OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
LETTERS FROM COLORADO 
 
LETTERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 COLORADO 
 
 BY 
 
 H. L. 
 
 BOSTON 
 CUPPLES AND KURD 
 
 94 Boylston Street 
 1887 
 
Copyright, 1887, 
 BY H. L. WASON. 
 
 All Riijhfs Rtserrtd. 
 
 the Up.tJe Par 
 
1 \X 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 3-53 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTORY vn 
 
 Letter I. ACROSS THE SAN Luis VALLEY ... i 
 
 II. ABOVE DEL NORTE 6 
 
 III. "ON TO SAN JUAN" ....... 10 
 
 IV. A BURRO-TRAIN 15 
 
 V. ALONG THE Rio GRANDE 18 
 
 SONG 23 
 
 VI. A MORNING SCENE 25 
 
 VII. THE TENOR S STORY 30 
 
 VIII. WAGON WHEEL GAP 35 
 
 LEGEND 38 
 
 IX. LEGEND OF BELLOWS CREEK .... 41 
 
 LEGEND 4; 
 
 X. A POET S ROMANCE 47 
 
 WHO COMES TO COLORADO? 51 
 
 XI. LEGEND OF THE DEVIL S GATE .... 54 
 
 LEGEND 57 
 
 XII. LEGEND OF SUNNYSIDE . 62 
 
 LEGEND . 63 
 
 XIII. STRANGE THEMES 66 
 
 XIV. THREE PHASES OF COLORADO LIFE . 78 
 
 COURTSHIP 7$ 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE MINER S CABIX . So 
 
 A COLORADO IDYL 84 
 
iv 
 
 Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Letter XV. LEGEND OF ANTELOPE SPRINGS GAP . 86 
 
 XVI. NIGHT AND MORNING 90 
 
 XVII. MELODRAMATIC 94 
 
 XVIII. CAMP AFTER RAIN 99 
 
 XIX. IN ANTELOPE PARK 103 
 
 XX. LEGEND OF ANTELOPE PARK .... 107 
 
 XXI. A COLORADO TRAMP . in 
 
 THE Music OF THE RIVER .... 117 
 
 XXII. A NORWEGIAN GIANT 119 
 
 XXIII. HISTORY OF A DESERTED CABIN . 123 
 
 " WE HAVE NT ANY HEROES NOW" . . 124 
 
 THE RAINBOW 129 
 
 SEPTEMBER 130 
 
 To COLORADO 131 
 
 THE STORIES HAVE ALL BEEN TOLD . 132 
 
 THE CITY ON THE PLAINS ... 133 
 
 A PRICELESS JEWEL 135 
 
 XXIV. LEGEND OF LOST TRAII 137 
 
 XXV. RIVER-BEND HILL 142 
 
 XXVI. ON THE DIVIDE 147 
 
 " OVER THE DIVIDE " 151 
 
 SLIDE AT THE EMPIRE MINE .... 154 
 
 XXVII. AN INCIPIENT MINER 157 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 On parting, two Graduates agree to keep warm their 
 College friendship. The story tells how the one who be 
 came a traveler kept his promise, also how the one who 
 remained behind broke faith, in offering to the public, let 
 ters supposed to be written for his eyes alone. 
 
 MEMORY draws aside the curtain 
 
 That so long has hid the past, 
 Brings a troupe of spectral figures 
 
 To the footlights thronging fast 
 College scenes, with College comrades 
 
 In fantastic groupings cast. 
 
 Seen as now, e er life had tried them, 
 
 They appear a motley set; 
 Innocent of all ambition, 
 
 Plan nor purpose outlined yet ; 
 Caring naught beyond the compass 
 
 Of what joy the days beget. 
 
viii Introductory. 
 
 Till, as ever among numbers 
 Thought is centered on a few, 
 
 Dwindles down that host of actors 
 Till it circles only two ; 
 
 I myself, and but one other 
 Filling all the nearer view. 
 
 Boots it little what our titles 
 In life s throngs of busy men 
 
 I, beloved of Van as brother, 
 Hal, and only Hal, was then ; 
 
 Van and Hal we shall be ever 
 
 Should our lives converge again. 
 
 Van was rich, attractive, graceful 
 I was poor and plain and shy ; 
 
 Staunchest friends we were at College, 
 Left our Alma with a sigh, 
 
 He, to travel and enjoyment, 
 To a round of labor I. 
 
 He, the elder by three summers, 
 Younger seemed to careless gaze, 
 
 That an airy independence, 
 Glossing over earnest ways, 
 
 From the outpost admiration 
 Stormed the citadel of praise. 
 
Introductory. 
 
 Touch of art can little heighten 
 
 Real worth of solid gold ; 
 Yet she beautifies the metal 
 
 By a chaste and graceful mould, 
 And this base that art had fashioned, 
 
 Bore the crown stamp, plain and bold. 
 
 Clear my last impression of him 
 As a ray of prisoned light ; 
 
 Standing, full equipped for travel 
 Eyes with expectation bright ; 
 
 Which I knew would dim with sorrow 
 Once unfettered from my sight. 
 
 He was bound for Colorado 
 " Talk no more of classic Greece 
 
 Of her Gods and buried heroes 
 Let them sleep the sleep of peace ; 
 
 But for us who shape the future 
 It is time their power should cease. 
 
 " I must scale the Rocky Mountains 
 
 Long known haunts have all grown old, 
 
 And this fair new State is crowded 
 With crude marvels never told 
 
 Outside of rugged silver seams 
 And streams of unwashed gold. 
 
Introductory. 
 
 11 Such paeans of enjoyment 
 
 My wakened muse shall sing, 
 
 From my astonished country 
 A prophet s praises wring, 
 
 Till even my own hamlet 
 
 Shall grudging tributes bring. 
 
 " But chiefest, more than brother, 
 
 Mine eyes to thee will turn ; 
 For thy quick words of guidance 
 
 In grieving silence yearn, 
 But keep their loving import green 
 
 In Memory s golden urn 
 
 " To thee before all others 
 
 I look for blame or praise ; 
 Be never less a Mentor 
 
 Than in our college days, 
 And help my unskilled fingers 
 
 To grasp the poet s bays. " 
 
 The Summer into gorgeous beauty rounded, 
 
 Bringing such joyous strains 
 From the delighted traveler as he bounded 
 
 O er snow-clad hills and plains 
 
 Strains jubilant, glad notes of keenest pleasure, 
 
 In vales and tender skies; 
 Our frigid English tongue could hardly measure 
 
 His bursting rhapsodies. 
 
Introductory. xi 
 
 Letter from him, so sweet delight to me, 
 Should selfishness reserve with grasping key, 
 Nor broad unfold, that many eyes may trace 
 In every line some friend s familiar face ? 
 Less guarded they may be in grace of tone, 
 As being written for my eyes alone ; 
 But uncut diamonds oftimes pleasure give. 
 Methinks I, showing these, should thanks receive ; 
 Pay them to him in praises kindly spoken 
 That no regrets remain thro my faith broken. 
 For Mentor like a coward shrank a duty 
 
 Love only could perform, 
 It seemed rude sacrilege to change a beauty 
 
 Or hide a faulty form. 
 
LETTER I. 
 
 ACROSS THE SAN LUIS VALLEY. 
 
 LETTERS are thoughts, by friendship loosely tied, 
 As flowers in nosegay form for friendship s pleasure, 
 
 Where varied hue, with fragrance sweet allied, 
 Make gift so small, a joy beyond all measure. 
 
 Tis not the flowers alone nor grateful scent. 
 
 All may have flowers, all breathe their rich perfume. 
 Nor weighs the contour. Some are quickly sent, 
 
 With careless twine about a simple bloom, 
 
 Yet valued none the less. It is the hand 
 
 That culls the nosegay with a thoughtful care, 
 
 And weaves a thread of heart-love in the band 
 With the receiving hand its love to share, 
 
 Which gives it worth ; and letters are like flowers, 
 
 Binding with unseen cord some heart to ours. 
 
 Truth unadorned is a beauteous maid, 
 But fairer in fitting robes arrayed ; 
 I have not fashioned a garment yet, 
 Which to her matchless form can set, 
 Attracting all by its wondrous grace, 
 Till they end by feasting upon her face. 
 
L dtcrs from Colorado. 
 
 Yet hearts, in earnest, achieve at last, 
 
 Do they grasp their floating anchor fast. 
 
 A poet s hope is a deathless thing, 
 
 Will sometimes droop with a weary wing, 
 
 But trifles, lighter than heated air, 
 
 Will brush from the plumes the dust of care, 
 
 And lo! with free pinions wide unfurled, 
 
 Tis bidding defiance to all the world. 
 
 No hopes ambitious are hidden here, 
 No freedom hampered by cringing fear. 
 These letters are written alone for you, 
 In heart too noble, of soul too true 
 To seek for faults while a grace you find. 
 To mercy by loving faith inclined, 
 Accept the motive which prompts the act, 
 And merge delight in the simple fact. 
 
 I pass the miseries met by rail, 
 To moderns all, an oft told tale, 
 And start my notes upon the stage, 
 A fossil of the vanished age, 
 A Concord Coach the classic name 
 By which it shall descend to fame : 
 Tis eight feet long by four feet wide, 
 With huge expansive power inside, 
 Embracing in its padded folds 
 The total sum of thirteen souls ! 
 Two average in the aggregate, 
 A trifle off, six hundred weight. 
 
