. Drifted some snow-birds the garden below; Always their coming, the wise-acres tell us, Tokens cold weather, and flurries of snow. 133 Warm sheltered corners the cattle have chosen, Shivers the pine in its evergreen leaves; Pools by the roadside in wrinkles are frozen, — Bayonet icicles hang from the eaves. Five English sparrows, defying the weather, There in the pathway a conference hold; Ho! merr}' midgets in doublets of feathers! Why do you rally out there in the cold? Little you care for the riot and rattle, — Little you heed, — let the mercury fall! Brave little fighters, go on with your battle — Here is a friend who will welcome you all! Fly to my window, — I'll feed every comer, — Hail to the comrades that constancy show Loving and loyal, in winter and summer, — With us, alike, in the heat and snow! 34 THE SPANISH LOVE SONG, Silver star! that shines on high In the blue Castilian sky, Dost thou in my lady's breast Waken love-thoughts, unconfessed? Happ}'- bird! that sings for me In yon blooming almond tree. Thou hast hovered o'er her head; Tell me what her sweet lips said! Gipsy breeze! that strays at will In the gardens of Seville, Thou hast kissed her snowy brow; Doth a shadow cloud it now? Star! that through her lattice beams, Bird! whose music threads her dreams, Breeze! that kissed her tenderly, Bring swift answer unto me! 35 MORNING HYMN To whom O Ivord! if not to Thee, Shall song of praise ascend? Before what throne but Thine shall knee Of erring mortal bend? For all thy mercies, gracious King, In gratitude I raise My voice in prayer, and loudly sing My hymn of joy and praise. Thy smile hath made this radiant morn — Thy breath hath blown away The stormy clouds of darkness born That veiled the rising day, My morn of life was fair and bright. Its noon unclouded shines; Do thou iny footsteps guide aright Until the day declines. !36 And when the sun shall sink and hide, Within the shadows deep, L,et Thy sweet peace with me abide — Give Thy beloved sleep! THE PIONEERS. These are the heroes who triumphed o'er fate; These are the toilers who moulded a state; These are the soldiers who laughed at defeat; This is the army that would not retreat! These are the sturdy crusaders, and strong, Worthy of places in story and song; These the "Old Settlers" who came to the West Ivong years ago. Let us give them the best Of the good gifts which our hands may bestow In the rich realm where the broad rivers flow — Honor and cherish each name that appears On the grand roll of the brave pioneers. !37 TWO SOA^GS, I. Two songs the poet wrote, the one To stormy music set, Where shriek of fife, and roll of drum, And blare of bugle met; And serried ranks of valiant men Round a beleagured town, And cannon looking from the heights In grim defiance down. Then came the thunder and the flame, The battle's lurid hell. The bullet's spiteful, serpent hiss. The bursting of the shell; Intrepid thousands pressing up — A bloody escalade, Where bayonet met bayonet. And blade was crossed with blade. Then cheers, and from the rampart wall The victor banner flew; Then loud acclaim for him who led. And every honor due. 'A stirring song! to all the world 'Twill bear the hero's name, Close linked with mine," the poet said, "And bring us equal fame." II. The other song the poet wrought Was of a mother, young. Who softly to her baby boy A soothing ballad sung. The child was ill; his little life Was ebbing fast away, While high, and far, burned one bright star, That heralded the day. The woman's sweet Madonna face Revealed her anxious fears. The depth divine of mother love — The tenderness of tears. She was a widow, and the boy — Her little golden head — The only living, precious tie That bound her to her dead. Though death's eclipse was darkening The eyes of heavenly blue, !39 They brightened as he lisped, " Good-bye, I'll kiss papa for you!" And when the lordly sun arose Far off the child had fared. *A simple song of little worth! " The poet's lips declared. III. At length the hero, who had fought, The swift years robbed of fame, And gave back to the alphabet The letters of his name. No marvel, truly! for his sword, In an unholy fight. Had been unsheathed to prove again That Might could conquer Right. But when the bard was gray and old. The song he had despised. Sang on, and on, and evermore Its tender notes were prized. It touched the universal heart, 'Twas registered