Jf*<* 'v*XV^. Jt ^^mmmtmmmmmcmmmmKtmmmttmmmmmmtmttmttmimimm ;%# JLjk. g§§^^§§S§S8^ THE POET SCOUT: BEING A SELECTION OF INCIDENTAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS. By CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD, BETTER KNOWN AS THE POET SCOUT OF THE BLACK HILLS.' n\ SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.: H. KELLER & CO. 1879. I JV0.JIJ.A.I.A Copyright, 1879, BY Henry Keller & Company. To My Comrades of The Grand Army of The Republic I Respectfully Dedicate these pages, in memory of those dark days of the rebellion when we stood shoulder to shoulder together, and in grateful tribute for their many kindly fayors to me in the camp, the field and the hospital. JOHN W. CRAWFORD. San Francisco, August, 1879. TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. Custer City, D. T., April 25, 1876. The bearer, Captain Jack Crawford, a member of the Board of Trustees of Custer City, and Chief of Scouts for the Black Hills Rangers, is sent out for the purpose of reporting the movements of hostile bands of Indians, who have been committing daily depredations in the Hills ; also, to protect emigrants, and warn them of danger. Trusting his credentials will prove satisfactory, we subscribe ourselves your sincere friends and well-wishers. J. G. Beamis, Mayor and President of the Board of Trustees. E. Wynkoop, Commanding Rangers. George W. Blair, Superior Judge. A. B. CHArLAiN, City Attorney. P. J. Keefer, City Recorder. S. R. Shankland, Gulch Recorder. Hon. P. McKay. Charles Whitehead (Correspondent Kansas City Times). D. W. Fleck, M. D. D. K. Sxively, "1 O. B. Jacobs, ,, . , , , , ^ „ ,, r „ r Members ot the Board of Trustees. C. W. COLWELL, A. A. Abby, Executive Chamber, \ Harrisburgh, Pa., May 8, 1875. j The bearer, J. W. Crawford, is an estimable gentleman of intelligence and character, who served gallantly and faithfully during the late war in the Union armies, and any courtesies shown him will be duly appreciated by Yours respectfully, J. F. Hartranft. I cheerfully recommend Mr. Crawford, knowing well Governor Hartranft's signature above. W. T. Sherman. General. San Francisco, Oct. 12, 1877. The following is from the New York Herald of July 8, 1877 : " In the Indian campaign of last summer one of the bravest and most en- terprising of the scouts attached to General Crook's army was Captain Jack Crawford. In the month of September, with the permission of General Mer- ritt, he gallantly carried the Herald special account of the battle at the Slim Buttes through 300 miles of hostile country, and outstripped, by killing several horses, all other messengers." CONTENTS, Preface n Life Sketch of the Author 13 Notes 17 SKETCHES AND INCIDENTS. Buffalo Bill's Indians 23 Sour Mash 25 SONGS OF THE MOUNTAIN, THE MINING CAMP, AND THE PRAIRIE. The Scout's Request Before the Battle 39 The Miner's Home 42 Rattlin' Joe's Prayer 44 Bald Mountain 48 Notes in Camp Meeting 50 My Little New Log Cabin in the Hills 53 My Mountain Home 54 I'm Sad To-Night 56 The Ruined Virginia 58 Wild Bill's Grave 61 Only a Miner Killed 63 An Epitaph on Wild Bill 65 Last New Year's Day in the Black Hills 66 The Burial of Wild Bill 68 Last Christmas Day in the Black Hills 70 Our Prospect 72 vii CONTENTS. PAGE. Spring in the Black Hills 74 The Death of Little Kit 75 Farewell to Our Chief 78 The Death of Custer 79 Farewell, Old Cabin Home 83 The Welcome Home 86 Musing 88 Among the Peaks 90 Comrade, Why this Look of Sadness ? 92 Under the Snow 95 The Dying Scout 99 Sandy's Revenge 101 God Bless Ye, Gener'l Crook 104 The Old Trapper's Religion 106 Never Give up the Ship no California Joe and the Girl Trapper 114 Buffalo Chips, The Scout 125 The First that Died 130 Our Jack — In Memoriam 132 My Ideas 134 The Old Miner 136 Ode to Cariboo Friends 138 To Charley 139 Custer 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND SONGS. The Picnic by the Brook 147 Birds of the Hudson Bay 149 Lines to Col. J. G. Fair 151 My Own Mountain Tree 152 Lines on the Baby Boy 153 Those Eyes 154 Good-Bye 155 Under the Sod 157 The Dead and Living 159 At Last 161 Jack Crawford 163 The Poor Man's Soliloquy 164 Off to the Picnic 168 To Mary Ann and Charles O'Neill 170 CONTENTS. PAGE. Cato's Ideas 172 The Grave of My Mother 174 That Boy 175 The Rangers' Retreat : 176 Nora Lee 178 The First Flower of May 181 San Bernardino 182 My Birthday 184 Lillie 185 ARMY AND TEMPERANCE POEMS. Our First Re-union 189 Decoration Day 192 Our Martyred Dead 195 My First Song 197 Mother's Prayers 200 My Temperance Pledge 203 Mother's Influence 205 The Murphy Gang 207 PREFACE. The selections contained in the following pages are not published with the view of winning literary or poetical fame. They are the unpolished and often impromptu offspring of my idle hours, wherein many past incidents of an adventurous life reproduced themselves in memory, and took the shape of verse. I therefore respectfully deprecate criticism. I have never figured as a hero of fiction or dime novels, and have refused to allow my name to be used in connection with that kind of literature ; hence I come before you with my "Poet Scout" in a measure unheralded. I had a Christian mother, my earliest recollections of whom was kneeling at her side, praying God to save a wayward father and husband. That mother taught me to speak the truth when a child, and I have tried to follow her early teachings in that respect. It would require a much larger book than this to tell the story of my life, and the sufferings of one of God's good angels — my mother. To her I owe everything — truth, honor, sobriety, and even my very life. Her spirit seems to linger near me always ; she has been my guardian angel. In the camp, the cabin, the field and the hospital, on the lonely trail, hundreds of miles from civilization, in the pine-clad hills and lonely canons, I have heard in the moaning night winds and in the murmuring streamlets, The voice of my angel mother Whispering soft and low. And these sacred thoughts have made me forget at times that there was danger in my pathway. Nor will I ever forget The day that we parted, mother and I, Never on earth to meet again ; She to a happier home on high, I a poor wanderer over the plain. xi xi i PREFACE. That day was perhaps the greatest epoch in my life. Kneeling by her bed-side, with one hand clasped in mine, the other resting upon my head, she whispered: " My boy, you know your mother loves you. Will you give me a promise, that I may take it up to heaven?" "Yes, yes, mother; I will promise you anything." "Johnny, my son, I am dying," said she ; " promise me you will never drink intoxicants, and then it will not be so hard to leave this world." Dear reader, need I tell you that I promised "Yes ;" and whenever I am asked to drink, that scene comes up before me, and I am safe. Why did mother exact this promise from me, who never knew the taste of liquor ? Ah, my dear reader, liquor deprived me of a good father, made him forget his own flesh and blood, deprived me of even the rudiments of an education, and sent me to bed many a night crying for bread. But let me not detain you with any further account of these things ; my Poems, simple and uncouth as they are, will tell you better than I can do in a preface like this. My Poems are not the work of my imagination — they are entirely written on facts and incidents in my life, and the lives of my comrades and associates. With these few remarks, I launch my little craft upon the sea of your kind indulgence, and I am Yours truly, J. W. CRAWFORD. "Captain Jack." LIFE SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. Captain John W. Crawford, the writer of the following pages, has had an eventful and checkered career. He was born of mixed Irish and Scotch parentage, in the county Donegal, Ireland, his mother being a lineal descendant of Sir William Wallace : but some political troubles, in which his father got involved, soon afterwards broke up the family home, leaving the hero of this sketch compelled to provide for himself almost from infancy. His father, who was a tailor by trade, found means of escaping to New York, from whence he proceeded to Pennsylvania, and seeing a business opening at Minersville, in that State, soon established himself in a lucrative position. Here his unfortunate taste for strong drink got the better of his manhood, and it was four years before the suffering, striving family at home heard of his whereabouts. At length he wrote, asking his wife to rejoin him, and by the assistance of friends she soon did so. A temporary reformation on the part of the one, and a year of hard and saving labor by the other, enabled them to get enough money together to send for their children. The lust of liquor, however, in the elder Crawford was too strong to be repressed, and the. new home was a most unhappy one for the wife and children. It was this experience of the terrible effects of intemperance that inspired Jack Crawford with the determination never, under any circumstances, to expose himself to the clutch of the Demon, and to war against the Monster with all his might and strength as long as God would give him breath. The following incident, which took place during Custer's campaign on the Yellowstone, shows how fixedly he kept to his resolution : It was at the close of a hard day's march, and the command had toiled through long miles of rough country, in the midst of a rain storm such as is known only in the Rocky Mountains. The officers were seated around the camp-fire trying to extract some warmth from the smouldering buffalo chips, when one of them produced from his saddle-bag a canteen of whisky, and taking a long draught, with the remark, "This is the soldier's best friend," passed it to the scout. "Thank you, Captain, but I never drink." xiii LIFE SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. " Never drink ! " replied the officer. " Why, it is almost incredible : you are the first man I ever met with on the plains who refused good liquor." "Yes, Jack," said several of the others, who were interested listeners to the conversation, "tell us how it is you are so strict a temperance man." "That stuff which you are drinking," replied the scout, "robbed me of a good father, made him forget his own flesh and blood, and changed him from a man to a brute. That is not my only reason. Years ago, when my poor mother was on her death-bed, she called me to her side, and holding out her thin white hand, asked me to promise, in the presence of my brothers and sisters, and in the invisible presence of God, that my lips should never touch the destroyer. Gentlemen, I consider that vow is registered in heaven, and I have kept it. I do not even know the taste of liquors. Is my reason satisfactory? " Captain Jack has illustrated this incident in one of the following pages. (See " Mother's Prayers.") The necessity of earning a living and helping to support his mother and the younger members of the family deprived the boy Jack of all educational opportunities, so that when he enlisted, at the age of fifteen, he could only make his cross. He joined the 4Sth Regiment Pennsylvania Volunteers, his father having re-enlisted in the same regiment after serving with the first three months' men. At the great battle of Spottsylvania Court House, Jack was severely wounded, while charging the rebel works, and carried to the field hospital, afterward to Washington, and finally to the Saterlee Hospital, in West Philadelphia. Here it was that he commenced to feel the want of an education, and here it was that one of those angels of mercy — a kind Sister of Charity — not only saved his life, but learned him the rudiments of reading and writing. On the iSth of May, 1864, his father was severely wounded- in the head, and, although he returned to his regiment, was discharged for disability, and died soon after the war. Jack returned to his regiment at Petersburgh, and was wounded again on the 2d of April, 1865, about the close of the war. Soon after this his mother died, and