Across tJic San Luis Valley. 
 
 Before the town is well astir 
 We shake its dust off with a whir, 
 When our six horses rush us out, 
 First four, then two complete the route, 
 Only the "clear thro " sufferers know, 
 This noisy splendor is all show. 
 
 We drop our live freight one by one, 
 Till four usurp the Coach alone 
 Two tender children ; no complaint 
 From either, at the harsh restraint, 
 Tho heat and dust and length ning hours 
 Are sapping stronger vital powers. 
 
 I pay hot court to the little maid 
 Of scarce five summers, she, gravely staid, 
 Recounts the fun of her brother s freaks 
 With demurest dimples in her cheeks, 
 With eyes of mischief too full by half, 
 But the mouth breaks never into a laugh. 
 
 He, wee male lordling, exacts her care 
 With his sex s grand imperial air, 
 Alike unwilling to yield or fight, 
 She stratagem uses instead of might, 
 And brings an embryo woman s skill 
 To juggle her petty tyrant s will. 
 
 Poor weary baby, he finds no rest, 
 
 On that couch consoling, his mother s breast, 
 
L cttcrs from Colorado, 
 
 Unknowing what troubles, he pines and frets, 
 The sweet child-woman cajoles and pets 
 Till working some secret treasure loose 
 She brings out of hiding a " Mother Goose." 
 
 She turns each page with seductive art, 
 
 Well knowing the stories all by heart, 
 
 Cons over the tales with a cunning smile, 
 
 Enjoying her harmless cheat the while, 
 
 And soon the demure, sweet, dimples creep, 
 
 For the vanquished monarch is fast asleep. 
 
 The victor herself is safe at rest 
 
 Five minutes later upon my breast. 
 
 Tis life in miniature: Man s free (?) course 
 
 Shaped ever by woman s mightier force ; 
 
 She, proud of his strength and lordly ways, 
 
 Learns but his will and at once obeys, 
 
 Misdoubts his vaunt as creation s lord 
 
 But wisely answers him not a word. 
 
 Pie feels her fetters, he chafes and frets, 
 
 She weaves them tighter, cajoles and pets, 
 
 She has conned the stories of "Mother Goose," 
 
 The struggle ends in a sudden truce, 
 
 To her cheeks the triumphant dimples creep, 
 
 And the vanquished monarch is fast asleep. 
 
 In solitary state we onward wind 
 
 Across a trackless waste of bush and sand ; 
 My little mistress being left behind, 
 
 All else is dreary as the stretching land. 
 
Across the San Luis Valley. 
 
 A pale blue streak denotes the horizon s verge, 
 One dead, flat plain smooths out on every side, 
 
 Oh ! for the white curl of the restless surge, 
 Some hue and motion to this desert wide. 
 
 Tis like the ocean in its shapeless stretch, 
 Our coach the ship becalmed upon its breast, 
 
 For tho we move, to the imprisoned wretch, 
 The snail-like pace is other name for rest. 
 
 We reach Del Norte after night is set, 
 
 And have six prancing steeds to whirl us in. 
 
 Here I deposit every last regret 
 For a new life does joyously begin. 
 
LETTER II. 
 
 ABOVE DEL NORTE. 
 
 FROM Lookout Mountain, opens on my eyes 
 A gleam of beauty lost from Paradise. 
 The day is perfect ; never sun like this 
 Touches New York with e en a passing kiss ; 
 Luxurious, warm, his tender golden rays 
 Melt in the distance to a mellow haze, 
 And edge around the valley, till the sight 
 Tangibly quivers with entranced delight. 
 
 Some sixty miles to Eastward, lies a range 
 
 From the main range a spur, which, coldly strange, 
 
 Glides like a ghostly thing adown the vale, 
 
 Nor grey of color, blue, nor ashy pale ; 
 
 Yet that same hue a living blood-red glows 
 
 When sunset on the awful pallor grows, 
 
 "Sangre de Cristo " (Spanish cavaliers 
 
 Were not renowned for too refined ears), 
 
 In our tongue Blood of Christ. The chiseled crests, 
 
 Like Aztec priests in stoles and snowy vests, 
 
 O erlook the land of Montezuma s fame, 
 
 Nor wake one mournful echo to his name. 
 
Above Del Nortt. 
 
 Words seem but feeble to depict aright 
 The solemn grandeur of that dull, dead white, 
 Convey the sense of wandering magnitude, 
 Impressed by the majestic solitude. 
 Those peaks pyramidal, distinctly shaped, 
 Each solitary, sculptured point, close-draped 
 By the blue tapestry of bluest skies, 
 Which deepens near them into purple dyes, 
 While towers above, the sky and range between, 
 Sierra Blanca, Colorado s queen, 
 Too proudly royal to admit of mate 
 Sharing the honors of her regal state. 
 
 We, having learned some minor things, do know 
 That range is covered with perpetual snow ; 
 But tis as if we knew a foreign tongue 
 Through its love-ditties beautifully sung. 
 Then see the land in martial pomp arrayed, 
 Strong in a strength no legions e er dismayed, 
 Thrill at the power in the same words revealed 
 When as a ringing war-chant they are pealed. 
 
 The Rio Grande del Norte s silver grey 
 Betrays his serpentine and devious way 
 By jewels flashing in the bright June sun, 
 Showing triumphantly his labor done 
 On fertile plains, and fields of living green, 
 Where late a barren wilderness has been. 
 
 How like a spirit in the vale he glides ! 
 Now in broad view, now in a covert hides, 
 
L cttcrs from Colorado. 
 
 Now arched by willows, now an aspen copse 
 Dots with bright foliage, banks and arid slopes ; 
 While here and there, a lonely pinion stands 
 Guarding the valley with its waving hands. 
 
 The pretty town Del Norte at my feet, 
 Its busy people thronging in the street, 
 Is girded by a sparkling crystal band 
 Of limpid water from the Rio Grande ; 
 Like many a town in this erratic West, 
 At any hour t may to the front be pressed, 
 And have prosperity inflate its pride 
 By a Bonanza from the near outside. 
 
 No mining town ? May be ; one never knows. 
 Summitville flourishes among the snows 
 That grace the Western ranges, beetling brows, 
 And is, they say, a solid bed of gold, 
 Within a flimsy sheet of earth enrolled 
 To save the precious ore from taking cold. 
 
 They call me Tenderfoot, and spin me yarns 
 A crooning nurse would blush to tell her bairns. 
 The air is light ; th inflated nothings float, 
 Collapse and sink, like a child s paper boat, 
 Nor orator nor audience deceive. 
 
 I came to see and hear; but to believe 
 All that I hear ? No faith can bear the strain ; 
 She plumes her willing pinions all in vain, 
 Faints in the effort but to realize 
 Truth hides a kernel in their pulpy size. 
 
Above Del Norte. 9 
 
 The Colorado miner is a genius, no mistake 
 Mixture of vice and virtue, uncertain as his stake; 
 Swears by his Lilliputian town (but just to humbug you) 
 With a grotesque self-consciousness, most ravishing to 
 
 view, 
 Tells you his town can run the State, his State the 
 
 President, 
 But by the sly leer in his eye, you guess how much is 
 
 meant. 
 
 You re welcome at his fireside ; his cabin s homely fare 
 Is spread with open-handed grace, and you are pressed 
 
 to share. 
 
 A half contemptuous pity spices all his courteous speech, 
 " Pity that no Bonanza lies just within (?) your reach." 
 Your present wants are furnished, but his; oh! faith 
 
 sublime, 
 Are drawing compound interest, from compensating 
 
 time. 
 
 With pon drous ranges looming, broad valleys at his 
 
 feet, 
 
 His vision only bounded where sky and prairie meet, 
 Is it strange he fails to notice the arid barren earth, 
 When even the streams that feed him, spring on the 
 
 hills to birth ? 
 Or that he learns to look on life thro lens of mighty 
 
 scope, 
 When his blue horizon arches all the broad Paciiic 
 
 slope ? 
 
LETTER III. 
 
 " ON TO SAN JUAN." 
 
 HAVING that well-worn motto full in view, 
 
 " One going to Rome should do as Romans do," 
 
 I ve laid my plans for starting " Westward ho ! " 
 
 In gypsy fashion, as the natives go ; 
 
 After much anxious thought I ve bought a horse, 
 
 Renowned for idleness, not speed and force, 
 
 And warranted of gentle disposition, 
 
 With no desire to start an exhibition 
 
 After original and crude ideas 
 
 Of laws of gravity and human fears. 
 
 " He s not a genuine bronco quarter breed," 
 The owner says, who recommends the steed, 
 And I, with queer experiences yet new, 
 Intensely hope that but one fourth as few 
 Of antics as the " genuine " he can do. 
 
 A bucking bronco is a thing of dread, 
 Takes independent notions in his head, 
 Refusing to be coaxed, coerced or led. 
 
On to Sau Juan. I 
 
 Smile not, oh, friend ! I learned to ride by rule, 
 Bore off all honors at the training school ; 
 But my conceit is meeker now, and cool. 
 
 The youngest cow-boy scouring o er the plains 
 Has firmer seat, more skilful grip of reins. 
 Equestrians, like myself, are apt to find 
 Their studied horsemanship too well refined 
 To be successful with the bronco kind. 
 He owns no curb drawn by a gentle hand, 
 And that he makes his rider understand. 
 