above. Where all its wondrous power was known- That song of mother love. 140 CHE A TED, One day a pretty little maid Into my cosy sanctum strayed, And softly on my table laid A rose, surpassing fair. Her eyes were of celestial blue, Unbound her golden tresses flew, Her teeth were pearls, half hid from view In Ivaughter's rosy lair. She came to ask if I would make Some little verses for her sake. And, when they were completed, take The lovely rose for pay. Could I — her beauty's worshipper — To such a sweet request demur? I promised I would sing for her. My very sweetest lay. Ml Then, luring down from mem'ry's shelves My choicest rhymes, the merry elves Began to pair, and range themselves Like partners in a dance. Their mellow notes the viols played, Swift feet the music's call obeyed, And won from that entrancing maid Her most approving glance. Ah, pretty one! you never knew How very much I cheated you, Nor what, besides that blossom due. You gave me for a song! What smiles, what pleasant words were yours! Their sweet remembrance 5'et endures, And many a pain and heart-ache cures In all my journey long 142 THE SNO Wr RANGE, COLORADO, These are the monarch-mountains of the land, The purple- wearers, almost infinite! Secure upon their rocky thrones they sit With empires, measureless, on either hand. Their reign the vanished centuries hath spanned, Since God's own hand the starry torches lit; Or since the earth, in pains convulsing it. Reared them on high in some upheaval grand. With diadems of everlasting snow, They lean their heads against a turquoise sky. Touch heights supreme none but the brave have trod— Slow toiling upward from the plains below — And type, unto the spirit's inner eye, The might of the illimitable God. 143 WINTER SUNSHINE, It scarcely seems winter, so faint is the breeze That stirs the green mistletoe there in the trees, So idly on high float the white clouds along, So sweet is the note of the meadow-lark's song, So lazily loiter the herds where they stand. So warm is the sunshine that lies on the land. How bright, and far-reaching, from morning till night, The glint and the glory, on foot-hill and height, As if a broad mantle of yellowest gold, O'er vale, mount and mesa, were softly unrolled; As if Father Time sets his dial to show That June's darling roses are ready to blow. So pure is the air, and so crystalline clear. The Organ peaks cluster so neighborly near We bid them "Good morning," as if they are friends. And the blue arch of heaven so lovingly bends Above us, the spot seems a tropical isle, Where Summer sheds ever the light of her smile. 144 New Mexican sunshine! like wine that is old, And richest of vintage, its amber drops hold New strength for the weak, and new joy for the strong; It thrills them, yet soothes, like a lullaby-song, Brings languor, and peace, till the worn spirit seems Afloat in a boat, in the harbor of dreams! IN MESILLA VALLEY. (An Acrostic.) What cosy talks, and walks, we shared In broad Mesilla's pleasant ways! Like happy birds the swift-hours fared Down vista-aisles of other days, And, sweetly singing as they went, Awoke no echoing discontent. Bright sunshine filled the clear, pure air, And, near and distant, height on height, Rose lordly mountains, passing fair, — Kings in their own unchallenged right, B'er since some deep volcanic throe Reared them on high, above New Mexico. 145 EVENING IN NEW MEXICO, Far off the Rio Grande crawls, A silver serpent in the sand; And sweetly, softly, slowly falls The shade of twilight on the land. The mocking-bird, that all the day Has piped, entangling note with note, In merry song, and roundelay, Has quelled the lyrics in his throat. In meditation, buried all, Three philosophic burros wait, Beside a dun, adobe wall, The opening of the master's gate. A corsair hawk is sailing low, And lazily, his flight unreeled In widening spirals, — wavering so Across the green alfalfa field. 