the young soldier scout struck out for the wild West. His letter from General Hartranft, endorsed by General Sherman, soon gained him the confidence and esteem of the frontier military. He was one of the pioneers of the Black Hills, chief of their scouts, and one of the founders of Custer City, Deadwood, Crook, Gayvillo and Spearfish. During the Indian campaign of 1876, Captain Jack was second in command of General Crook's Scouts, and superseded Buffalo Bill as chief, on the 24th of August of the same year. In the saddle, but few men have enacted such feats as the " Poet Scout." In July, 1876, in response, to a telegram, he rode from Medicine Bow, on the Union Pacific Railroad, to the Rosebud and Little Big Horn, in the Big Horn Mountains, nearly four hundred miles, through a country teeming with LIFE SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. savages. On another occasion he carried the New York Herald's special account of the battle of Slim Buttes to Fort Laramie — about three hundred and fifty miles — in less than four days, beating five fresh relays of couriers, and lead- ing the fastest, five hours and sixteen minutes. The enterprising Herald paid Jack $500 for his services, and afterwards allowed him $222.75 addi- tional for expenses, he having killed two horses. As a writer in the Omaha Bee, Crawford has gained a reputation for pithy and original sayings, and an easy, chatty style, which delighted his readers, and made them long to be better acquainted with the man. As a poet, he has also made his mark. True, he sadly lacks education, but he may well say, with Burns — " Give me a spark o' nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire." Much of his poetry is after the style of Bret Harte, but there is not an unreal character in any one of his poems. Every verse in these pages con- tains descriptions of real incidents in the life of the author or some of his comrades ; hence, as he says himself, his verses are more truthful than poetic. Jack has never allowed his name to be used in connection with dime novel literature. " If," said he, " I cannot make a reputation upon my own merits, I shall never endeavor to do so through false representations. I am simply Jack Crawford, boy soldier, rustic poet, scout, bad actor, etc.'' NOTES. The Black Hills correspondent of the Kansas City Times writes : Captain Jack was one of the first of the white men to break through the military cordon surrounding the Black Hills and reach the gold mines. He was one of the original founders and incorporators of Custer City, and the leader of the company of scouts which protected the miners and cabin build- ers from Indian inroads and forays while they built up their stockade on French Creek. It was here on French Creek that the Times correspondent found the " Poet Scout" in the winter of 1876. He was discovered sitting astride of a log on the corner of his half-built cabin, sawing off a log. As he was the only newspaper scout then in the Black Hills, the Times man soon made his acquaintance. In the winter campaign of 1876-7 the Times special correspondent had an opportunity of studying the long-haired scout, and saved a few of his hastily written rhymes. A few of these are herewith sub- mitted. They have never been in print before, and were written out in the woods in the Black Hills without study or preparation. One bright morn- ing the "Poet Scout" called at the tent of the Times correspondent, who was busy writing a letter home, and offered to write a few verses. He was given as a subject " Custer," and in a few moments handed in the following sweet poem : CUSTER. [For Charley of the Times, by Captain Jack.] A little city in the park, Deep shaded by the trees, Ye, gods ! it is a cozy nook, Where wafts a gentle breeze ; And here the pretty flowers of spring Will greet us by and by, While pleasure's cup we '11 freely sip — The miner boys and I. 2 xvii A r OTES. I could not crave a prettier spot Henceforth through life to dwell ; In Custer I have cast my lot And believe that all is well. I care not for the wealth untold, That underneath us lie, Good health and strength is all we ask — The miner boys and I. Our Custer now is e'en more fair Than all my eyes have seen, And though some spots around are bare, Our park is fresh and green. Go search the earth, I do not care, Though, faith, you needn't try, You'll never find a spot more fair To live or e'en to die. And yet of earthly goods no store For us has been laid up ; We envy none their gold galore, While pleasure fills our cup. We build our cabins side by side, To aid each other try, And find them true as steel and tried — The miner boys and I. And yet misfortune in our day, And sorrow have been ours, But we expect along life's way To meet both clouds and showers ; So while our star of hope is bright And beaming in the sky, ■ We '11 trust to luck and to the right — The miner boys^and I. At another time the "Poet Scout," while on an exploring trip with thr Times correspondent, gave the history of the then best gold-bearing bar in the Hills — " Calamity Bar." In response to the inquiry made by the incpiisitive Times man as to why such a rich gold digging was named " Calamity," Cap- tain Jack dashed off on a piece of paper the following reply, which has never before been published : NOTES. CALAMITY BAR. A funny name ? so it is, pard, But I'll tell ye how it was : Ye see a lot of us miners Was a buckin' agin the laws. Wall, I was one of the buckers, Who'd come to try my luck, An' while the rest was buckin', I got up an' began to buck. Wall, ye see it was just that time, paid, While I was out on the look, A company of Uncle Samuel's, Commanded by General Crook, Came riding along the gulches, All armed and ready for war; So I made a bee line for Custer, And soon arrived at this bar. The soldiers came up to our bar, But then it hadn't a name ; And there was a gal with the soldiers They called " Calamity Jane." And while the soldiers were chatting And talking of Injuns and war, A soldier said, " Jane, in your honor, . We'll call this Calamity Bar." And that's how it got its name, pard ; The Calamity ain't so bad: There's fifteen cents to the pan here, And you bet I feel mighty glad. And as for Jane, she's a daisy, She tends to the sick and distressed ; They tell me she comes from Virginny, The bulliest town in the West. xx NOTES. The foregoing are two of the ordinary and heretofore unpublished speci- mens of the "Poet Scout's " extempore work. He possesses the faculty of making verses on any subject as fast as he can talk, and this without prepara- tion or a moment's thought. His poem on the death of Custer, written on Indian Creek, at the base of the Black Hills, when he met Buffalo Bill while on his way to join General Crook's expedition, is pronounced to be one of the best gems of American poetry. So, also, is the poem written on the shooting of Wild Bill, at Deadwood, last summer. There is a beauty and a fascination about the writing of this wild, uncultivated frontiersman which cannot fail to make its impression. He has won his way to popularity wherever he has gone, and to-morrow night he will make himself known to the people of Kansas City. He is modest, retiring and prepossessing, and will no doubt be favorably received here. SKETCHES AND INCIDENTS. The Poet Scout. BUFFALO BILL'S INDIANS. ~\ 1 THILE Buffalo Bill and myself were playing a star en- * gagement at the Bush Street Theatre, in San Francisco, we utilized the " supers " of the theatre for the material with which to make our prairie savages. There being an insufficiency of "supers," Bill sent me on a little scout to find some more Indians. I soon returned with half a dozen robust Hoodlums, with faces already made up for the war-path. For the ordinary "super," the blood-thirsty scenes enacted behind the foot-lights have scarcely even the charm of novelty, and he goes through his part utterly ignoring enthusiasm or emotion, and paying strict at- tention only to mechanical effects. With these amateurs, how- ever, the case was different. The pleasure of being slaughtered by B. B. had an irresistible fascination for them, and when our season closed in '"Frisco," the new recruits felt that the grandest epoch in their existence was over. They asked our agent if they were going along with the company, and on receiving a reply in the negative, the utmost consternation prevailed among them. A number of them came to Bill and me, and begged to be taken to Sacramento, anyhow, and said one : " We will pay our own traveling expenses from there through the circuit." We finally paid their fares to Sacramento, and after the close of our engagement there they quickly disappeared. When we reached Virginia City no "supers" were to be seen; but on opening the 2X 24 THE POET SCOUT. wardrobe trunk, we found that several Indian suits were missing, and came to the conclusion that the " supers " had stolen the missing toggery, and started on the war-path on their own account. About three o'clock that afternoon, however, a num- ber of them turned up, carrying their wardrobe under their arms. They told their experience as follows : " When we got through in Sacramento, Ave didn't know what the mischief to do next. Finally we went into the theatre and snaffed our wardrobes, then into an old shed, dressed up in our togs, and painted our faces. You see, Indians are allowed to ride free on all the roads; so we got on the back platform, and concluded we could fake it through somehow. The conductor never bothered us till we struck Reno, when Scotty, the dog-gone fool, gave us dead away tryin' to spout Shakespeare. When he said, 'Now is the win- ter of our discontent made glorious summer' Superinten- dent Yerington, who was passing along the platform, heard the blasted fool, and dropped on the whole racket. He called a couple of brakemen, and told 'em we war white men, and they fired us off. We commenced to jabber Choctaw and Piute, but it wouldn't work worth a cent. Then we slid around and got into a freight car, but they dropped on that, and fired us again. Then we walked up from Reno — and here we are." "Yes; here we are," said Scotty, " an' if we don't eat till after the show, we're liable to drop without bein' shot." Bill ordered some rations, and the noble warriors went through their war- dance that night on a full stomach. )> SOUR MASH, AND HOW THE BOYS USED IT. A TRUE TALE. TN July, 1876, while at Omaha with some quartz from the Black Hills, I received a telegram from the Hon. William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill). The telegram was in these words : Head-Quarters Fifth U. S. Cavalry (in the Field). Jack — Have you heard of the death of our brave Custer ? Buffalo Bill. My poem written on that day and sent to Bill, entitled " Custer's Death," was my answer. I went from there to Chicago, where I was carefully interviewed by the reporter of the Times, after which Lieutenant-General Phil Sheridan sent for me for the purpose of learning something of the Black Hills, and to see whether his maps were correct. Upon seeing my specimens of quartz the General remarked: " Captain, this is the first substantial evidence I have seen of gold-bearing quartz in the Black Hills." While at the General's head-quarters I received another tele- gram from Cody, asking me to join him at once, and help avenge the death of our noble leader. I showed General Sheridan the telegram, when he asked, " Will you go ?" I answered in the affirmative, and the General very kindly gave me a letter to that other brave soldier and dashing cavalry leader, General Wes- ley Merritt. I started at once for the front. Arriving at Chey- 2 5 26 THE POET SCOUT. enne, I discovered that the Fifth Cavalry had left Fort Laramie four days before. Superintendent Clark, of the U. P. R. R., furnished me free transportation for self and horse to Medicine Bow, which would bring me within ninety miles of Fort Fetter- man, to which the Fifth had gone. Before starting, however, Mr. Jones, the proprietor of the Jones