 It looks so easy, any child could sit 
 Who knows but how to manage rein and bit ; 
 It looks so easy, every horseman tries 
 And never fails to meet with a surprise. 
 One used to riding very seldom halts, 
 And, without thinking, in the saddle vaults 
 From force of habit touches with the spur, 
 Which trifling act is apt to make a stir. 
 
 Then, too, the bronco never deigns to start 
 Like well trained horses in the city mart, 
 But makes an aimless lunge, describes a curve 
 That shoots electric thrills thro every nerve, 
 Leaps wildly in the air, bound after bound, 
 Ten feet, often fifteen, above the ground, 
 Descending, with his tail spread on the breeze, 
 An angle forms of forty-five degrees, 
 Places his head between his stiff fore-legs, 
 Which, when he lights, are rigid as iron pegs, 
 
12 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Plants all his feet together, lifts his back, 
 And you beyond it with a spiteful thwack ; 
 Suddenly changing from his line of base, 
 Leaves you suspended, wildly clutching space 
 Till gravitation kindly aids your case. 
 
 The power of matter over mind here shown 
 Is not disputed, after one is thrown ; 
 In such catastrophes a sufferer knows 
 How little sympathy his audience shows, 
 Yet feels no malice. Even resentment shrinks 
 Appalled before what a spectator thinks; 
 His starch is gone, shouts and derisive jeers 
 Surge thro the portals of distended ears, 
 And he is sure to find the mocking laughter 
 To leave a most persistent flavor after. 
 
 Better perhaps if I had bought a jack," 
 Walking beside him while he bears my pack 
 A roll of blankets, coffee-pot, tin cup, 
 Flour sack, with like substantiate covered up, 
 Such as yeast-powder, bacon and dried fruit, 
 With other little luxuries that suit. 
 
 I should enjoy it of all other things 
 But for the merriment my greenness brings ; 
 I dread the covert shafts of ridicule 
 Worse than a boy at his first term of school. 
 The name of " Tenderfoot " is not exempt 
 From malice, in its pitying contempt. 
 
On to San Juan. 13 
 
 Fancy me, solus, by a camp-fire, cooking. 
 
 Your fancy could not paint me without looking 
 
 I ve donned the garb that every miner wears : 
 
 A suit of duck, proof against soils (?) and tears ; 
 
 A hat resembling, somewhat, an umbrella, 
 
 Which gives a traveled look to any fellow ; 
 
 Strong calf-skin boots, the miner is as neat 
 
 As any city dandy in the feet, 
 
 Proud of his boot, displays it every bit, 
 
 His ducking overalls stuck into it, 
 
 And if he owns that gem, a shapely calf, 
 
 Is vainer than a Broadway swell by half. 
 
 This whole life simulates a happy dream, 
 Outside the age of telegraph and steam 
 No cars, few stages, everything one sees 
 Tending to lassitude and careless ease ; 
 No rush of time, to-day as is to-morrow 
 Sufficient for its role of joy or sorrow ; 
 After the busy swirl of New York strife 
 Most like a page from an enchanted life. 
 
 Tender blue sky draping the snowy ranges, 
 Fleecy white clouds, constant in ceaseless changes, 
 Always the hush of unbroke solitude, 
 That dearest charm to the poetic mood, 
 As if the land were peopled still by races 
 That walk in shadow thro beloved places. 
 
 Passing me now a brace of prairie-schooners 
 With drivers who would make expert harpooners, 
 
14 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Six span of mules their whip-lash reaches over, 
 Nor ever misses mark or touches cover; 
 These prairie-schooners are well let me see, 
 A man-o -war on land instead of sea, 
 And carry I m afraid to say how much, 
 The lightness of the atmosphere is such, 
 You ll think me "dizzy" with its airy touch. 
 
 They take provisions over to the miners 
 Returning, bring crude ore to the refiners, 
 Travel in pairs, because the rugged roads 
 Play " Hobb " too often with the heavy loads ; 
 The second team unhitched, passes the first, 
 Aids it in doubtful places or the worst, 
 Thus they join teams, as they express it, "double, 1 
 Simple preventive to a world of trouble. 
 
LETTER IV. 
 
 A BURRO TRAIN. 
 
 I VE wondered oft, how Atlas bore the earth, 
 But wonder now is wholly lost in mirth, 
 
 For here, before my very eyes I see 
 
 Apt illustration of the imagery ; 
 It was a burro, not a god, I guess 
 Reduced to such unspeakable distress 
 
 Among a motley swarm all pack and ears 
 
 A walking show-case visibly appears. 
 
 I stand aside to let the marvel pass, 
 Tis eight feet long, brass hinges, French plate-glass, 
 Seeming possessed of voluntary motion, 
 Starting a pilgrimage on private notion ; 
 The motive power invisible is quite, 
 Even the flapping ears hidden from sight, 
 I only catch a pair of earnest eyes 
 Expressing just a shadow of surprise 
 At my amusement at his uncouth burden 
 Poor beast! curses too oft his only guerdon! 
 
1 6 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Ah ! we New Yorkers are behind the times, 
 Spite of our love of dollars made from dimes. 
 
 What business man would undertake to pack 
 An eight-foot show-case on a burro s back, 
 Without a cover, open to the sun, 
 And hope to land it safe in Silverton, 
 
 From Del Norte a hundred miles at least, 
 Sure-footed howsoe er his little beast, 
 And over roads whose ruggedness is even 
 Worse than the highway to the poet s heaven ? 
 
 Others are packed with mining-tools and grub, 
 From corn and flour to baked beans from the " Hub," 
 Hardware, nail-kegs, tin pans, in dire confusion 
 Stoves, axes, handles, ropes, a wild profusion, 
 Picks, shovels, bales of dry goods, everything 
 That man can want, or beast of burden bring; 
 Canned fruit in boxes, one on either side, 
 The cute diminutive completely hide ; 
 Yet on he trots with enviable sangfroid^ 
 As unconcerned as any truant boy. 
 
 Necessity, the mother of invention, 
 
 Developes art worthy of highest mention. 
 
 Where bars of iron and steel too long to pack 
 Are fastened so they trail behind the jack ; 
 
 One end is to the saddle firmly tied, 
 
 Always one bar or more on either side. 
 
A Burro Train. 17 
 
 And, where of extra length, too long to trail, 
 
 Think not that ingenuity will fail ; 
 
 Bars for all purposes, for smelters, mills, 
 Perform the part of elongated thills, 
 
 Between which are two burros hitched in tandem, 
 
 With skilful care, not jostled in at random. 
 
 Like you the picture ? Words but ill portray 
 
 The laugh-provoking, comical display, 
 
 And fail entirely on the doleful bray; 
 
 I can t describe it j I can only laugh, 
 
 He looks so like a longing, half-weaned calf ; 
 
 Mouth wide, head forward, stiffened tail outstretched, 
 
 As that queer sound from its extreme were fetched. 
 From sympathy with that pathetic wail, 
 Some wag has christened him the nightingale. 
 
 Centering in force what it in beauty lacks, 
 
 It has no rival but another jack s. 
 
LETTER V. 
 
 ALONG THE RIO GRANDE. 
 
 I NEVER knew how beautiful, how bright, 
 How full of exquisite and keen delight 
 Life could become with Silence for a friend 
 None to exchange ideas, to comprehend 
 The cause of rhapsodies so lightly penned. 
 
 I, full reclining on the river s banks, 
 
 Accept my destiny with speechless thanks ; 
 
 Tis good to stretch me in the sun of June ; 
 
 The Rio Grande is in perfect tune, 
 
 And the great pine-boughs swaying overhead, 
 
 A subtle perfume like ambrosia shed ; 
 
 The blue sky floats some specks of fleecy white. 
 
 Enough to make its brilliant hue more bright, 
 
 Gorgeous wild flowers indent the slopes of green 
 
 Where the grey, restless river rolls between, 
 
 And peace a tangible, delightful elf 
 
 Has all this lovely covert to herself. 
 
Along the Rio Grande. 19 
 
 Is the spot haunted ? 
 
 Never such sweetness 
 Rounded a human voice 
 
 Into completeness ; 
 Liquid and saintly 
 
 Floats to my ear, 
 Ave Maria, 
 
 Ave Maria. 
 
 Sweet Mary Mother, 
 
 Night shades are falling, 
 Silence and darkness 
 
 Closely enwalling ; 
 Thou being guardian 
 
 What should we fear ? 
 Ave Maria, 
 
 Ave Maria. 
 
 Ave Maria, trembling, vibrating, swelling, 
 
 The singer s voice upon those words keeps dwelling 
 
 Now like a plea for mercy, now the prayer 
 
 Of some soul in the anguish of despair, 
 
 Lulling again, before the prayer can cease, 
 
 Into the ecstacy of perfect peace. 
 
 The spell is broken, a clear tenor voice 
 Breaks into carol, a sweet Spanish ditty, 
 In which a swain, to lady of his choice , 
 Urges a thousand pleas to wake her pity. 
 
2O Letters from Colorado, 
 
 Next comes a drinking-song, just as my eyes 
 Fall on the singer, not with less surprise 
 Than had Don Cortez stood in modern guise. 
 Shall I describe him ? Words can never paint 
 The lines that mark a sinner from a saint, 
 In our day they have become so faint ; 
 And daily intercourse perfects disguises, 
 Which, in its soul, the false old world despises. 
 