146 A purple mantle rolls, and spreads, — From distant foot-hills deepening down — Across the; dry arroya beds, And over all the drowsy town. So softly shadow blends with shade, So stealthily the darkness wins. We scarcely f.ee the daylight fade, — We scarcely know the night begins. The sky, rose-tinted in the west. Is blue and cloudless everywhere; One white star tips a mountain crest. And sparkles like a jewel there. a:-§^^»g&&& A LOVED ONE GONE. No throb of life her bosom stirs. As zephyrs sway the flowers: God's sweet, unbroken peac6 is her's, And all the sorrow our's. 147 BRAMLEIGH HALL, In Bramleigh Hall the lights burn low, With slow and muffled tread The servitors move to and fro, — The Bramleigh heir is dead. Sir Malcolm's only son was he, A tall and lusty youth, His father's pride, as all could see, And comely, too, forsooth. His hands were soft, and lily-white. And bright the gems he wore; He set the maids distracted quite, For twenty miles, or more. Young Jeanie Dean, a rustic queen, Was brought beneath his spell; No fairer lassie e'er was seen, But bonnie Jeanie fell. 14^ Before the luckless babe was born Far forth the story sped ; His lyordship curled his lip in scorn, And cruel words he said. He drank red wine in Bramleigh Hall, In frequent draughts and deep; "Ho! ho! " laughed he, "the sin is small For Highland maids are cheap!" They told the tale to Donald Dean, Her brother, at his work ; And what he uttered then, I ween. Is seldom heard at kirk. To fury's height he spurred his wrath. And kept his purpose set. Till in the lonely mountain path The adversaries met. 'Ho!" ho! " cried Donald, " 'tis no sin, For Scottish lords are cheap! I'll toss this lordling o'er the lin, And Bramleigh Hall shall weep! " 149 He kept his promise, true and fair, Nor let the quarrel lag Until young Arthur, flung in air, Went down Ivinlithgow Crag. And so, the servants come and go. To-night, with muffled tread; The Bramleigh lights are burning low. The Bramleigh heir is dead. THE BEE. The music of the busy bee Is drowsy, and it comforts me; But, ah! 'tis quite another thing, When that same bee concludes to sting! 150 THE MO UN TA IN MA ID. Where tall Sierra Blanca's shade Across my pathway lay, I met a winsome mountain maid One pleasant summer day. Her eyes were blossoms, blue and rare, Her form of perfect mould ; Some Midas-touch her braided hair Transmuted into gold. She leaped as lightly as a fawn, The rose-hue of her cheek Shone fairer than the flush of dawn Upon a snowy peak. Her voice, like music in a dream. Throbbed through and through the place- Attuned to match the mountain stream That ran its merry race. L^l A jaunty jockey-cap she wore, — A neatly-fitting gown, And on her shoulder idly bore A rifle, long and brown. The huntress of the silver bow, Diana, fair and chaste. Not with a surer hand brought low The wand'rers of the waste. Alone, but resolute and brave, She tracked through grove and glen, The mountain lion to his cave, The red fox to his den. "My name," she said, "is Alice Dale, My home by yonder hill;" And then I listened to a tale That makes me shudder still : * 'My parents, and their children three I but a babe in years — Came with a little colony Of Utah pioneers. 152 Where snow-clad peaks are ever seen, And leagues from any town, Within a valley, rich and green, We settled snugly down. Our home was fair, the vines and flowers Made glad the wilderness; No loss, nor pressing want was ours. No sorrow or distress. And yet, at times, 'twas prophesied An Indian war was near, And death and ruin would betide Before another year. One day our nearest neighbor said, — 'I've tidings from below! The painted fiends have risen — led By old Geronimo! They've raided Carter's Rocky Ranch, And scalped a dozen men; And now they're on the lyower Branch, Not far from Miller's Glen. 153 But we've no cause to fear their wiles, And from the valley fl}'; A hundred canon-furrowed miles 'Twixt us and danger lie. And troopers, charging rear and flank, The band will scatter wide, Or slay, or drive them down the bank, To choke the Gila's tide.' Alas! he knew not then how near The demons lay in wait, — With torch and knife, with bow and spear, And merciless in hate. Swift from the storm god's mighty hand The lightning bolt is thrown, — And swift upon a smiling land Descends the black cyclone. So, when the midnight's sable tent Was spread o'er field and dell, Upon that peaceful settlement Tphe mad, red devils fell. 154 They leaped from every rock and shrub,- Their war-cry filled the air, As if ill truth Beelzebub Held court and revel there. The terrors of that awful night No language can portray; The avenues we sought for flight Were closed in every way. First, stealthy hands the fagots heaped. Nor aught of warning came Till up our trellised porch there leaped The swift, devouring flame. My father snatched me from my bed, And reached