House, in Cheyenne, said to me : " Jack, will you do me a small favor? " " Certainly," said I. "I want you," said he, " to carry a small parcel to Buffalo Bill." " With pleasure," said I. " What is it ? " "Sour Mash" said Jones ; with a peculiar twinkle of his left eye. I said no more, fearing to betray my ignorance, for I must con- fess I was ignorant, just then, of what he meant by " Sour Mash.' 1 '' However, I was not long in ignorance, for in a few moments Jones produced from behind the counter an oval-shaped quart bottle, with the following inscription nicely lettered : To Buffalo Bill, From Jones, R. R. House. Politeness Capt. Jack. After getting my pony on board the train, I bid farewell to Jones and the boys who came to see me off, and soon reached Medicine Bow, where, after feeding the pony and getting on the outside of a good square meal myself, I saddled up and SOUR MASH. 27 started to ride ninety miles. I reached Fetterman at 2 o'clock next morning, having left Medicine Bow about 1 P. M. the day- previous. I reported to the officer of the day, a young stripling of a lieutenant, who put on more style than the Commander- in-Chief. He gave me a corner in the barracks, and about 7 o'clock I woke up as fresh as a daisy, and reported to Captain Coats, commanding. In the meantime I learned with regret that Bill and the old Fifth had left Fetterman three days before. I immediately telegraphed General Sheridan (according to promise) of my arrival, so that if there were any dispatches I was ready to carry them to General Crook, in the Big Horn. Next day after my arrival, a courier, named Graves, came in from Goose Creek with dispatches, and informed me of his intention to return in company with me. After receiving fresh horses, and an extra horse to pack the mail, we started, each with a canteen of water, which had to last us ninety miles, from the Platte to the Powder River. The weather was intensely warm, and before we got half way my canteen was empty. Several times Graves offered me a sup from his, but I declined, saying I was not very dry. Yet, at the same time, I lied liked a trooper — my mouth and throat were fairly parched. So, by and by, I said to Graves : "Pard, I'll just take a mouthful of your water." " No ye won't," said he; " she's empty." I could stand it no longer. So the next lake of clear v/ater I came to, I dismounted and half filled the canteen. I took a good pull out of it, but it was fearful — almost pure alkali. I took two or three tastes of it after that, and when we reached the Powder River I went for a dose of the pure mountain water, but was almost immediately attacked with cramps in my stomach, which drew me up like an Indian bow. Graves had gone off to reconnoitre, and see if there were any fresh Indian signs, and there I lay, rolling and snorting like a buffalo bull with the nightmare. Finally Graves came up, and, although I would not care to have seen my own face in a looking-glass, his was not 28 THE POET SCOUT. less comical. He stood for a moment, with his mouth half open, looking at me; then suddenly, as if something had struck him, he remarked : " Well, may I be chawed up. by a catermount, if we ain't in a nice box." "Yes," said I, trying to be funny. "Jack in the Box." "What did I tell ye?" said Graves; "why, that water ye drank would tangle the inards of a painter. Wait a bit — I'll fix ye," and so saying he went for my saddle-bag, and jerking out the " Sour Mash " was about to pull the cork. " Hold on," said I ; " don't you open that bottle. That was given me to take to Buffalo Bill; and even if it was my own or yours, I would just as soon pass in my checks right here as touch one drop." " You're a dog-gone fool, Jack; but I reckon as how I kin fix ye yet;" and going to his overcoat he took from the breast pocket a small parcel and opened it, producing a small bottle of Jamaica Ginger. "Now, Graves," said I, "you've struck it," and in less time than it takes to tell it I had nearly two teaspoonfuls skirmishing with the alkali, and in a few moments I felt much relief. " Now, Jack," said the old miner, " do ye know what are up ? Not two hours ago fifty Sioux warriors passed this spot, and their trail is leadin' down stream." "Good! I'm glad of that!" "Why?" asked Graves. " Because if they are going down stream at this point they are coming from the Big Horn; while if they were going up, we might have had very disagreeable company." " That's a fack ; but thar may be more on 'em a comin' to meet us." "We have good glasses," said I, " and if their crowd is larger than ours we will spy them first ; if of equal numbers we have no need to fear them." However, we concluded to lay over all day and let our horses feed and rest while we slept in turns. Next morning we pulled SOUR MASH. 29 off our horses' shoes, in order to throw the reds off our trail, by making believe we were Indians, should any of them chance to cross us in the rear. I will not attempt to give the full details of this long ride of over four hundred miles — two men alone on the prairie and in a country teeming with savages. We had to keep ever on the alert for signs of danger. We had to ride day and night while in the open country, for there were no cozy nooks wherein we could hide until we reached Clear Creek. Here we made a camp and rested a whole day, and about day- light next morning passed through old Fort Phil Kearney — (once the scene of a fearful massacre). Next day we camped on Goose Creek, and having passed within five miles of the wagon train, we made a circuit of thirty miles still on the trail. In the meantime we had thrown away overcoats and blankets, retaining nothing but the clothes we wore and a rubber blanket each, except, of course, the "Sou/- Mas//." Arriving at the wagon train we were again disappointed, although glad to get there. General Crook and the whole command had gone two days before with the pack train across the mountains toward the Little Big Horn and the Rosebud. Major Furey made us comfort- able, took charge of mail and dispatches, and remarked : "Well, boys, you've had a tough ride. I suppose you will camp with us until the command returns ? " " No, Major," said I, " I came here to join Buffalo Bill and the Fifth Cavalry, and I shall take their trail this very night, if you will kindly furnish me with a horse." "Yes," said Graves; "and, Major, if it's all the same, I would like to stay with Jack." The Major remonstrated, saying it would be impossible for us to reach the command, as the train was attacked only the night before, and the country was swarming with Indians; and to prove that his fears were well grounded, he would not allow us to take the dispatches for General Crook, which we brought from Fort Fetterman, fearing we should lose our hair and the dis- patches to boot. However, when we did reach the General, he THE POET SCOUT. was not a little displeased at Major Furey's action, when we informed him of our having dispatches for him. But I must hurry on. We left the train about 7 P. M., taking the trail of the command, and in three hours we were inside of a regular horse-shoe of fire. We noticed the fire before we got into it, but, seeing an opening in front, we made good time, expecting to get through, when suddenly the fire came together, and we were almost surrounded. Retreat was impossible, as that would be cut off ere we got back, so we had to take our chances. On we rode, however, while the fire was meeting us with nearly as good time. It was a grand scene. As I have said, we were in a horse-shoe. Fortunately, the wind was not blowing, and until we came close enough to the fire to feel its heat we scarcely felt a breath of wind, save that made by the motion of our horses. Our minds were made up, however, and moving up from the creek called Prairie Dog, we got on to the high ground, where the grass was shorter, and I, having the best horse, full of life and fire, drove the spurs into his flanks, at the same time giving a yell that would put to shame a tribe of Comanches. My old horse Dan, who was a veteran of the Third Cavalry, snorted and plunged a moment, and then dashed forward to meet the flames. Graves followed close in our trail, and in a few moments more we had got fairly into the thick smoke. I had put my hair up under my broad hat, and tied a silk handkerchief around my head, and lowering my head, giving old Dan the reins, and holding on to my rifle and the horn of the saddle, I dashed into the flame and smoke. It was only a few seconds, however, and we found ourselves safe on the other side, with only a little less hair on our horses' limbs. We finally reached Tongue River, and, after crossing the river six or seven times — as it wound snake-like through the valley — we halted where the trail turned toward the mountains. It was 7 A. M., and we concluded to halt and rest all day in the shade of a few thin cottonwoods — very little protection, how- ever, from sun or Indians. That was the longest day I ever SOUR MASH. 31 spent — too hot to sleep, and no shade from the scorching rays of the sun. Finally we again started about 6 P. M., and it was well that we did, for an hour's ride after leaving Tongue River, and on the trail leading to the Custer battle-ground, brought us in sight of an Indian scouting party. Instead of being disap- pointed, we expected to see this party of reds sooner or later, and the sooner the better, as it showed us we were nearing the command. There are always a band of Indians on the trail for the purpose of picking up played-out horses, or anything thrown away by the soldiers, such as old clothes, pots, pans and kettles. Soon as we reached the timber on the Rosebud range, we hugged them closely, and upon reaching the summit, where are some beautiful parks and lakes, we made a circuit, avoiding the In- dians, and, expecting to strike the trail again before morning, about 2 A. M. we found ourselves descending into a little horse- shoe shaped park, surrounded by thick timber. Graves, who said he thought he had been here 'afore, rode a little in advance, and, when in sight of the valley below, halted, and when I came up he remarked : "Jack, we're off the track. This here's the very spot where Reno 'tacked Crazy Horse's village from." There was no alternative. We must go on, and on we went, down that terrible canon where Custer, after a seventy-mile march, led his gallant three hundred, never to return. The night was chilly, the sky murky and threatening a storm. A peculiar feeling crept over me while walking my horse slowly down to that valley — the thought that the bones of Reno's dead were scattered around close by. My mind was busy trying to picture that terrible charge and stubborn fight of Custer and his men, when suddenly in our front began a series of barks or howls, which I at once recognized as the alarm- notes of the coyote. These howls continued for a short time, and then ceased altogether, but only for a moment. Again they broke out a hundred-fold worse. Graves' horse became almost unmanageable. He dismounted, and led him up alongside of old Dan, who kept as cool as a cucumber. By this time we had THE POET SCOUT. reached that part of the Indian village where the main body of Custer's command fell. The night was perfectly hideous with the continued howling of the coyotes. Here I also dismounted, and found bones and skulls on all sides. It seems the dead had been buried hurriedly, and these wolves and coyotes had not much trouble in digging them up. We mounted again, anxious to get out of that valley of death. We crossed over the moun- tain, or Hog Back, and at daylight found ourselves on the head waters of the Rosebud. Here we found splendid shelter from sun and Indians, and, being fatigued, I soon lay down to sleep, leaving Graves on the watch. I had scarcely been asleep half an hour, when I was awakened by a peculiar sound, as if a pig was caught under a gate, and could not go either way. Upon getting up on my elbow, what was my surprise to see my worthy Graves on his back, his