 He represents a man in golden prime, 
 
 Before one sees the finger-marks of Time, 
 
 He wears a miner s garb, a huge sombrero, 
 
 Is, as the Spaniards say, a caballero, 
 
 And rides a <f genuine " bronco, curbed and bitted, 
 
 (Some like the rabbits, in old times were spitted,) 
 
 A brace of pistols decorates his belt, 
 
 Doubtless the coup- de-grace they oft have dealt, 
 
 A bowie-knife I almost look for scalps, 
 
 Or brigands climbing up the rugged Alps. 
 
 He slackens rein, and, with unstudied grace, 
 Presents a passport in his handsome face; 
 Couched in his lips a daring manhood lies, 
 A woman s softness in the deep brown eyes ; 
 A thick brown beard, a figure like Apollo, 
 An air that can command but never follow ; 
 And crowning all the nameless, graceful ease, 
 That marks the consciousness of power to please. 
 
 Visions of thieves had flitted thro my mind, 
 But fear I could not, howsoe er inclined 
 
Along the Rio Grande. 21 
 
 One who displayed the polish of a court ; 
 (Perhaps the brace of pistols were for sport.) 
 
 Without presenting " letters," I was bid 
 
 To join the little cavalcade now hid 
 
 By the "big bend." "The train" had been delayed, 
 
 But would be coming soon " across the grade ; " 
 
 So, with the jovial freedom of the State, 
 
 We traveled on together ; stopping late 
 
 Beneath a pine tree, camping for the night, 
 
 Our fire behind a boulder painting bright 
 
 Our swarthy faces in its ruddy light. 
 
 " The train," a score of jacks turning the bend, 
 A dim grotesqueness to the scenery lend. 
 I, on my mossy couch, behold anew 
 From an entirely different point of view, 
 Comical, earnest, life to them is real, 
 They look responsible, whate er they feel 
 Come into camp with all a veteran s pride, 
 Sedately stand till the huge pack s untied, 
 And, as demurely in the dry dust roll, 
 Their simple toilet for a pleasant stroll. 
 
 On the green sward our frugal meal was spread, 
 Coffee and bacon, with impromptu bread ; 
 I, who have fed on dainties, for the call, 
 Out-ate the hungriest miner of them all ; 
 And I have reached one point of my desire, 
 Eating and sitting by a great camp fire, 
 
22 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Our dusky figures lighted by the blaze. 
 The pleasures of my Saratoga days 
 Have never yielded me such true delight 
 The foot-hills bounding all our nearer sight, 
 The Rio Grande singing at our feet, 
 No other sound disturbing our retreat. 
 
 We smoked in silence for an hour at least, 
 Dessert divine to so divine a feast, 
 And then, I scarce know how, great yarns were spun, 
 " Sindbad the Sailor" badly was outdone ; 
 The theme was chiefly San Juan and its glory, 
 Each listening gravely to another s story, 
 And striking deftly from a given point, 
 Knocking all former bragging out of joint. 
 One could not laugh, for it was honest, partly. 
 The lies were huge, but burnished up so smartly, 
 That Truth, like Charity, was made to cover, 
 With a small garment, many a blemish over. 
 
 44 There is the North Star on King Solomon," 
 In tones not to be questioned, quoted one, 
 " Why, in the moonlight you can see the vein, 
 A rill of silver, lighting all the plain 
 Down to Arastra Gulch, against the sky 
 Its splendor dazes even the accustomed eye ; 
 Not even the Comstock of Nevada fame, 
 So all-deserving of a world-wide name." 
 
 Another said : " Better is the North Star 
 On Sultan Mountain, famous near and far 
 As mines that pay from starting always are," 
 
Along the Rio Grande. 23 
 
 Said yet a third ; " The Belcher, tho not known, 
 With some development, will soon be shown 
 As best of all ; for my part, I would rather 
 Own in the Belcher than seek any farther." 
 
 Each had a favorite which he, reckless, praised ; 
 
 My curiosity was wildly raised 
 
 At every fresh recital most amazed, 
 
 All took their turn except my host, and he 
 
 Preferred to add his mite^ in melody. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Westward the march of empire takes its way " 
 
 And that is no bravado, 
 As any one of us can truly say 
 
 Who comes to Colorado, 
 " Westward the inarch of empire takes its way " 
 
 Not only true but handy; 
 For we can pitch our tents at close of day 
 
 Along the Rio Grande. 
 
 He lightly trolled a chorus to the song, 
 
 Flinging the tripping melody along 
 
 The rugged crags, the hills, the hanging rocks, 
 
 Till echo in a trill of rapture mocks, 
 
 Back comes the song a group of perfect notes ; 
 
 Out on the listening air again it floats, 
 
 Then back to us once more, a little fainter, 
 
 Distance but making every sound the quainter. 
 
24 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Sleep pressed her gentle fingers on my eyes, 
 
 But failed to chase the gorgeous phantasies 
 
 Conjured up by the fireside sorceries, 
 
 And " North Stars " pirouetted thro my brain 
 
 With " Pelicans " bearing their starry train 
 
 With "Belcher" lodes, coquettish "Highland Marys" 
 
 "Lookouts " and " Mountaineers " turned into fairies, 
 
 Waltzing with " Polar Bears " across the prairies ; 
 
 With "lowas" and "LitUe Giants" tripping 
 A minuet, and "Yellow Jackets" tipping 
 The golden goblets they were slyly sipping, 
 And every mine distinctly in my dreams, 
 Somehow displayed, developed silver seams 
 That fairly crazed me with their dazzling beams. 
 
 I don t believe that I am wholly sane ; 
 
 Perhaps shall never be quite so again ; 
 
 For veins of silver dance athwart my sight 
 
 Till I no longer see the world aright ; 
 
 Without my seeking, fickle Fortune casts 
 
 My daily life among enthusiasts, 
 
 Whose faith, fast anchored where no doubt can reach, 
 
 Makes easy converts to the creed they preach. 
 
LETTER VI. 
 
 A MORNING SCENE. 
 
 MORNING upon the Rockies, 
 
 I meant to see it rise ; 
 But such a panorama 
 
 Unfolded to my eyes, 
 I really quite forgot it 
 
 Twixt laughter and surprise. 
 
 The "jacks" were rounded early 
 And busy on the steal ; 
 
 One chewing up the flour sack 
 With most praiseworthy zeal, 
 
 While one, in emulation, 
 
 Devoured our morning meal. 
 
 Another, as a dainty, 
 
 Munched at a straying hose : 
 His enterprising neighbor 
 
 Searched for the owner s toes, 
 Who, with a yell of anguish, 
 
 To perpendicular rose. 
 
2,6 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 My host, that very moment, 
 From dreams enraptured woke, 
 
 And into such a volley 
 
 Of dubious blessings broke, 
 
 The air was charged with something 
 I hardly think was smoke. 
 
 It wakened the last sleeper, 
 
 Also a savage shout 
 Resounding as a Cossack s 
 
 When storming a redoubt, 
 And every half-robed sluggard 
 
 Assisted at the rout. 
 
 Those jacks dispersed like magic 
 At an impromptu pace, 
 
 When back returned our tenor, 
 No ruffle on his face, 
 
 Proffered his morning greeting 
 With suave bewitching grace. 
 
 Our cook was not so placid, 
 A growl continuous, deep, 
 
 Kept rumbling from the caverns 
 Where imprecations keep 
 
 Their intervals of silence 
 By growing to a heap. 
 
 Our appetites were whetted, 
 We swallowed with a zest, 
 
 Coffee, and beans and bacon, 
 Seasoned with many a jest, 
 
A Morning Scene. 27 
 
 For laughter in a camp-life 
 Is ever welcome guest. 
 
 Then came the trick of packing, 
 
 But, brother of my heart, 
 I need a Phiz s pencil 
 
 Joined to a Vinci s art, 
 And Steno s flying ringers 
 
 To do a rightful part. 
 
 I saw, but can t describe it, 
 
 The double diamond hitch 
 Where ropes are looped and knotted, 
 
 Deft as a weaver s stitch, 
 And formed to a quadrangle 
 
 By a peculiar twitch. 
 
 This holds the bulky burden 
 
 Securely into place, 
 Nor can the creature loose it, 
 
 However brisk his pace, 
 Not if he waxeth wrathy 
 
 And starteth on a race. 
 
 I d ask a score of questions, 
 
 But think I d better not 
 A packer at his packing 
 
 Is like a simmering pot, 
 Which only needs a shaving 
 
 To render boiling hot. 
 
28 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 I ll keep my soul in patience, 
 Nor risk abrupt digression 
 
 You know our modern valor 
 Is first born of discretion, 
 
 And always plans advances 
 By seeming sweet concession. 
 
 The rapid, busy turmoil 
 
 Direst confusion seems, 
 Thro which no gleam of order, 
 
 Even for a moment gleams ; 
 Tis much as if from chaos, 
 
 We strove to bring our dreams. 
 
 My host said, laughing gaily, 
 
 " Embodied innocence, 
 Are those tormenting burros, 
 
 Possess so little sense 
 That man s diviner nature 
 
 Is all their poor defense. 
 
 A target for our malice, 
 
 Our shafts of ridicule, 
 He yet has learned the logic 
 
 Of the world s selfish school ; 
 To hide his inward meanness 
 
 " By manners of a fool." 
 