the open air; A fleet-winged arrow struck him dead, And left him weltering there. Impaled upon a single spear My fair young brothers died, — While dance, and yell, and savage leer, Prevailed on every side. 155 And then I saw my mother slain, — My blood with horror froze! A tomahawk had pierced her brain — No need of other blows. I lay unconscious on the ground — How long I cannot say, — But with returning reason found The yells had died away. A grateful sense of motion touched My poor bewildered brain. And, presently, my fingers clutched A pony's flowing mane. Upon a shaggy broncho's back Securely I was tied, And thus, along a narrow track, Went down the mountain side. In the dusk starlight I could see Two mounted braves before, And others, still, who followed me-^ Perhaps a dozen more. 156 In silhouette, against the sky, Each wore a devil's shape, And fervently I prayed to die — Since there was no escape. These ling'ring tortures of the night Would shatter nerves of steel; But more I dreaded in my fright What morning might reveal. The cord that held me in my place Made limb and body numb; And branch and bramble hurt my face- Yet I was terror-dumb. The morning came, and in the east The wrinkled clouds were red ; And goad and whip our pace increased, And on, and on we sped. When night again was near, we turned Into a valley lone, And halted by a fire that burned ^gainst a crumbling stone. 157 A brawny savage loosed the cord, And set me on my feet, And placed before me on the sward — Some food I did not eat. I moaned for water, and 'twas brought, With little of delay,— I drank, and laughed —as one distraught- And tried to run away. A moment, only, I was free, — A strong hand turned me round, And on the broncho lifted me, And left me there unbound. I marked the man — his brutal jaw, His shoulders broad and bare — And, dangling from his girdle, saw A scalp — my mother's hair. In strength and stature unexcelled — And leader of the band, He was the only brave who held A rifle in his hand. 158 Agaiu the little cavalcade Pursued it winding way, And few, and brief, the halts we made In all that weary day. The second day, at set of sun. An Indian village near. The while it told the ride was done, Intensified my fear. 'Oh, God!' I cried, 'how sad my fate, A lone and helpless child. Among these monsters incarnate — Here in the mountains wild!' And while I sobbed, as ne'er before, A woman, tall and brown, Before whose lodge's open door We halted — drew me down. She placed me on a furry seat, With gentle hand and look, And brought me food — some scraps of meat- And water from the brook. 159 She found, in some dark hiding place, A dress for me to wear, And bathed my feet, and washed my face, And smoothed my tangled hair. An Indian song, in cadence low. Her lips began to croon, — Her body swaying to and fro, Responsive to the tune. Worn out with suffering and grief, Yet moaning, grieving still, I found in slumber sweet relief From every conscious ill. Days came and went. With less of dread I conned the woman's face, And knew, at length, her child was dead, And I must fill its place. Matsuma, too, the tall young chief, Whose bloodiest victory won. Had brought me all I knew of grief, Was this dark woman's son. 160 He taught me much of savage lore, The wood-craft of his race, The signs they used in war, and more, — The secrets of the chase. I early learned the lodge to mend, Against the storms to come. To string the supple bow, and send The feathered arrow home. We practiced with his rifle, too, — He smiled, and praised my skill; My nerves were strong, my aim was true, I hit the mark at will. One day the target he advanced Till we were far apart; My eye along the weapon glanced. The bullet found his heart. Revenge was sweet, my soul was glad. My happiness supreme; No pang, remorseful, I have had, No Kugene Aram dream. 161 I killed him on the wind}^ hill, For my dead mother's sake, As cheerfully as I would kill The venomed rattle-snake. The body, wearily, I drew To a deep canon's edge. And, straining every muscle, threw It o'er the rocky ledge. I watched, with almost childish glee. The gory carcass fall To where an ancient cedar tree Grew in the crannied wall. It lodged the splintered boughs among- Five hundred feet at least Above the earth — and there it hung To make a buzzard-feast. Not long Matsuma's braves would bide Their chief's delayed return; Small bands, deploying far and wide. Would soon the secret learn. 