arms extended east and west, and his mouth wide open, while that peculiar sound which woke me seemed to rake his nose fore and aft. Of course that settled my sleeping for the present. So, collecting a handful of very dry wood, so as to make as little smoke as possible, I set to work to make a cup of tea. We had no more provisions, except a few hard tack, having finished our bacon the day before. After I had drank my tea Graves woke up, grasped his rifle, which lay at his side, and seeing me putting a stick on the fire, exclaimed, " Dog-gone it! I came near falling asleep." " What time is it, old man ?" said I. "Consarn it, Jack, I thought ye was asleep," said Graves, rubbing his eyes. " So I was, but you woke me up," said I, and pulling out his old clock found he had been asleep two hours and a half. " Well, dog my cats, Jack, I never done that 'afore, but, con- sarn it, I was tuckered out; but I'll just swaller a drop o' that tea and ye can sleep for the rest o' the day." I slept four hours, and we again broke camp, intending to camp no more until we struck the command. We traveled all night, and finally, at 3 A. M., we saw a band of horses. I told SOUR MASH. 33 Graves to stay back while I advanced to make sure it was not an Indian camp. When I had gone about fifty yards I was hailed with the words, "Halt ! who comes there?" "Friends," said I; "couriers from Fetterman." "Advance," said the sentinel. I rode up boldly to where the sentinel stood, and was about to dismount, Graves slowly following, when suddenly over a hundred Indians sat upright, the moon shining full in their faces. I wheeled my horse, drove the spurs into his flanks, and made two or three leaps to the rear, when the sentinel yelled, " What'n hell's the matter with you ?" Hearing no shots fired, I again turned and said : " What outfit is this, anyway ? " " Why, Crook's outfit, of course." Graves, who had also turned to fly with me, laughed and remarked : " By gosh, Jack, them Injuns is the Snakes, with old Wash- akee Crook's scouts." And so it turned out to be. Finding ourselves safe we soon unsaddled, and after a ride of over four hundred miles I was glad to lay down and rest, feeling safe at last. Next morning I was awakened with a knock in the ribs from a moccasin foot, and upon looking up discovered Buffalo Bill. " Come, turn out here and take a good cup of coffee and some way-up beans (Boston style)." After a good hearty frontier greeting, Bill, with his own hands, prepared a breakfast of the best the field afforded — namely, a piece of bacon broiled on the end of a stick, some broken hard tack and a cup of coffee, with some cold beans. After eating, Bill took me around among the officers, and I delivered letters which I stole from the wagon train. I also had letters for Bill and for a number of newspaper correspondents. I reported to General Merritt for duty, and he turned me over to Bill, who was then Chief of Scouts. Bill very kindly allowed me to stay back with the command to rest and get 2 34 THE POET SCOUT. acquainted. The day following my arrival, which was the 8th of August, it rained, while it was cold enough to freeze. Bill and Frank Guard (Crook's guide) had found a camp, and fires were immediately started. I was shivering with the cold, having no coat and only a rubber blanket around my shoulders. Buffalo Bill, General Eugene Carr, commanding the 5th, Lathrop, correspondent of the San Francisco Call, and myself, were messing together. While the fire was blazing and a kettle of water put on to boil, Bill remarked : " Lathrop, old boy, how would a Scotch toddy work now ? " " Don't rouse my feelings, Bill, if you have any regard for my friendship," said Lathrop. " Gentlemen," said I, " for my part, I would sooner have a good strong cup of hot coffee." " Jack," said Bill, "you have never been thar, consequently you don't hanker after the trantler." " But you'd just give a forty-acre farm, if you had it, for a good square drink of Sour Mash" said I, interrupting him ; "but I forgot — I brought you a parcel which was sent you from Cheyenne." " A parcel ? Some socks the missus sent, I suppose ; and yet you threw away your own clothes to carry mine. Well, old boy, whatever it is, I'll whack up with you half and half." " It's a bargain," said I ; " but you are mistaken with regard to the contents of the parcel. However, I claim one-half of it, to dispose of as I see fit," said I, at the same time bringing my saddle-bags to the fire. " What the mischief is it ?" asked Bill. " Guess," said I. " How can I guess ? It must be something nice and useful, to be carried so far." " You'll say it's nice, no doubt," said I. " As regards its use- fulness, you must be the judge." " Why don't you say what it is, then, at once ?" " Can't you guess? " SOUR MASH. 35 "No." " What would you most like to have at this moment ? " "A good big horn of old Bourbon," frankly admitted my old pard. " Good enough ! You've struck it." " Git out — you can't fool me. What ! you carry a bottle of Bourbon four hundred miles ? " " Well, you know, Bill, / don't drink." " I know, and that's why I don't believe you would carry it so far." "And I wouldn't, but I promised a friend I would carry a parcel to you, and I've done it." "Jack, you've worked my feelin's up to such a pitch that if you are foolin', it will go hard with me." I pulled out the bottle in an instant. Bill snatched it while I was about to hold it up to show its color against the sky. "What the mischief are you doing ? " said Bill, concealing the bottle under his arm. " Do you want the whole command to pounce upon it like a pack of wolves ? I never was selfish, Jack, but that's too good to be wasted on the small fish." " But remerhber, Bill, one-half of that belongs to me." " Well, then," said Bill, "it's a pretty safe bet that I work it all." " How about the General ? " said I. "Why, of course, he's of our family." " Very well," said I; "my share goes to Lathrop and the General." And in less time than it takes to tell it, three tin cups held three of the largest punches that were ever stowed away. Lathrop swore that never in his life had he tasted anything that came so near his idea of the tipple of the gods, and a little later he sang with wonderful effect the famous camp song, " The Revelry of the Dying," each verse ending — " Here's a health to the dead already, And hurrah for the next that dies." 36 THE POET SCOUT. This song gained for Mr. L. the appellation of "The Death Rattler." He was the life of the camp. The soldiers and scouts who gathered around the camp-fire that evening thought our crowd were, indeed, a merry one, and one of the boys remarked that if he didn't know that there' was not a drop of " trantler " within hundreds of miles, he would think that Bill and Lathrop were a " leetle sot-up. " I, of course, looked wise, and sang an impromptu song, with a " Sour Mash " chorus. SONGS OF THE MOUNTAIN, THE MINING CAMP, AND THE PRAIRIE. THE SCOUT'S REQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE. 'HPWAS a moonlight night, just a year ago, -*- As we sat and lay by the old camp fire. " Come fill up yer pipes," said Muggins, the scout, " And draw yoursel's up just a little nigher, " An' I'll tell ye a story (the gospel truth), An' I reckon I couldn't lie to-night ; For somehow I feel as if this poor cuss ' Wor goin' ter git left in to-morror's fight. '' An' pards if I do — I see ye smile, But I ar' in earnest, you bet yer life, Nor I arn't afeard to pass in my checks; But, pards, I'm a thinkin' of home and wife. " I left the old cabin — now two weeks ago ; My poor wife's face wor a picter of sorror. ' Muggins,' said she, 'if ye get killed, Then God ' — " but, no matter, I go to-morror." " Ye know me, boys, now look ye here, Don't tell me I mus'nt go in with you ! I never did weaken in all my life, An' to-morrow I'll lead them boys in blue. " An' if, when the evenin' sun goes down, This time to-morror ye find I'm dead, I want ye to tell me now, right here, Ye won't see my little ones want for bread. 39 MUGGINS TAYLOR, THE SCOUT. THE SCOUT'S REQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE. 41 " No ! thank God ! but how about Jim ? » Now, there ar' a boy as is like his dad, An' ' Bat.' if ye say that you'll tend ter him, Why dyin' to-morrow won't be so bad. " Good enough ; now listen : a year ago I started out on a trip for fur ; And while I war gone, ther' came a cuss, As proved himself a cowardly cur. " His name war Brannan, some years ago, But he changed it since for sufficient cause. He deserted his men when he wore the blue, An' then went a buckin' agin the laws. " That skunk tried to ruin my honest wife. Since then he has steered away from my trail. Now, pards, I don't tell ye ter take his life, But keep yer eyes skinned if he's outen jail." Next eve, as the sun was going down, And firing had ceased along the line; Old Muggins was humming that little song Of " Home, Sweet Home," in the bright sunshine, When zip came a bullet, and Muggins fell. " Battees," he said, " Bat. don't forget, My wife — my Annie — my blue-eyed Mag, An' Jimmie — our Jimmie — his father's pet." We covered him up with the mossy sod; Renewed our promise above his grave ; Left him alone — alone with his God — Muggins, the scout, and Muggins, the brave. * THE MINER'S HOME. T T is not a castle with towering walls, With marble floor and stately halls, With lovely walks and grand old trees, Nodding and bending in the breeze. No ; his home is an humble cot, Perched perchance on the mountain top, With tunnels beneath, where the iron horse Thunders along on his fiery course. Fair Virginia ! above the hill Where miners dig with pick and drill, Where honest toilers seek to rest Their weary bones upon thy breast. A loving wife to make one glad, A babe to kiss the miner lad — With this the miner need not roam If he's got a cottage and love at home. Mine, though far away from here, My cabin home is ever dear. Bright memories haunt me every day Of that cabin where I often lay, And dreamed of eyes of heavenly blue — A maiden young and fair and true ; Of brighter days, and toil's reward, A maiden's love for a mountain bard. 42 THE MINER'S HOME. 43 Up the mountain, down the glen, Each eve I see these hardy men ; With axe and shovel, pick and drill, They toil all day with a hearty will. And when at e'en their toil is o'er, They hasten home to the open door Of the little cot ; though shaggy and grim, There's happiness there and love within. Though the rooms within are low and small, There's whitewash on the old gray wall; The table with its crockery, too, Is glistening like the morning dew. While all seem happy in the cot, The children, sporting on the lot, Are merry as a marriage bell, And mother whispers, " All is well." And now good-bye — I must away, My time is up. Yet, while I say Good-bye, I'll wish, where'er I roam, That God will bless The Miner s Home. Virginia City, June 26, 1877. *->^i^fe< While squar' upon the table sot a dish o' Buffalo Chips. The Gener'l looked confounded, an' he also looked for White, But Jonathin he reckon 'd it war better he should lite ; So he skinned across the prairy, cos, ye see, he didn't mind A chippin any longer while the Gener'l saw the blind, BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 127 Fur the Gener'l would a-raised him, if he'-d jist held up his hand, But he thought he wouldn't see him, cos he didn't hev the sand, An' he rode as fast — aye, faster, than the Gener'l did that day, Like lightnin' down from Winchester, some twenty miles away. Well, White he had no cabin, an' no home ter call his own, So Buffaler Bill he took him an' shared with him his home. An' how he loved Bill Cody ! By gosh ! it war a sight Ter see him watch his shadder an' foller him at night, Cos Bill war kinder hated by a cussed gang o' thieves As carried pistols in thar belts and bowies in thar sleeves ; An' Chips he never left him for fear he'd get a pill, Nor would he think it moughty hard to die for Buffalo Bill. We us'ter mess together — that