 While we conversed, moved on the cavalcade 
 In solitary file across the grade, 
 
A Morning Scene. 29 
 
 All prankings over, sober, earnest, brave, 
 Their every motion, as their faces, grave ; 
 We passed them, and a brisk, delightful trot 
 Brought us abruptly to a charming spot, 
 Where the great river winds thro aspen copse, 
 Guarded on either side by towering slopes 
 Of mountain ridges : there the burnished pine 
 Glasses its beauty till the waters shine ; 
 A garnered grove of mossy brake and fen, 
 Reminding one of some fay-haunted glen ; 
 No living thing was there, but every tree 
 Spread out each leaf in seeming ecstasy, 
 And, over all, the tenor s voice arose 
 In an impassioned anthem to repose. 
 
 Nothing is lost, they say, but nevermore 
 Will that sweet song electrify my ears, 
 
 Unless, as a chaste memory, tis wafted o er 
 The " Haunted Glens " I see in coming years. 
 
LETTER VII. 
 
 THE TENOR S STORY. 
 
 WE VE exchanged cards my autograph you know; 
 
 My host s, John Smith ! I hardly dare to show 
 
 I cannot call him that. Why, all romance 
 
 Will vanish from him at the barest glance. 
 
 He must be simply Tenor, ours, or mine, 
 
 And thus invested with a right divine 
 
 In a celestial atmosphere to shine. 
 
 His glorious voice is ever tuned for duty, 
 Quickly responsive to a touch of beauty, 
 Heedless who hears, careless if all unheard, 
 He trolls his songs like an unfettered bird ; 
 Seems, like the nightingale, compelled to sing, 
 If but the silent vales are listening. 
 Tis one enraptured holiday to me ; 
 Who never weary of such melody. 
 
 I ve hardly tested yet his gift of speech, 
 If he prefers to ridicule or preach ; 
 But as we ride along, a vagrant thought 
 Some merry memory to his mind has brought, 
 And you may judge, as almost word for word, 
 I give the story simply as I heard. 
 
The Tenors Story. 31 
 
 " I wanted yet of age a month or so 
 
 When first I sauntered into Mexico 
 
 My sole possession an unfaltering pluck 
 
 That often served me in the place of luck ; 
 
 For youth, reared under staunch New England rule. 
 
 Honors itself too much to play the fool ; 
 
 And I, starting to test the world alone, 
 
 Owned no defeat, uttered no whining moan, 
 
 Buckled my harness on with seeming zeal, 
 
 Resolved to ape a joy I did not feel. 
 
 "Fate led me to a stately Spanish Don 
 With two young daughters, brilliant as the sun, 
 But full of Eve as are those impish creatures 
 Branded with all perfection in the features. 
 Nature must mete her favors with some grace, 
 Who gifts of wisdom have, show few of face. 
 No leopard in the brake was slimmer, neater, 
 Than she called commonly La Signorita, 
 And, like a leopard, she had talons hid 
 For such as failed to do her will when bid. 
 
 " Donna Inez, the younger by a year, 
 
 Had tender eyes suspicious of a tear. 
 
 They were but just from Convent, where I ween 
 
 A bright perpetual torment they had been ; 
 
 For tis a freak of Nature, I believe, 
 
 That teaches every woman to deceive. 
 
 Why, they could mince, and laugh, and play coquette, 
 
 With any city belle I ever met. 
 
32 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 44 My task was breaking broncos. At my side 
 
 The pretty signoritas learned to ride. 
 
 My loyalty was often sadly tried ; 
 
 For those dark gleaming eyes beneath the lashes 
 
 Would scintillate as Summer lightning flashes. 
 
 Their father trusted me beyond conception, 
 
 My youth, perhaps, precluding all deception ; 
 
 But, stranger, when I have a brace of girls, 
 
 I ll never trust them to the cranks and quirls 
 
 Of any man, or be he young or old, 
 
 And you ll uphold me when my story s told. 
 
 " Donna Inez, I said, was shy and tender, 
 
 Needing a fearless gallant to defend her ; 
 
 Yet she contrived to cheat her trusting sire 
 
 With a dexterity you will admire. 
 
 I was not cheated quite, a latent taint 
 
 Of native doubt warding off the complaint. 
 
 It takes a Puritan a whole life lon^ 
 
 C> 
 
 Before his confidence grows hale and strong 
 In any given person, place or thing ; 
 And then he holds a mental reservation 
 To save his conscience from a deadly sting, 
 And salve his wounded pride and approbation. 
 
 "Don Olen de Pizarro, over late, 
 
 Halted one night before the plaza gate. 
 
 Ever hospitable, our courteous Don 
 
 Lavished all graceful favors on 
 
 His unknown guest, a suave and grateful guest, 
 
 When his good host escorted him to rest. 
 
The Tenors Story. . 33 
 
 But at the earliest dawn, a savage yell 
 Disturbed our sleep. On startled ears it fell. 
 The honoured guest, with an accomplice, crept 
 From the hospitable plaza while it slept ! 
 Was he a thief ? The lithe and boyish form 
 Mounted beside him, poor bird in a storm, 
 Was but the frailest, tenderest child in years, 
 To be reproved and pardoned after tears. 
 
 " Were they both thieves ? Five minutes, five, no more 
 And their pursuers numbered half a score. 
 The outraged Don close at my saddle spurred, 
 And Spanish blessings were not all I heard. 
 My steed, an Arab of untainted blood, 
 Knew not to pause for roaring fire or flood, 
 And soon outstripped the Don and all the pack, 
 Yelping like blood-hounds on a victim s track. 
 
 " He was a brick, my valiant Diabello, 
 
 A noble, gallant, most true-hearted fellow ! 
 
 Hunting in jungles to this sport was tame. 
 
 I singled out the stripling for my game, 
 
 And as we thundered over sands and boulders, 
 
 A wealth of raven tresses swept his shoulders ; 
 
 Shy, anxious glances peering o er the tresses 
 
 Expressing stronger fear than man expresses ; 
 
 As I a note of exclamation mumbled, 
 
 My stallion faltered, grasped the bit, and stumbled. 
 
 " He was as knowing as the keenest human, 
 And courteous as a lord to any woman. 
 
34 I-cttcrs frcin Colorado. 
 
 JVliy! Donna Inez many a time and oft, 
 
 d P**d his great head in embraces soft. 
 "So, when he halted, could I urge him forward 
 My own fast oozing courage turning coward 
 
 1 he youngest one a woman was I knew; 
 
 J I avoid the inference I drew ? 
 Or that Diabello was past control 
 
 on the Don joined us with a raging soul? 
 "Escape ? Of course ! \Ve had no other teed 
 
 o match Diabello in pluck and speed 
 And he was lame, limped with a weary gait _ 
 
 1. shard to kick against the pricks of fLt 
 But his great eyes were full of silent laughter 
 the checkmated Don came ambling after. 
 "Donna Jnez had met the rogue at school 
 Even at the Convent, where such stringent rule 
 Environed all their budding maidenhood 
 
 force an erring nature into good 
 AH her shy tricks, sly glances, templin- smiles 
 "ere a light practice in coquettish wiles, 
 1 hat till the lagging Olen should appear 
 She shot at any target that was near." 
 
LETTER VIII. 
 
 WAGON WHEEL GAP. 
 
 A SOLID rampart at our right 
 
 The Rio Grande close to left, 
 On its far bank a lowland bright 
 
 And hills by little gulches cleft, 
 A few rods, and the lowland meets 
 
 Another rampart, then the twain 
 Like leaders of two rival fleets 
 
 Seem bristling fierce to clash again. 
 
 As Saxon Harold s far-famed wedge 
 With force behind for instant needs, 
 
 And point of power on river edge, 
 The rampion at our left, recedes, 
 
 Its wedge like arm slow widening out, 
 A valley s narrow girth about, 
 
 While the opposing height uprears, 
 At intervals small corps of spears, 
 Nor once forgets its awful frown, 
 Or lays its regal grandeur down. 
 
36 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Yet as the valley opens wide 
 
 Eye fails to note its lofty pride. 
 
 The rather turns where bright and sweet 
 
 Green slope and silver river meet, 
 
 And fancy hears a wondrous song, 
 
 In every wave that rolls along. 
 
 A half mile stretch the valley shows, 
 Before two walls again enclose 
 The Rio, whose encroachments lave 
 Their granite base with treacherous wave, 
 Till scarce a bridle-trail is seen 
 The rock and river bank between. 
 
 " Magnificent ! " I cry. Our Tenor speaks. 
 
 " Wagon Wheel Gap ! " like file on saw it creaks. 
 
 \Vagon Wheel Gap ! Oh Pan, among the willows 
 
 Fringing the river, left you not one reed, 
 One swaying note upon the silver billows, 
 
 To help that mortal in his hour of need 
 That thus he called it? The unrythmic name 
 Suggests no beauty worthy of its fame 
 
 With watchtower, turret, buttress, battlement, 
 
 Clear cut against the yielding firmament. 
 
 Enter we here the unrocfed barbican 
 
 Where guarding moat, covered by drawbridge, ran. 
 