162 'Twas nearly sunset. I must fly, At once, with utmost speed, Or presently in tortures die. To expiate the deed. Securely hidden from my foes, A few short hours before, Were ammunition, food and clothes, A rather meager store. These I secured, and with them took This rifle, true and good, And coming to the valley brook, Its winding course pursued. No moon there was to lend her light. When Night's black mantle fell. But there were stars to guide my flight, And I could read them well. My way was southward, and at dawn, Fatigued, and worn, and sore. Yet nerved with hope, I hastened on Still swifter than before. 163 The warriors would my trail discern, And track me like a thief, If but my foot should overturn A single forest leaf. The soft green sward I oft forsook, That long and weary day, To let some babbling, friendly brook My footprints wash away. I fastened round me, hurriedly, Of boughs, a leafy mail. Until I looked a moving tree, Instead of Alice Dale. Climbing, at noon, a little hill. To gain a wider view, A moment's space m}^ heart was still, An arrow o'er me flew. I fled in terror from the height, And in the wood below. Awaited, hidden from his sight. My fierce, inveterate foe. 164 He crouched, and crawled, as crawls the si}-, Dun panther toward its prey; I saw him from the place where I, Almost unbreathing, lay. When my good rifle uttered then Its syllable of lead, Another of the dusky men Was, like Matsuma, dead. On, on I pressed with waning strength, Through woods and valleys deep, But sank in weariness at length, And, shortly, fell asleep. How long I slept I do not know. But near me something stirred, And wakened me; I rose to go, Then shouts and shots I heard. A battle! 'twas the red man's whoop, And well I understood Matsuma's braves had met a troop Of soldiers in the wood. 165 The fight was hot; the carbines rang A near-by ridge along; I never heard a forest bird Pour forth a sweeter song. The sun was reddening the west, And twihght came apace As steadily the braves were pressed Back near my hiding place. One found, and madly at me dashed, Aiming a deadly blow. But, quick as thought, my rifle flashed Again, and laid him low. Still other savages I saw, Then blue coats I espied, And Captain Maurice Kavanaugh Was standing by my side. A young and handsome man was he — None nobler in the land; He spoke some pleasant words to me, And took me by the hand, 166 Ere long the bugles blew *' Recall," The troopers galloped back, And when the night was over all Went into bivouac. At Fort Apache we arrived Upon the morrow fair, The ladies of the post contrived To make me welcome there. But that was three long years ago, And you have heard the tale. And all, perhaps, you care to know Of little Alice Dale." I took her hand, and gave her praise. And bade her "Adios; " Her story, after many days. Did yet my mind engross. And then, the news was widely rife — A sequel I foresaw — The Mountain Maid became the wife Qf Major Kavanaugh, 167 PULQUE, I have been told — but do not know from practice — That, down in Mexico, there is a cactus, Whose juice, when given proper fermentation, And introduced into your circulation, Will put a larger "jag" upon you quicker Than any other cordial, wine, or liquor. Drug, or decoction, potion, or appliance, That man has ever mixed, or modern science. They call it pulque; 'tis the devil's tipple; Yet down their throats the Gringos let it ripple As though 'twere nectar of the gods' own brewing, And bless the saints, while such a course pursuing. One good "plain drunk" requires tw'O meager ounces; A few drops more will, add the frills and flounces. But please remember, this is hearsay, merely; \ love sobriety — and love it dearly! 168 A KANSAS VALLEY, A lovely landscape! Stand beside me here, Upon this highest summit, bare and gray, As dies in peace the sweet September day. No sound is heard save, soft and liquid-clear, The murmur of the valley brook below, — Soliloquizing evermore, as though Its way were lost in labyrinths of trees. Where flowering vines have hung their tapestries; And, so, it questions: "Which way shall I turn?" Behold! the sumach's crimson cressets burn In every copse! The maples sway and nod, — Like harlequins in brown, and red, and green; While proudly, near and far, Sir Golden Rod Uplifts his flaming torch, and lights the splendid scene!