ar' Chips an' Bill an' me ; An' ye oughter watch his movements; it would do ye good ter see How he us'ter cook them wittles, an' gather lots o' greens To mix up with the juicy pork, an' them unruly beans. An' one cold, chilly mornin' he bought a lot o' corn, An' a little flask o' likker as cost fifty cents a horn. Tho' forty yards war nowhar, it war finished soon, ye bet ; But, friends, \ promised someone, and I'm strong teetotal yet. It war twenty-fourth o' August, in the last Centennial year. We bid farewell to Cody an' gave a hearty cheer ; An' Chips said, lookin' after : " I may never see him more, Nor meet him in his cabin as I us'ter do of yore, Whar I us'ter take his babies and buy each one a toy, An' play with them ar' younkers jist like a great big boy." An' when the cold lead struck him — " Jack, boy," said he, " You tell — " He stopped, then said : " Bless Cody, the babies — all — farewell." ■*^& -H». DEATH OF BUFFALO CHIPS AT SLIM BUTTES. BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 129 He's sleepin' in the mountains, near a little runnin' brook, Thar's not a soul to see him, 'cept the angels take a look, Or a butterfly may linger on his grave at early morn — No mortal eye may see it till old Gabriel toots his horn ; For we laid him 'neath the foot trail that the Sioux might never know, h% they'd dig him up and scalp him if they had the slightest show ; An' we marched two thousand footmen and horsemen o'er his breast — Without a stone to mark the spot, we left the scout to rest. An' then I sent a telegraph and tol' Bill he war dead ; I'll give in full his answer', an' this war what he said : " Poor White, he war my truest friend. My wife and children, too, Have wept as if he war our own. An', Jack, I ask of you To write a little verse for us in mem'ry o' poor White." So that war Cody's telegraph, an' that is why I write ; But los'ee, my book-larnin' ar' shaky for a bard — I can't jist do him justice, but Heaven holds his reward. %1F THE FIRST THAT DIED. About 8 o'clock one evening, in the Winter of 1875, while I was washing the dishes after supper in my cabin, two travelers entered, hungry, weary and footsore. After preparing supper, and giving them a warm corner by the glowing log fire, they told the following story: The elder man, John A. Byers, formerly Captain of a company in a Maryland regiment, started from Sioux City for the Hills, and was joined next day by his companion, Char- ley — a boy about eighteen years of age. They had traveled five hundred miles, carrying their provisions and blankets, and, after escaping a hundred dangers, reached Custer City almost exhausted. They stayed at my cabin for nearly a week, when Byers went to Deadwood. Charley remained and went to work building himself a shelter. In company with another boy they dug a hole in the ground, about two feet and a half deep, and then car- ried poles on their shoulders with which they made a roof, making their dug- out about three logs high all round. After covering the roof with boughs they spaded about two feet of clay on the top. Two nights after, the roof broke through, killing Charley outright, and nearly killing his companion. The saddest point about this affecting incident was, that no letters, papers, or even the slightest clue to his home or friends could be found; all that we knew was that he had walked all the way from Sioux City to the Black Hills to die and start a graveyard. On that day, while sitting on the green beside his demolished cabin, I wrote these lines : T300R Charley braved the wintry storms, And footed it all the way ; And now he is a bleeding corpse — He died at dawn to-day. His is the old, old story — He saw bright prospects here ; He left his home, his friends and all — Perhaps a mother dear. If so, God pity that mother, Perhaps alone and poor, THE FIRST THAT DIED. 131 When some one breaks the blighting news Her heart will break I'm sure. To think she never, never more Will clasp him to her breast ; Among the peaks in Custer Park Poor Charley now must rest. Comrades here in the golden land Will drop a silent tear For those poor Charley left behind — A sister or mother dear. Perhaps some blue-eyed little girl, With sunshine on her brow, Is down upon her bended knees And praying for him now. Down in the glade beside the brook Our boy shall sleep to-morrow; His weary march of life is o'er, Now free from care and sorrow. And while wc think of home, and love, And better days in store, We humbly pray to Him above, And bow to Heaven once more. OUR "JACK." IN MEMORIAM. Lines written on the death of John Bilsland, who was killed by a slide of snow while attempting to get it off the shaft house on Burns' Creek, Cariboo, March 13th, 1S79. AND still they go, the very best, Cut down in their youth and bloom. There's something amiss in this region of ours, I reckon we must have offended the powers, For the Lord is culling our favorite flowers, And another is laid in the tomb; Another is laid 'neath the sod to rest — Killed before life had its noon. I have seen, sometimes, on the battlefield, The pride of our company fall, But I never felt as I did that day When they told me that Jack had passed away — Jack who was always happy and gay, And one who would spend his all. Prospecting deep, taking chances of yield, He would stand with his boys or fall. Escaping the perils of land and sea, Unharmed for many a year, And standing now by the shaft-house door, As oft he stood in the days of yore ; Then up the ladder, on roof once more, A man who knew no fear. Then down with the cruel snow went he — No friend, no comrade near. 132 Om "JACK." 133 A good yet peculiar man was Jack, And a thoroughbred mountaineer; No matter what hurt, he would never squeal — His name was honor, and true as steel — And his comrades say he could build a wheel You could turn with a single tear; You smile — but I reckon I'm on the track, Which to look at his work would appear. One characteristic I want to note, Though he had no child of his own, How the children all to Jack would come And say : " Uncle Jat, has oou dot some dum ?" " No, but you bet I'll get you some." And his eyes with rapture shone, And voice like a chime of bells afloat, With music in each tone. The best mechanic, without a doubt (And I believe I can see it now), Perhaps they have struck it rich up there; And hunting in vain, they could not scare A man who could build a wheel to compare With Jack. So, to show them how, The angel of death put his light right out, And I reckon he's there with them now. All I can say, I must wish him well, If he's taken some heavenly stock For a prospect there on the heavenly shore, Is better than millions of gold in store. And they say there are chances for millions more, Who can find (if they try) the bed rock — That rock of ages, which yields so well, And Christ is the key to the lock. March 27th, 1879. MY IDEAS. While in Barkerville, B. C, a certain California expert condemned the quartz, and said we had no ledges. I wrote the following verses, which I recited to the miners at the Theatre Royal amid great applause. "DARKER, I love thy rustic hills, I love thy streams and bowers ; I've lingered near thy rippling rills, And gathered sweetest flowers ; And down thy wondrous valleys, And up -each snow-clad peak, I've wandered where the roses Of nature's grandeur speak. Oh ! where in God's creation, Can we poor people go, And find a better prospect, Than these our croppings show ? And tell me, oh ! ye experts, From whence the millions come, That rolled out in the sluices, Since Barker got its name? And if there are no ledges. In this little world of ours, Go cast aside your sledges, And pluck your budding flowers. Go draw your stakes and burn them, And cache your mining tools, And tell the whole creation That you're a set of fools. J34 MY IDEAS. 135 And then, when you have vanished, Some kid-gloved millionaire Will step into your country And call it wondrous fair. And ere your hair is silvered, The news will come to you : " The world has nothing richer Than the mines of Cariboo." THE OLD MINER. TO THE BOYS OF CARIBOO. 'S a miner, I ar', an' a good un. It's nigh onto forty year Since first I landed at Frisco, A youngster — with lots o' good cheer; I waltzed right inter the placer An' struck it — you bet yer boots. But I dropped it a buckin' the tiger, Along with some other galoots. But that didn't dampen my ardor. Ye see I war hearty an' strong, An' I know'd by exertin' my muscle, I'd fetch it agin afore long ; So back to the diggin's I traveled, But somehow about that time There war heaps of the boys sick with fever, While I took ague in mine. Wall, I thinned right down to a wafer, My clothes war too big for my chest, I could made a respectable great coat By jist tuckin' sleeves in my vest ; But the diggin's war very onhealthy, An' so for a permanent cure I struck for high ground on the mountains For pastures, not greener, but newer. 136 THE OLD MINER. 137 Now here's where I thought that I struck it, This time it war quartz as I found, An' so I kept pokin' an' gaddin' Till one day a stranger come round, An' told me as how he war huntin A permanent place to reside ; An' so I sez, " Here ar' my fortin, And plenty for you, pard, beside." He stayed with me two weeks, then wilted ; Said he, pard, I've bin thar afore, It 'taint no use workin' for nothin', An' for grub we war nigh run ashore ; So he left me ; an' bout a week after Another corned joggin' along With plenty o' grub. So I sold out ; He bought me for — well, just a song. Now I never did swar, 'taint my nater, But Lord, when I heerd o' their game, I reckin the air smelt o' brimstone — Wall, swarin ar' too mild a name. This rooster (who'd bin thar afore, mind) War an expert from 'Frisco, ye see ; So he skinned out, and sent his stool pidgeon To work that bonanza for me. Since then I've been down on these experts, Like him as has been here with you, He corned like the rest do from 'Frisco, An' hark ye — condemned Cariboo. Now, pards, I's an old veteran miner, My ha'rs have grown gray in the biz, Don't go a cent on this expert, My 'pinion '11 stand agin his. ODE TO CARIBOO FRIENDS. A T last I must leave you, dear home in the mountains, At last last say farewell to your dear Cariboo ! No longer to sip from its bright pearly fountains The cool draught of water distilled from the dew. Oh, Barker, fair village, adown by the brook side, Where millions have sprang from thy watery breast, Fear not for thy future, fair queen of the mountains, For millions and millions are still 'neath each crest. I feel it, believe it, God knows I speak truly, v And would that some others might speak as they believe ; But when experts grow zealous, O, Lord, how unruly ! And in their excitement don't care to deceive. But Time is a worker, much better than experts, Though slowly, yet surely, he makes all things right ; And so when some experts are dead and forgotten. Your dear Cariboo will be prosperous and bright. Farewell, dear old comrades, you old forty-niners, God bless you, dear boys, till I meet you again ! Which will be ere the snowflakes have covered your cabins, So sure as the sunshine which follows the rain. Leave you for ever ? How could you believe it — Leave all the home I have got in this world ? No! and returning I never will leave it Till justice is done and the truth is unfurled. Barkerville, July 20th, 1878. 