 There, wary sentinel a vigil kept 
 
 On the invading legions, as they crept 
 
Wagon- Wheel Gap. 3 7 
 
 Neath the beleaguered fort, whence massive stones 
 Buried them with their yet muttered groans. 
 See ! the huge boulders lie, as fiercely thrown 
 By wrath that matched the force of a cyclone. 
 The Rio Grande washes verdant banks, 
 That offer ceaselessly their voiceless thanks. 
 Above, two thousand upright feet on high, 
 The castellated ramparts pierce the sky. 
 
 And, as the eye up-gazes, creeps the chill 
 Of shuddering awe ; unshapen terrors fill 
 The cowering heart, untensing every nerve. 
 What if that towering magnitude should swerve 
 An atom from its central gravity ! 
 Never so certain looks eternity 
 As where those perpendicular columns lean 
 Towards the speck of blue that glints between ; 
 Or man s magnificence a thing so small, 
 As neath the shadow of that hanging wall. 
 
 Wise ones aver near here a lake once stood, 
 
 Its boundaries crushed by some o erwhelming flood 
 
 That sent its waters thundering into space, 
 
 Leaving geology to track the place. 
 
 In musty archives of Old Mexico, 
 
 A priest, tis said, rudely essays to show 
 
 That a grand lake of beauty all untold, 
 
 Fed by great streams that washed the mountains gold, 
 
 Lay in a mighty canon to the West 
 
 Imagination has supplied the rest. 
 
3 8 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Better the Tenor s legend suits my mood, 
 
 And yours, I ween if not as true, as good. 
 
 You have a lurking taste for the antique. 
 
 You cannot hear my charming comrade speak, 
 
 And miss the shades of humor, quaintly droll, 
 
 That add a flavor to our pleasant stroll. 
 
 We saunter as we talk beside the river, 
 
 Just where those towering bluffs can make us shiver 
 
 The bridle rein thrown lightly o er the arm, 
 
 The great pine trees shading us to a charm ; 
 
 Prairie and range filling the hazy West, 
 
 The fervid blue wrapping us round with rest, 
 
 And my companion s handsome figure leaning 
 
 Slightly, to emphasize some shade of meaning. 
 
 LEGEND. 
 
 This gorge, a splendid barricade 
 
 Against the entrance of a foe, 
 Once saw a grand barbaric show, 
 
 A gorgeous Indian cavalcade : 
 
 Pursuing Prince, whose comely mien 
 
 So won upon his people s grace, 
 Till he, as by acclaim, had been 
 
 Counted of perfect form and face, 
 And chosen living sacrifice 
 
 To glow upon the altar stone 
 An offering to their gods. Alone 
 
 Of fitting worth and price. 
 
Wagon- Wheel Gap. 39 
 
 War with unsparing hand, had given 
 
 Him countless victories ; 
 His captives cries uprose to heaven 
 
 As clouds from sacrifice. 
 But palled these joys when Love appeared, 
 
 Vested in many charms, 
 All tender witcheries endeared 
 
 By vague and veiled alarms. 
 
 And that which thro his budding years 
 
 Had rounded each desire, 
 Now harvested a score of fears, 
 
 Scorching his soul like fire ; 
 And renegade to faith, to all 
 
 But pleading Love, he proved, 
 Fleeing the solemn festival, 
 
 To clasp the form he loved. 
 
 There, where the hanging turret stands, 
 
 Tis said, the truant brought his love, 
 And with his own unaided hands, 
 
 Hurled missiles from above. 
 The Indian cohorts filed beneath 
 
 With martial songs and banners flying ; 
 There many a warrior met his death, 
 
 Where prowess and despair were vicing. 
 
 Two days he held his lonely tower 
 Against a legion s centered power ; 
 Nor might e en then his fate controlled 
 
40 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 In legends where the tale is told 
 Force shares the bays with stratagem 
 As rear detachments closely hem 
 Their ranks round the devoted pair, 
 With all the fervor of despair, 
 He folds around her budding grace 
 The shelter of his last embrace. 
 As with rude shouts the air is rent, 
 He leaps above the battlement, 
 And falls a mangled mass beneath, 
 Blunting the barbed shaft of death. 
 
LETTER IX. 
 
 LEGEND OF BELLOWS CREEK. 
 
 As on we move spreads out a broader view, 
 
 By mountains edged, old friends with graces new, 
 
 Patches of snow, and shades of tender green 
 
 At intervals in sheltered nooks are seen, 
 
 And far before us, to the distant West, 
 
 A peak, St. Mary s, in full ermine dressed. 
 
 She wears all summer an unspotted crest. 
 
 The hills beneath, just bursting into bloom, 
 
 Show vivid contrast to the rugged gloom 
 
 Of "timber-line," used here to designate, 
 
 A ponderous majesty that carries weight, 
 
 Being so high beyond most human reach, 
 
 It merits reverence and careful speech. 
 
 An undulation hides the upper vale. 
 Perforce our foreground must take up the tale. 
 The South side shows its breeding : stature low, 
 More graceful profile, sunny, dimpled brow, 
 With aspens, varied foliage, and pines 
 In rounder forms and finer, softer lines. 
 
42 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Our Northern rampart still close contact keeps, 
 Not quite so near to where the Rio creeps, 
 Tho in as haughty majesty looks down 
 From beetling front, with never softening frown, 
 Till suddenly it ends. 
 
 A torrent rushes 
 
 Beneath a canopy of willow bushes ; 
 The Rio Grande intervenes between. 
 We breast its current, and a rugged scene 
 Of Northern strength, sublimity and might, 
 Grand beyond measure, bursts upon our sight : 
 Uneven pyramids of uncouth rocks, 
 Upheaved by floods or fierce volcanic shocks, 
 Here square their front in a defiant shield; 
 Once to overwhelming pressure forced to yield, 
 They dare attack from any lesser power 
 And watch in solemn calm a coming hour. 
 
 Tho near the " Gap," a differing air they bear, 
 
 Hardly so rugged, for the outlines wear 
 
 The grace of greenness. Gleams of color fling 
 
 A wondrous freshness where they deign to cling. 
 
 This torrent has a "gap." Methinks they all 
 
 Were placid lake or joyous waterfall 
 
 In the fair days when all the earth was new 
 
 And but the Maker s eye beheld the view ; 
 
 Since in enchantment held by alchemy, 
 
 Till the millcnium shall set them free, 
 
 And send them lightly leaping, gaily dashing 
 
 O er their old tracks, in sunlight brightly flashing 
 
Legend of Bellows Falls. 43 
 
 Huge rocks and leaping torrent glorious sight! 
 Our Tenor, watching my unfeigned delight, 
 Tells me this legend. Gulch and granite peaks 
 Bristle with living armies as he speaks : 
 
 LEGEND. 
 
 This creek, the wise ones say, was once a river, 
 Bore on its bosom many a birchen boat ; 
 
 Its history, for us, has passed forever, 
 Saving one only legend worthy note. 
 
 No deed of might ; only a simple story, 
 Dear to the poet, few of words, soon told ; 
 
 But like a jewel in a crown of glory, 
 
 Does more illume its garniture of gold: 
 
 Tezco, a petty chief, whose greatness shines 
 Like a grey ruin overhung with vines, 
 Had no ancestral lineage, no name, 
 Save that his own strong hand had won from fame. 
 By gracious manners, from his earliest years, 
 He won the admiring favor of his peers ; 
 And when a signal service to the crown 
 Brought more substantial gifts, with more renown, 
 When, to arrest the North invader s course, 
 His the strong fortress at the river s source, 
 With twice ten hundred spearmen held in fief 
 Lived in the land no more beloved chief. 
 
 Love found him there scaled over rampart walls, 
 Entered unbidden guest within his halls ; 
 
44 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Tempted his eagle spirit to defy 
 All chance, and set its soaring flight too high 
 On Lamia, daughter of a race of kings, 
 Who saw, unmoved, his martial garnishings ; 
 While scornfully a haughty father spurned 
 At honors prowess had so newly earned, 
 Till Tezco s fiery passion writhing died, 
 Pierced by a shaft from his own wounded pride. 
 
 But the fortune of war brought the arrogant sire 
 With the monarch of Tezco at strife, where the fire 
 Of the chief s fearless eyes, flashing back to his own, 
 Defiant as fate in their confidence shone. 
 
 An army behind him, unused to defeat, 
 Whose furious onslaught precluded retreat, 
 By wedging the ranks of the foe as they part, 
 Many swords strike as one when the chief sways the 
 heart. 
 
 As a pine in a forest of aspen uprears, 
 
 Its crest o er the nodding, pale plumes of its peers, 
 
 So Tezco, above the fierce battle is seen 
 
 In snowy white helmet with feathers of green. 
 
 Arms bare to the shoulder, his proud throat is bare, 
 His keen falcon glances flash hither and there, 
 He strikes with both hands as, disdaining a shield, 
 His voice, like a bugle-note, sounds o er the field. 
 
Legend of Bellows Falls. 45 
 
 He strides like a giant mid arrow and spear, 
 He bears a charmed life that no missile conies near, 
 As he hews out a way thro a forest of foes, 
 Who fall as the trees at the wood-cutter s blows. 
 
 Is he stricken with fear, or asatiate with blood 
 That suddenly alters the bent of his mood? 
 He pauses with sword raised, the battle unwon, 
 While his breastplate of feather-work gleams in the sun. 
 