133 TO CHARLEY. MV DEAR OLD PARD. ONELY to-night in my little log cabin, I am thinking of you and the days long ago, When together we sat on the peak of old Harney, Drinking the grandeur of nature below. True, it was grand, and well I remember The rapture that beamed in your bright sunny eyes As you looked through the glass tow'rd the valley of Custer, With her thousands of peaks towering up to the skies. Then did we picture the great Eastern cities, Comparing the grandeur of nature and art, While you said — no art can compare with this picture ; And I acquiesced from the depths of my heart, For e'en when a boy I loved the wild mountains, The green flowery valleys, the laughter of rills ; And often in fancy and dreamland 1 wander, Back to my boyhood amongst the wild hills. My comrades, the brave pioneers of the mountains, Loved their young chieftain, and I loved him too ; The reason was fully explained at your cabin, The day that I borrowed that bronco* from you. * Charley W. was the special correspondent of the Kansas City Times for the Black Hills. When Charley first made my acquaintance I was sitting astride of a half-cut log on my half-built cabin. We had many hunts together, and, on one occasion, the Indi-'" ans got our whole camp outfit, together with my saddle, field-glasses, and my saddle- bags, containing my scrap-book, which contained copies of scraps I had saved for over six years. One morning the Indians ran off with sixteen head of horses, and my white charger among the rest. I rushed down to Charley's tent, and he gave me his bronco to go after the reds. Twelve of our boys started, and we returned next day with eight of the stolen horses, which the Indians were forced to drop. T39 — *^>*: harney's peak from Gordon's stockade. TO CHARLEY And when we returned from the chase the next morning, Your welcoming shout, and your honest embrace, Was more to me then than the laurels of glory, Won by the proudest of all Adam's race. Oh ! what a life — away from temptation — Away from the snares of life's busy throng, Singing in chorus those odes of the woodland In notes that were tuned by the mocking-bird's song. In ignorant bliss, and oh! how much better Than knowledge that's only acquired to deceive, By hypocrites robbing the widow and orphan, And crimes that are almost too vile to believe. And yet how I yearned for the knowledge you gave me — For you were the first who had taken my hand — You were the first to encourage me onward, And picture my future in language most grand ; And since then my verses, the fruit of my nature, These unpolished roughs, the impulse of my heart, Have found some admirers e'en amongst critics Well versed in literature, science and art. Thus while the bright star of hope is before me I shall continue to work with a will ; Determined to scale all the heights of misfortune, And slowly creep over adversity's hill. Then, my dear friend, when the height of ambition Is mine — and way up on the summit I stand — I shall think of the comrade who first gave me courage — Who gave me new life and a brother's right hand. In the Mountains, February 28, 1879. VIEW NEAR CUSTER CITY. CUSTER. TO GENERAL WESLEY MERRITT, CUSTER'S FRIEND AND COMRADE. " No spot on the American Continent," says Major Newsom, in his Black Hills Sketches, " is so grand and beautiful as Custer. Lying peacefully in a basin, French Creek winding through it, and the ground gently ascend- ing even to the apex of Harney's Peak, the scene is lovely beyond descrip- tion. In front of the city a high mountain rears its head ; just outside of the 142 CUSTER. 143 line of houses a bluff surrounds the place in a semi-circle, and from this bluff no grander view ever fell upon the vision of man. Talk about scenery in Europe! It is tame in comparison with that about Custer. Gazing out from this point, no sight could be more enchanting. Here at our feet is the I city, sO clean and regular. Yonder is an undulating plain, as charming as 1 the graceful figure of a woman; on our left winds the road ; on our right, swelling knolls, hillocks, valleys, a'hd just beyond, grand, natural avenues, three hundred feet wide, on either side of which are uplifts of rocks, and on the top of which are trees. Further on are parks, grottos, rills, vales, streams, valleys, mountains, and every element necessary to make a most imposing scene. These avenues are lined with trees, and the small road which winds through them reminds one of the magnificent domain of an English lord rather than nature's handiwork. An artificial park of this character would cost at least ten million dollars." ""P HERE'S a spot in the woodland My heart longs to see, Where streamlets are dancing With laughter and glee ; Where the sweet daffodil And the daisies are seen, And the deer loves to sport On its mantle of green. CHORUS. In the valley of Custer, The park with its cluster Of little log cabins spread out on the green. 'Tis the valley of Custer, Where oft we did muster, And drank to the brave from the soldier's canteen. Oh, the flower of that valley, Whose bright name it bears, Now sleeps near the river Away from life's cares. [ 44 THE POET SCOUT. But still there's a spot Holds his mem'ry most dear, The heart of each comrade — Each brave pioneer. Chorus — In the valley of Custer, etc. The pine trees are sighing On hill-tops around. We hear not his voice, Nor the sweet bugle sound. Our tears wet the sod On that terrible morn, When God called the roll On the " Little Big Horn." Chorus — In the valley of Custer, etc. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND SONGS. THE PICNIC BY THE BROOK. SONG AND DANCE. Written for Miss Nellie McHenry, of Saulsbury's Troubadours. HAVE wandered o'er the prairie When the roses were in bloom ; I have listened to the streamlets In the cheery month of June ; While the mocking-birds were singing I have listened in the dell, But nothing e'er cheered me Like the voice of little Nell. chorus For she's sweeter than the lilies by the brook, And her voice is like the streamlets in the dell — It echoes back from every little nook, And the stars are not so bright as little Nell. By the brook she sang so sweetly That my heart was all aglow, And then she danced so neatly, With her light fantastic toe, Can you wonder I was captured ? But I fear it's wrong to tell How I enjoyed that picnic • By the brook with little Nell. Chorus — For she's sweeter, etc. i47 148 THE POET SCOUT. She's as pretty as a picture, And her heart is full of glee, And how my heart was beating, When she looked and smiled on me. But, indeed, I'll never whisper, How in love with her I fell; For I hear she's got her lover, This bewitching little Nell, Chorus — For she's sweeter, etc. Yet, no matter where I wander, Over prairie, land or sea, The rippling of the waters Will repeat her songs to me. Tho' she leaves for far Australia, I shall always wish her well — Good-bye to brookside picnics, And the voice of little Nell. Chorus— For she's sweeter, etc. BIRDS OF THE HUDSON BAY. ~P7 VERY day when I open the door ■^ Of my little cabin, I see before Two little birds — a happy pair, Sitting, and cooing, and twittering there- Sitting and waiting, perched on a bough, 149 *5° THE POET SCOUT. And never afraid of me — somehow Waiting to see the door open wide ; Then in a moment, close to my side, They come and chirrup, but never sing- Chirrup for crumbs, waiting for spring — Spring that will come, melting the snow, Then my pets will leave me* and go Off to the meadows, happy and gay, Beautiful birds of the Hudson Bay. * Hudson Bay birds (natives of British Columbia). LINES TO COLONEL J. G. FAIR. MY FRIEND. D (EAR friend, I have a word to say to you, Something to tell ; perhaps you never knew Half my distress, the shock of Fortune's frown, That bore me down to earth, and kept me down, Till you, with generous heart, made clear the way ; Gave hope where hope was dead — a sunny ray Dispersed the clouds that overhung my sky, And made my crutches to the four winds fly. Oh ! sir, had I a heart of stone, Instead of flesh and blood, I'd gladly own That you have made of me this very day A man, but in a different way From kicks and frowns (by which some men are made), By starting me a little up the grade. " Now help yourself 7" I thank you from my heart For those last words, because they form a part Of this new life — and make my bosom thrill — A beacon light to guide me up life's hill. Once there, upon the summit of its brow, My heart will speak as it is speaking now ; From out its greatest depths will breathe a name That made me in my joy forget that I was lame. Then — Heaven helping — every act of mine Will prove my gratefulness for one of thine. So let me live that you may proudly say, I was his friend in need, and am to-day. San Francisco, September, 1879. I5 1 MY OWN MOUNTAIN TREE. Written on the back of a photograph, under a palm tree, in Los Angeles, California. T NDER a palm tree reclining, ^ Away from the turmoil and strife, The sun in his glory is shining — All nature seems grafted with life ; The birds sing as sweetly above me, So happy are they in their glee ; But give me the dear friends who love me, And birds on my own mountain tree. 152 LINES ON THE BABY BOY. WRITTEN IN A YOUNG MOTHER'S ALBUM. IKE budding rose in early Spring, He bursts from out the snowy sheets- His mother's pride, his father's joy, Their ears with baby music greets. Oh ! may thy future, baby boy, Be cloudless, and thy pilgrim way All sunny beams, and peace and joy, Until thy hair with age is gray. i53 THOSE EYES. WRITTEN IN CARIBOO, B. C, ON LOOKING AT THE PHOTO. OF AN OLD SWEETHEART. \\ /"E meet as strangers now. Those eyes — Those dreamy eyes — whose love light shone On me like sunbeams from the skies, And gazed so fondly in mine own, No more have warmth, love, light, no more For me, as in the days of yore. Those witching eyes of heavenly blue, Beneath long silken lashes dreaming, While far from her in Cariboo I oft have tried to solve their meaning ; While something whispers as I sigh — Old boy, those flames were all a lie. GOOD-BYE. To one who had been very kind to me, and watched by my bedside night and day until convalescent, after a severe wound, f~* OOD-BYE, my darling, since you must away ^^^ To other scenes, and other hearts to greet you ; With me I could not longer ask you stay, Besides, my dear, I know not how to treat you. You and I have led a different life — You among the best and most refined, While I afloat upon a sea of strife With vulgar men — the roughest of mankind. And yet, this heart that beats alone for thee — This heart that learned to love blue eyes so well — Is just as tender as a child's could be, And you can make it heaven for me-ah! well. Oh ! darling, you can never know. God knows The feelings of a heart so nearly broken. And you, at times, as cold as mountain snow, With not one word of love — one little token. If I, deep in my heart, could feel That you were mine — and mine alone — for life, That you would, trusting to my strong arms, steal, And some day let me call you little wife. Oh, God ! the thought most drives me mad, indeed ! And why ? Your actions merit not the thought, For now you're almost anxious to be freed E'en from my sight — and will I be forgot? i55 *56 THE POET SCOUT. If so, then say the word. Do say You do not love me, for suspense is pain ; Tell me, darling, ere you go away, If I have loved my blue-eyed girl in vain ? If so, 'tis better, dear, for you and me — Better if the truth to me you tell — Better, though it breaks one heart, that we Should meet no more — but say a last farewell ! ©— S UNDER THE SOD. TO J. P. LINES ON THE DEATH OF EDWIN L. JONES. T T NDER the sod he is sleeping to-day, Close by the sea-girdled shore — Under the sod and the dew and the clay, We can look on his face never more. Jovial, kind-hearted, good-natured and free — In peace let him sleep 'neath the shade of the tree In the land that he loved. 157 15S THE POET SCOUT. Under the sod they have laid him to rest, The lover of right and the hater of wrong ; As honest a man as ever God blest, His love for a friend everlasting and strong. And if for the wise and the good there is rest, Then Edwin is surely at home with the blest, For the heavenly gates were ajar. Under the sod near the murmuring sea, So far from the home of his childhood ; So far from the cabin and old mountain tree, Where he sported with Sam in the wildwood. His trials are over, his good deeds are done, His battles are fought and the victory is won, And Edwin has gone to his God. vYy5 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING. TO MRS. N. HP WO fond hearts forever parted, One forever broken-hearted, Left to weep and mourn and sigh, Wishing but for death to die — i59 160 THE POET SCOUT. To die — to rest beneath the sod, To join her husband and her God — To live in happiness and love, And rest in peace with Him above. Oh ! Thou who notes each sparrow's fall, Whose careful eye looks overall, Look down on this poor broken heart — An angel send to take her part, To soothe her soul and dry her tears, To heal the wound and calm her fears. Grieve not for him now cold and chill, But think of those who love thee still. Let son and daughter dry thy tears, And comfort thy declining years. There's balm in Gilead, so they tell — The angels whisper, " All is well." Cariboo, B. C, March i, 1S79. *H^^fe*^-** AT LAST! LINES ON THE DEATH OF EDWIN ADAMS, THE ACTOR. A T last the ship has come To carry good Edwin home. " How long, oh Lord?" he murmured, Like Enoch, when alone. His beacon light still burning, He gazed far out to sea — At last ! O, Lord ! good Edwin Has sailed along with Thee. At last Thy will be done, Not mine," good Edwin said ; '' Farewell ! my wife — my friends ! ' The man we loved is dead, We bow to Heaven's will — And Edwin now is free ; At last his spirit hovers Around the throne with Thee, ir 161 l62 THE POET SCOUT. At last the book of life is closed — His voice is heard no more ; We cannot clasp his honest hand As in the days of yore. He waited long with patience The snowy sails to see — At last ! O, Lord ! good Edwin Has sailed along with Thee. At last the ship is anchored, And yet I know not where; But with our jovial Edwin There's sunshine always there. The great unknown hereafter I do not understand ; But believe dear Edwin Adams Is near to God's Right Hand. JACK CRAWFORD. The following pretty lines appeared in the Oakland Tidal Wave, of Feb- ruary 2, 1878, and, as the author is unknown to me, I take this opportunity of thanking him or her, and also giving these lines a place in my book, for their sentiments have already found a corner in my heart. "LTERE'S a tribute of friendship, Jack Crawford, Though bare of the polish of art — An unworthy praise, but 'tis offered From out of the depths of a heart. To a gentleman born, and born poet, Whom poets can best understand, The crudest bouquet, but I throw it As free as a kiss from the hand. For 'tis grand in a brother so gifted With beauty and power in song, To stand with his voice and hands lifted, And bravely do battle with wrong. As justice and virtue's defender, And friend to the poor and oppressed, By millionaires whirling in splendor — Yes, then, 'tis a princely bequest. What good you will do, you'll have done it Through strength of your innocent songs ; And from the bright dream, when you've won it, Will fall where it justly belongs. 163 THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. A PARODY. TO THE TOILING MILLIONS. The following poem was recited at Pacific Hall, on the 13th of September, 1877, on the occasion of the benefit for the Soldiers' Widows' and Orphans' Relief Fund : /^\NCE, when I was weak and weary, ^-"^ And the day was cold and dreary, I was famished, almost starving — Ragged were the clothes I wore, I was thinking of suspensions, And the railroad king's intentions, For they were then in convention, Planning as they planned before ; Tis monopoly, I whispered, And the wolf is at our door— This it is — and nothing more Thus for hours I sat and pondered, Sat and closed my eyes and wondered — Wondered why these men of millions Were not like the men of yore ; But the answer came — 'tis fashion, Hoarding gold to please their passion, With fancy teams forever dashing — Dashing past the poor man's door; Scornfully they look and mutter, As they pass the poor man's door: " Our slaves— and nothing more." 164 THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 165 Your slaves ? Aye, chained and fettered, " Slave " on every brow is lettered; You will sign to our conditions, Or we'll grind you to the floor ; You have, with a weak subjection, Severed every free connection. U. S. troops are our protection ; You have signed your names — ye swore To obey — and nothing more. Oh, ye gods ! And must we languish, In our poverty and anguish ? Starve while money kings are planning How to keep their gold in store ? Is our country not enlightened, Or its heads like cowards frightened, That the reins should not be tightened On these robbers of the poor ? Yes ! The toiling mass can do it— We have changed such things before Give them power — never more. While corruption reigns in office, Every knave and fool and novice, For a sum of filthy hicre, Will betray his trust — and more : They will legislate to press you, And in every way distress you ; Yet they'll meet you and caress you, But they're traitors to the core. They will swear by all that's holy For your vote — but nothing more. 1 66 THE POET SCOUT. Look toward the broad Atlantic, See a million starving, frantic — Bread or blood is what they're asking — Blood or bread to feed the poor, Begging bread for which they're slaving — Dangers on the railroad braving, Want and hunger ever craving, Gnawing deep into the core, While the railroad gods are basking On the Long Branch sunny shore : These are facts — and nothing more. Must we beg to be in fetters ? Are these railroad kings our betters, That we must like slaves approach them, While our wants they still ignore ? No ! There must be some reaction ; Something done to crush this faction — Labor must have satisfaction, Though grim death stood at our door. Shall I tell you how to get it — How to strike corruption's core ? Vote for tricksters — never more. Oh, ye sons of toil and danger, Christ was cradled in a manger — He was poor and weak and lowly, Yet for us the cross He bore ; But the rich-robed fiends they tried him, Persecuted and denied him, And with robbers crucified him, Just for being Christ — and poor; Just because he killed corruption, Jesus died — and nothing more. THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 167 Yet there lives to-day, confessing That they love that Christ, professing Men who say that bread and water Is enough to feed the poor ; This from Beecher, sainted sinner — Could he give us nothing thinner? Does he think that he'll be winner Just because he slights the poor? Just because some railroad magnates Enter in at Plymouth's door — Angel's God say — never more. Can such beings ask for pardon, While their hearts they ever harden ? Can they ask for peace from Jesus, While his laws they still ignore ? No, by all the hosts above us — By the broken hearts that love us — By the tears of many millions Of the wronged, down-trodden poor — They can never reach that heaven Until hell is frozen o'er, Which the Reverend Mr. Moody Tells us will be — never more. OFF TO THE PICNIC. TO YE SONS O CALEDONIA. A WA' ye brawny sons o' Scotland ! Up the banks and doon the braes, Through the Hielands o' Nevada, Sing yo 'r songs o' ither days ; Yet it's no rich gowrey's valley, Nor the Forth 's dear sunny side ; Nor the wild and mossy mountain, Father of the placid Clyde. Yet just for the while imagine Ye are back on Scotia's shore, 'Mang the braes and grouse and heather Where the Highland waters roar; 'Mang the groves o' sweetest myrtle, Or perhaps aside the doon, Thinking o' young Bobbie's courtship By the light o' bonnie moon. Noble, brave, unselfish poet! Don't forget him 'mid yo'r joys; Fill and drink to him a bumper — He was nature's bard, my boys. One o' Scotland's noblest freemen, Spurning lords and lairds and crown ! Here's to Scotia's bard and poet — Bobbie Burns — boys, drink her down. 168 OFF TO THE PICNIC. 169 Up in Heaven wi' Highland Mary, Burns now sings a sweeter song; He is wearing brighter laurels Than the men who did him wrong. "Scots wha hae," methinks I hear it — "Bonnie Doon," ah! how sublime; At yo'r picnic drink this bumper — " Bobbie Burns and Auld Lang Syne!" Gold Hill, Nev., August, 1877. TO MARY ANN AND CHARLES O'NEILL. WRITTEN BY REQUEST OF THE BRIDE — MARY ANN. P\OWN the country, long ago, Mary Ann commenced to grow — Romping, riding, full of life, Never care and never strife. In the mountains, long ago, Charley's heart was all aglow, Thinking of a bright-eyed child, Arch and fair, and very wild. Gay little girl was Mary Ann, Catch the little dear who can, While she sang, " The world is wide- Wonder when I'll be a bride? " Charley said : " I'll bide my time — Mary Ann will yet be mine." While the anvil he would pound Mary Ann was in each sound. Then coquettish Mary Ann, Looking round upon the clan, Never dreamed her "No " would kill Charley O', of Barkerville. 170 TO MARY ANN AND CHARLES O'NEILL. 171 Charley thought, with dreamy eyes, Some one else may win the prize ; Dropped his tongs and anvil, too — Left the hills of Cariboo. Mary Ann, with queen-like sway, Turned her head and ran away, Leaving Charley in the lurch ; Couldn't see it — going to church. But when days grew cold and drear, Mary Ann would say: "Oh, dear!" She would often think and say : " Oh ! for what I threw away ! " One day meeting in the barley, He said : " Mary !" she said : " Charley ! " Now he's happy at this plan — So is mad-cap, Mary Ann. Cariboo, B. C, March 14, 1876. CATO'S IDEAS ON THE NEW CHURCH DOCTRINE. WENT to church last Sunday, Which I allers want to do, To hea' dat same old story, But I hea' ub sumfin new; An' wife, old Deacon Johnson, Who allers preached so well, Come out an' tol' us darkeys Dar wasn't any hell. Wharfor he tol' dat story Is sumfin I don't know, Kase if dar ain't no debil, Whar will dem wicked go ? Kase 'tain't no use in preachin' If Adam nebber fell, An' 'tain't no use in prayin' If cussin' does as well. Now, dis chile ain't no angel, But you hea' Cato talk — Dar's sumfin gwine to happen If 'gainst de Lord we balk ; Kase if der was no 'mighty, Dat sun he nebber shine, An' you jes bet sich preachin' Ain't gwine to win dis time. 172 CATO'S IDEAS. 173 I can't jes understan' it, Kase jes two weeks ago He tol' us how ole Satan Was roamin' to an' fro ; An' now dar ain't no debil, An' no sich place of fire ; Dis chile don't take no chances- I's gwine to clim' up higher. I's tried to do my duty, An' tried to do it well, An' surely it can't hurt us If dar isn't any hell (Kase if when we is berried Beneath the col', col' clod), Dar is a home in Heaben, Den we kin see dat God. THE GRAVE OF MY MOTHER. A SONG. To Mrs. Emily Pitt Stevens, San Francisco. ""HERE'S a green grassy mound in the valley I love, Where angels their vigils are keeping ; The pine trees are singing a dirge far above, The sky pearly tear drops is weeping, And cooing on high is a bright turtle dove O'er the grave where my mother is sleeping. CHORUS. Peacefully sleeping, she sleeps 'neath the clay, This world cannot give me another; No one to guide me, and no one to pray, While I weep o'er the grave of my mother. The dew-drops are falling, the evening is here, And o'er me night's shadows are stealing ; All nature is silent, good angels are near, And hushed is the harvester's reaping, While fondly I linger 'mid memories dear, Near the grave where my mother is sleeping. Chorus — Peacefully sleeping, etc. Oh ! here let me linger in silence and bliss, W T hile only the starlets are peeping, And mix with the dew-drops a tear and a kiss, O'er the grave where my mother is sleeping, For no spot on earth is so sacred as this — This spot where my dear mother's sleeping. Chorus — Peacefully sleeping, etc. i74 THAT BOY. To D. R. McKlNE, on his first born. U APPY father, full of glee, Laughing, dancing, making merry ; May you always happy be — Drink the baby's health in sherry. May he prosper night and day, Grow 'mid love and sweet caressing, While you kiss his lips and say : God, I thank Thee for this blessing — In that boy, Full of joy, Darling, bouncing baby boy. First-born baby, dimpled darling, God protect him every hour ; Keep him from all harm and danger- Father's pet and mother's flower, May he grow in grace and goodness, With no troubles to annoy — Not one trait of sin and rudeness, Father's pride and mother's joy. Father's boy, I wish you joy, And your darling baby boy. Virginia City, Nevada, September, 1877. 