 Ah ! there in his pathway, down-crushed by disgrace, 
 A mist of white hair streaming over his face, 
 Slight wounded, but pierced to the spirit full sore, 
 Lies the king, and the strong arm is valiant no more. 
 
 The space of a breath o er his captive he stands 
 A victor, then dashes the sword from his hands, 
 And kneels to the fallen, on each cheek imprints, 
 The kiss of a pardon that prince gives to prince, 
 And there at the feet of the conqueror died, 
 Wholly vanquished by love the last vestige of pride. 
 
 A shout from both armies surged over the field, 
 Abandoned the sword was, discarded the shield, 
 And children to Tezco and Lamia grew, 
 In beauty, like flowers that are covered with dew. 
 
 We do not ford again, but keep the pass 
 Known as the " Old Ute trail." This, progress has 
 Discarded for a road exacting toll, 
 That pound of flesh to many a weary soul. 
 
46 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 I am enchanted with my charming friend, 
 
 Keep wondering if his stories have an end. 
 
 Guessing my thoughts he speaks : " In early d.iys 
 
 When jacks were means of transport, and our ways 
 
 For transportation, unbroke trails, now seen 
 
 As fading pencil-marks among the green, 
 
 I freighted, led a reckless, vagrant life 
 
 Full of vicissitudes, with clangers rife ; 
 
 Yet learned I much to yield a poet pleasure, 
 
 Could he but touch the spring that guards the treasure 
 
 Legend of haunted gulch and charmed steep, 
 
 Or tale historical, full good to keep ; 
 
 For, true or fabulous, they hold a place 
 
 Among the folk-lore of a dying race. 
 
 " The Utes dwelt in this valley when I came 
 First on this trail. Their chief, unknown to fame 
 Yet friendly-minded, spoke my native tongue 
 Better than all I met, and would prolong 
 The night till morn, filling my open ears 
 With just such tales as youth insatiate hears." 
 
LETTER X. 
 
 A POET S ROMANCE. 
 
 TO-NIGHT we camp upon the plain 
 The rolling clouds are big with rain ; 
 And waiting for a burro-train 
 
 Is not a pleasant duty. 
 Our supper s in those wandering sacks 
 Which faith has anchored to their backs 
 A hungry poet sadly lacks 
 
 An inspiring sense of beauty. 
 
 Our lazy Tenor half asleep 
 
 Does slyly thro drooped lashes peep, 
 
 While merry songs in snatches creep 
 
 Between his exclamations, 
 I, every thought on supper rife, 
 Keep wondering if a camping life 
 Has compensation for its strife, 
 
 Its flesh-thorns and vexations. 
 
 Oh ! who spurs fast to join our feast ? 
 A fair and three times welcome guest 
 In plumed hat and habit dressed, 
 No city belle completer ; 
 
4-8 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 She rides her mustang with the grace 
 Of Dian, in the sacred chase ; 
 My host, catching her half-hid face, 
 Murmurs " La Signorita." 
 
 My hunger flees, for at a glance 
 
 A poet catches a romance 
 
 And would not miss the slightest chance 
 
 To win immortal honor. 
 Our suave and gracious cavalier, 
 With bare head slightly bent to hear, 
 Does by attentive glance appear 
 
 To wait upon her. 
 
 They speak the sweet Castilian tongue 
 Liquids of pearl on amber strung ; 
 As if a passionate utterance sprung 
 
 To lips that speak ; 
 And all Spain s vanished glory glows 
 In almond eye, and damask rose, 
 That with the purple current flows 
 
 Thro rounded cheek. 
 
 The cynosure of every eye, 
 
 Yet thro no movement could you spy 
 
 If other than the one was by 
 
 Who listened to her ; 
 Her calm position statuesque, 
 Her graceful drapery picturesque 
 Her tout ensemble arabesque 
 
 No etching truer. 
 
A Poet s Romance. 49 
 
 Presto / the scene has changed : our cavalier 
 With call to supper asks this queen to share, 
 And, not to be outdone in courtesy 
 She has consented smiling charmingly. 
 A burro-saddle is her royal seat, 
 A blanket footstool for her dainty feet, 
 With small lace kerchief spread upon her knee, 
 She holds tin cup and court with equal ease. 
 Her broken English is a chime of bells, 
 Her silvery laughter in low ripples swells, 
 And every miner at our humble board 
 Comforts himself as knight and noble lord. 
 
 Protecting tho the manner of my host, 
 
 I marvel at her confidence the most. 
 
 " She seems," I said, " to have no thought of fear," 
 
 " Nor has she cause," he answered; " I am here." 
 
 His hand, as half unconscious, touched his belt, 
 
 Wholly conclusive argument I felt. 
 
 Poets have earned the right to moralize 
 On human hopes, and human fallacies, 
 But I am so convulsed with secret laughter 
 I ll tell my tale, and think a moral after. 
 
 For my romance fell with a mighty crash, 
 As fairest structures will, a total smash ; 
 The father Don, and his surviving daughter 
 Are camped below us on the stream of water 
 The early settlers christened "Bellows Creek 
 (Not from its aptness, nor euphonious Greek) . 
 
5O Letters from Colorado. 
 
 The hapless Don, seeing our cavalcade, 
 " La Signorita " sent to seek our aid 
 Their bronco horses, absent on French leave 
 Have left the striken camp to rave and grieve, 
 Her nag the only creature left to ride ; 
 And he, inflated with true bronco pride, 
 Will not permit another soul to mount 
 And thus I have my story to recount. 
 
 A camping party never ties its horses 
 
 Freedom recuperates the wasted forces, 
 
 And tis no trifle to reclaim a brute 
 
 Who travails all creation to recruit ; 
 
 For he most shrewdly takes his cue from man, 
 
 With freedom given pilfers all he can, 
 
 Recklessly kicking at a coaxing rein 
 
 That aims to win to duteous paths again 
 
 The burro adding his sonorous screech 
 
 In vindication of abuse of speech 
 
 A trick some humans have, perchance the shoot 
 
 Left lurking from a kindred parent-root ; 
 
 Men are of different gifts as well as shapes, 
 
 Why not from asses sprung, as well as apes ? 
 
 Man s not the only creature to abuse 
 The gifts the gods have given him to use, 
 But he alone, alas ! can rhapsodize, 
 On liberty extolling to the skies, 
 Yet in his rhapsody forgets to paint, 
 The highest liberty as self restraint. 
 
A Poet s Romance. 5 1 
 
 WHO COMES TO COLORADO? 
 
 Who comes to Colorado 
 
 To spy a naked land, 
 Should stay his steps in summer 
 
 Beside the Rio Grande ; 
 Altho no brook of Eschol, 
 
 Most lovely to be seen, 
 Its silver waves caressing 
 
 A thousand isles of green 
 
 Isles, breathing still of Eden, 
 
 For there the sweet wild-rose 
 Scatters her dainty perfume 
 
 To every wind that blows ; 
 Far-stretching to th horizon 
 
 Are massive peaks on guard, 
 Lest the encroaching river 
 
 Usurp their barren sward. 
 
 A soft ascent of meadow, 
 
 Foothills of tender brown, 
 Whose sunflecked pines and aspen 
 
 Temper the range s frown ; 
 Their beetling brows as arid 
 
 As the Sahara waste, 
 Rivaled by crowns of verdure, 
 
 Or snow as Dian chaste, 
 
$2 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Rest, an embodied spirit, 
 
 Marshals the columned clouds 
 That serried crests envelope 
 
 In spotless, fleece-white shrouds, 
 Their shapes serenely rolling 
 
 Against a sky so blue, 
 The peace past understanding 
 
 Seems just beyond the view. 
 
 It shadows all the landscape, 
 
 Touches the rugged pine, 
 Till rock and jagged boulders 
 
 In novel beauty shine, 
 With the great rolling river 
 
 Onrushing at his feet, 
 The naked land fades surely 
 
 Into a charmed retreat ; 
 
 And when a gorgeous sunset 
 
 Stencils the river s banks, 
 Where the great San Juan ranges 
 
 Part their defiant ranks, 
 His eyes may feast on beauty, 
 
 Watching distracted rays, 
 Astray in boundless ether 
 
 And dizzy with amaze ; 
 
 Behold familiar colors 
 
 Transform before his eyes, 
 
 Till words are faint to picture 
 Their ever-changing dyes 
 
A Poefs Romance. 53 
 
 Till orange, green and purple 
 
 Merge into jasper brown, 
 And the lost waifs of amber 
 
 Brighten the evening s crown. 
 
 Who leaves a world behind him 
 
 To seek a restful land, 
 Will find a poet s haven 
 
 Beside the Rio Grande ; 
 His heart will throb exultant, 
 
 All carking care repressed, 
 When he can hear the river 
 
 Chanting a hymn of rest. 
 
LETTER XI. 
 
 LEGEND OF THE DEVILS GATE. 
 
 I HALF suspect a feeling more than kind 
 Lurks treacherous in our handsome Tenor s mind 
 "La Signorita " -ward. Some lover s freak 
 Commands that all the truant broncos seek ; 
 And acts, whose motives show no other cause, 
 Are easy to adjudge by Cupid s laws. 
 
 Tis Sabbath morning and your church bells ring 
 Clear to the Rockies, faintly whispering 
 Thro memory s chords some feelings of regret. 
 The hunting party is not gathered yet, 
 And my good host, too restless far to wait, 
 Suggests we wander to the Devil s Gate ; 
 I, hardly knowing if it leads beyond, 
 Follow in simple faith, as crude as fond. 
 