175 THE RANGERS' RETREAT. The following letter, addressed to Fred. W. Willard, editor of The Press, Leavenworth, Kansas, explains the origin of the following little poem : Dear Sir — You wish me to choose a subject for myself. Something con- nected with life in the West, and while thinking of the past, there is a spot which was very dear to me, in. my mountain home in the Black Hills. We had an organization in the Hills called the Rangers, a company of about two hundred men, commanded by Major Ed. Wynkoop, of Colorado, and your humble servant had charge of a band of scouts, ten in number. The spot that I propose to write a song about is where we often met and watched for the red-skins. I named it the Rangers' Retreat, and I think that title will also be appropriate for the song. ' ' I "IS a dear little spot in the valley I love, And the pine trees are waving above it ; The home of the lark, the blackbird and dove — I never can tell how I love it. I've roamed through its grandeur with rifle in hand, O'er beautiful streamlets 'and fountains; From Calamity Bar the scene was most grand,. With its moss-covered rocks and its mountains. CHORUS. 'Tis cosy, 'tis cheerful, that moss-covered dell — That dear little Eden where I used to dwell ; The flowers when in bloom cast a fragrance so sweet Through that dear little valley, the Rangers' Retreat. O, 'tis speckled with daisies and covered with dew ; There's no spot so dear as that valley, Where brothers met brothers, the brave and the true, And in danger 'round each other rally. 176 THE RANGERS' RETREAT. 177 The deer and the antelope roam in the dell, The mocking-bird sings in the bushes, While under the daisies the jack-rabbits dwell, And the water-snipe hides in the rushes. Chorus — 'Tis cosy, etc. And, though I'm far from that valley to-day, The scenes are all pictured before me : The deer are at water, the birds are at play, And the sky-larks are all singing o'er me. I think I can see my dear comrades of old, The sound of each rifle seems ringing ; The echo comes back from that valley of gold, While the boys round the camp fires are singing, Chorus — 'Tis cosy, etc. PC NORA LEE. A SONG. HAVE watched the roses blooming And the violets' lovely hue, And daisies like the starlight As they sparkled with the dew ; I have looked upon the lilies And the flowers of every tree, But none were half so pretty As my blue-eyed Nora Lee. 178 NORA LEE. CHORUS. She is sweeter than the violets, She is fairer than the rose ; Her eyes are soft and tender, And her cheek with beauty glows. Oh, I never can forget her, Though she never thinks of me ; I love that blue-eyed beauty — Little darling, Nora Lee. To my prairie home I'm going, With my comrades brave and free, And yet where'er I wander Those blue eyes will follow me. I shall see them in the camp fire, They will sparkle in the dell, And in the rippling streamlets I shall hear that last farewell. Chorus — She is sweeter, etc. God bless you, Jack ! God bless you ! Were the words she whispered low; I thought 'twas heavenly music From her throat as white as snow. And my heart beat in a tremor, So she spake kind words to me. I wish I did not love her — Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee. Chorus— She is sweeter, etc. I have gazed upon the streamlets When the moon was shining bright, The rippling of the waters In the summer noon of night. 179 180 THE POET SCOUT. I have looked on nature's grandeur On the prairie, land and sea, But none of them could charm me Like the voice of Nora Lee. Chorus — She is sweeter, etc. Oh, no matter where I wander, Her sweet image will be there; Her blue eyes shine upon me, And her voice be everywhere. And though I pine in sorrow She is all the world to me ; May angels guard my fairy — Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee. Chorus — She is sweeter, etc. THE FIRST FLOWER OF MAY. In May, 1876, a band of Sioux drove off fourteen head of our horses, and, after two days' chase, we regained seven of them, but owing to the Indians having a change of horses, we failed to secure any scalps. On the first even- ing, after a hard day's ride, we camped in a pleasant valley near a cooling spring of water. Frank Smith (Antelope Frank as we called him) and myself had ridden about three miles further in hopes of getting a sight of the Indian camp, and it was on our return to the valley mentioned above, and a venison supper, that we laid down to rest under a spreading pine, when the incidents occurred which called forth the following verses, written at the time with lead pencil, and heretofore unpublished. A DAISY ! The first I had seen in the Spring, Was peeping from under the sod; The air was so chilly, the wind was so cold, That I fear'd the fair daisy had made rather bold To ascend from the earth's warmer clod. Just then a fair sky-lark flew heavenward to sing Sweet anthems, in praise to his God. How sweet to the traveler those soul-stirring notes, When weary with riding all day ! Indeed, it was joy to my comrade and me — The lark in the sky, and the flower on the lea, And our weariness soon passed away. That night 'round the camp-fire we tuned up our throats And sang of the first flower of May. 1S1 SAN BERNARDINO. While playing in lower California with my company, in January, 1878, I was requested to write something on the city, and the following was the result, as seen from the Court House. HAVE roamed through nature's grandeur, On the prairie, land and sea ; I have watched the roses blooming, And the daisies on the lea ; Other skies have been less clouded, Other hands were clasped in mine, But I never saw a valley That was half so grand as thine. In your streets I saw the streamlets Sparkle, as they murmur by, And beyond were snowy mountains Towering up toward the sky ; Snowy clouds around them clustered, Filling you with hope again, While the blades of grass were laughing At the near approach of rain. Lovely rain ! It came in torrents, Though it spoiled my house to-night, But I would not, dare not murmur, While it filled you with delight ; Yet the sun will shine to morrow, Shedding blessings from above, And the birds will sing their praises To their King and God of love. 182 SAN BERNARDINO. 183 Now, farewell, San Bernardino ! May thy flocks and herds increase, May thy valley prove an Eden, Full of love, and joy, and peace ; And when Gabriel blows his trumpet, Gathering all from near and far, When you reach the Heavenly valley, May you find the gates ajar. MY BIRTHDAY. 1\ /TY birthday! yet 'twas accidental That I found it came to-day; Lonely in my cabin musing, How the time does pass away — Not a soul to wish me gladness, Not a friend to pull my ears; While my heart is filled with sadness, Thinking of the passing years. Once I had an angel mother — How she used to bring me joy ! Birthdays one upon the other, I was still her favorite boy. But the angels took her from me — Dead and gone these many years — She who was my guardian angel In this thorny vale of tears. How she used to pray, " God bless him J" While the tear-drops filled her eyes, With a mother's tender pleading, Looking up toward the skies. Oh, my mother ! if thy spirit Hovers near me while alone, Bless once more thy wayward offspring, In this little cabin home. In the Mountains, Cariboo, March 4, 1S79. 184 LILLIE. " Last evening, at the Bush Street Theatre, a beautiful incident occurred, not down on the bills, however, yet which was highly appreciated by the large audience present. It is well known that Captain Jack Crawford, the hardy mountaineer, scout, poet and actor, has an especial prediliction for children, and he is in the zenith of his joy when he has a bevy of them around him, spinning his extravagant stories, and otherwise amusing them. Last evening the Captain was sitting in the orchestra circle, when he was espied by a four-year-old flaxen-haired beauty across the theatre. Quick as thought she left her mother's side, ran clear around the circle, and without the slightest ceremony, seated herself on the Captain's lap, not only to his surprise, but, from appearances, to his delight, for he entertained the little ' waif the balance of the evening. The incident was a very pleasing one." — San Francisco Footlight, Nov. 8, 1S77. CHE left her loving mother's side *^ And climbed upon my knee — A lovely little blue-eyed child, Who spoke her love for me. I gazed upon the throng around, On fashion's daughters fair, But not one tress in all that throng Could match sweet Lillie's hair. God bless her! Just a little while, I held her to my breast ; Forgetting all life's cares at once, I waited her request. And then in whispers soft and low, And pointing over there, Said she, " My mama told me once That oou had till'd a bear." 185 1 86 THE POET SCOUT. I never saw the play — not I Indeed — I did not care, For I was happy spinning yarns For little golden hair ; And how her little blue eyes shone Each time a story ended, And how she almost shouted out, " Oh, my, but dat was sp'endid !" " Oh, dear ! and must we really do ? I wish it wasn't out ; I feel so very dood, I wish dat I tood shout." Sweet angel ! you have brought me joy, And filled me with delight ; May angels guard you all through life — God bless you, child, good-night ! «— Vsi ARMY AND TEMPERANCE POEMS. • OUR FIRST RE-UNION. Respectfully dedicated to F. B. Gowan, brother of my brave Colonel, who fell while leading us in storming the rebel post at Petersburg, April 2, 1865. *\1 7"ITH love — which time can never change — We grasp each other's hands, And think of battles fought and won — Of Burnside's stern commands ; Bright memories of the hallowed past Are stealing through our souls, While thinking of the noble dead Now mustered from our rolls. At times our hearts would almost bleed, And angels seemed to frown ; But God was on the ramparts, boys, While the mortars tumbled down ; And though at times a boy was hit With a fragment of a shell, We stood it — did we not, comrades ? In the ramparts of Fort Hell. And when we went on picket, With our blankets on our arm, And each a stick of wood, comrades, To try and keep us warm ; How oft we thought of happy homes, Of friends and parents, too, And lovely little blue-eyed girls Who'd die for me and you. 189 190 THE POET SCOUT. And often, when we shouted Across to Johnny Reb, To throw us some tobacco, And we would throw them bread, How quickly they responded, And the plugs came thick and fast, And we shared them with each other — And shared them to the last. But, though they gave tobacco, And though we gave them bread, Between the lines we soon must see The dying and the dead ! And though Mahone defied us, And though her strength was great, Who would dare to charge them, boys, If not our Forty-eight ? And when our greatest Generals Defied our boys alone, To charge the enemy in front And capture Fort Mahone — Oh ! can you e'er forget it, boys ? The answer Gowan sent : " We'll take it, with the help of God, Or die in the attempt ! " And nobly on that fatal day He led us on so well. Till fairly on their ramparts, boys, Our noble Colonel fell. And did you mark the change, comrades? Where was the leader now Who dared to lead us on like he Who fell with shattered brow ? OUR FIRST RE-UNION. 191 I need not speak of other's deeds Who led us on before — Of Nagle and of Siegfried, too, Brave Pleasants and Gilmore. Oh, no! their names are written On a grateful nation's shrine, And nothing can erase them, boys, Until the end of time. Another word — each comrade's heart Is filled with gratitude To Siegfried, Pleasants, Bosbyshell, Who were so kind and good To offer us a banquet, boys, Such as we never saw — Much better than the hard-tack, boys — Hurrah! then, boys, hurrah! But don't forget, another year Will soon pass o'er our head, And then we hope to meet again — If living; but, if dead, May we not meet in Heaven, boys, And see upon the shore A picket guard of angels With Gowan and Gilmore ? •*»>®M