 This Willow Creek in which is pitched our tent 
 Comes thro the Gate, by mountain torrents sent 
 Down to the Rio Grande. Tis a vent 
 Of narrow boundaries, but impetuous force 
 When winter s melting treasures swell its course. 
 
Legend of the Devil s Gate. 55 
 
 Towards the gorge on either hand uprise, 
 Crested with pine, hills clad in sober guise, 
 Nor yet so near but an expanse is seen, 
 Of sky and shapely terraces between, 
 While to the left, bordering upon the plain, 
 The work of fire or flood appears again. 
 
 Piled in fantastic heaps one s fancy drapes 
 The jagged rocks with all imagined shapes : 
 An Abbey turret with its belfry spire 
 Is clearly seen, perhaps a funeral pyre 
 Was kindled there for holy monk and friar ; 
 A knightly figure, half-hid by a shield, 
 With sword and helmet ready for the field. 
 
 The force which flung these relics to the left, 
 From crown to foot a wall of porphry cleft, 
 Leaving two columns of unequal height, 
 Clean-fronted, living trophies of its might, 
 And almost could a clasp unite again, 
 So small an interval divides the twain. 
 On either side the Devil s Gate they loom, 
 Seeming to guard the very keys of doom. 
 
 Somber and grey are the enchanted halls 
 
 Enclosed by nature s uncemented walls. 
 
 Barely in other canon is surpassed 
 
 This rugged grandeur. Guarding portal passed, 
 
 The awe of mystery about us cast, 
 
 We enter sacred ground, where vaulted roof 
 
 Recedes in sentient majesty aloof 
 
56 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 From earthly contact. Shrub-clad, tier on tier 
 
 Of rocky terraces like steps appear 
 
 Enticing up; but deer or antelope 
 
 Could scarce keep footing on their treacherous slope, 
 
 The gorge, in depth perhaps three thousand feet, 
 Breaks at one side where rival torrents meet. 
 These have hewn out a path from snows remote 
 To join the river ; with triumphant note 
 Over their rocky harriers they gloat. 
 Here is the name of Devil s Gate most apt 
 Ledge upon ledge of shapeless granite capped 
 By ledge on ledge of more. No horse can climb 
 The savage steep, defiant but sublime ; 
 And man were mad to dare so rash a deed, 
 For, where beyond, the Devil s Gate may lead 
 No mortal knows, they say, and none can see 
 It seems to vanish in eternity. 
 
 " Te Deum Laudamus ! " The silver-keyed voice 
 Rolled up thro the canon an anthem of praise, 
 The song of a soul over-burdened with joys, 
 A child giving thanks to the author of days. 
 Oh ! fill your cathedral arches with hymns, 
 Trill symphonies learned with a well-tutored tongue ! 
 But the notes that upswell when the heart overbrims 
 Is the grandest " Laudamus " that ever was sung. 
 
 An eagle, poising on a shelving rock, 
 Seems like a cynic critic come to mock. 
 
Legend of the Devil s Gate. 57 
 
 With ceasing anthem, up aloft he springs, 
 A small tornado in his whirring wings. 
 He swoops anear -, a shriek of mortal pain 
 Follows his wake as he upsoars again 
 With prey held fast in talons keen to hold. 
 His savage eyes are fearsome to behold 
 A shot well aimed, and at our feet he lies, 
 Defiance but no pleading in his eyes, 
 For, king in life, king to the last, he dies. 
 
 LEGEND. 
 
 Our Tenor, toying with the great dead bird 
 Spake musingly : " A marvelous tale I heard 
 About this canon from the old Ute chief 
 A marvelous tale not easy of belief, 
 Tho none so potent of the gifts of Jove, 
 For good or evil, as a woman s love. 
 
 " Prince Creto, scion of a Northern race, 
 To Arthur s virtues adding Launcelot s grace, 
 When summer spread her blazonry of flowers, 
 Brought here his bride to pass new-wedded hours 
 Strange, in a frame already bent and old, 
 Was the chief s ardor, as he glibly told 
 Over her beauties : eloquent his tongue, 
 And every word in portraiture was strong. 
 The good prince won eulogiums, if more mild, 
 Still fond as father doting gives his child, 
 Quick to reward or praise he was, and brave, 
 Courteous to noble, gracious to the slave, 
 
58 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 And in his royal carnage to his bride 
 A very god of love personified. 
 
 But Tezcalla aweary soon became 
 
 Of love so loyal as Prince Crete s flame ; 
 Potiphar s wife yields us a prototype 
 
 In every clime, and Helen s world-wide name 
 Hangs up by Cleopatra s, barely ripe. 
 
 Beside some moderns, emulous of fame, 
 This northern queen only a glorious brute ; 
 
 Decoyed as sweetly as her whiter kin, 
 Offered the ashes of a Dead sea fruit, 
 
 And called the glamour love, which gilt the sin, 
 
 Her noble liege, if seeing, made no sign 
 Save that a mocking devil lit his eyes ; 
 In generous nature faith most hardly dies 
 
 Yet brought he to quick shape a dear design. 
 
 A bridge of stone, tis said, this canon spanned 
 In that far time six men could walk abreast 
 
 Across the arch ; and here the monarch planned 
 To build an eyrie for secluded rest, 
 
 Where like an eagle he could look aloft 
 Above the world, defy the whims of fate, 
 Rear his young brood beside his royal mate, 
 
 Nor know if men approved, or rudely hcoflecl, 
 
TJie Legend of the DeviVs Gate. 59 
 
 Then all his busy slaves their knowledge plied ; 
 
 The canon echoed to the tramp of feet ; 
 
 There came Tezcalla, undulating sweet, 
 Her paramour full often at her side. 
 
 Prince Creto gracious, asked their wisdom here 
 Should this be thus ? or so ? or even so ? 
 Like coals the devil in his eyes would glow, 
 
 Yet felt they no forboding thrill of fear. 
 
 Finished the palace, bravely garnitured 
 With every dainty to be bought of gold ; 
 And in a spot so lovely to behold 
 
 Seemed not already perfect bliss assured ? 
 
 A lover s paradise, with tempered light 
 One tiny window hewn thro solid stone. 
 
 Prince Creto made the end a gala night, 
 Bade queen and lover sup with him alone. 
 
 Flowers weighed the air with langorous perfume, 
 Rich and rare viands graced the princely feast, 
 Seductive music sensuous swelled and ceased 
 
 As the charmed guests surveyed the banquet-room. 
 
 Prince Creto bade them eat. " Each dish," he said, 
 " Was subtly poisoned, and all rare device 
 
 Had decked the food whereby they must be fed 
 Unless for daily wants love should suffice." 
 
60 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Then left he with a smile of courteous grace 
 A great stone door rolled up to close them in. 
 
 Below, the slaves were marshalled into place 
 And outward marched to songs and martial din, 
 
 Joyously rose the strains ; far echoes woke 
 To answering glee ; speeding the mirth along, 
 These giant pillars caught the life of song 
 
 And into raptures broke. 
 
 Night in celestial robes of blue and gold 
 
 Above the host a cloudless arch spread over ; 
 Into the sanctity of loved and lover 
 
 A flood of music rolled. 
 
 But music there in dainty cunning failed 
 Was it the tiny window was so small 
 That as the swelling circles reached the wall 
 
 Echo but shrieked and wailed ? 
 
 The solitude masked those sounds retained, 
 Varying the shrillest cry with savage shout, 
 Tenacious to the rocks they twined about 
 
 And ceaselessly complained. 
 
 While early autumn winds played soft and cool 
 Among the garlands in September s hair; 
 
 When morn her toilet made in sleepy pool, 
 Those notes crept even there. 
 
 When purple mists against the foothills hung 
 And breeding peace with tender noon-day fell 
 On the deserted valley like a knell 
 
 Out clear that echo rung. 
 
Legend of the Devil s Gate. 61 
 
 Tis said the zenith of September s reign 
 
 Brings back those awful sounds, 
 And as upon that night, the gorge again 
 
 With agony resounds. 
 
 The gentle Prince incarnate fiend became, 
 A terror to his followers as his foes ; 
 
 A scourge upon the land, a brand of shame 
 As plant unduly urged to garbage grows. 
 
 A century after, one unwalled the door, 
 
 A sight beheld that well nigh had unmanned 
 
 The lover prone upon the dust clad floor, 
 Tezcalla, poniard raised in fleshless hand. 
 
LETTER XII. 
 
 LEGEND OF SUNNYSIDE. 
 
 As we emerged beyond the pale immortal, 
 
 Our Tenor left me at the outer portal. 
 
 I found the camp deserted. Solitude 
 
 To-day a little jarred upon my mood ; 
 
 And so it fell, the plain which westward lies 
 
 Assumed enticing outlines in my eyes 
 
 A mountain torrent changes every scene. 
 
 I ve learned the sign: a strip of willow green ; 
 
 Nor fails it here, for there a fisher stands, 
 
 Air all absorbed, rod clenched in steady hands, 
 
 I read suspicion rousing in his glance. 
 
 lie takes my measure with a leer askance 
 
 And by some subtle instinct instant sees 
 
 " I am a Tenderfoot, sir, if you please." 
 
 Contempt is the first feeling in his mind, 
 The next, a careless thought a shade more kind, 
 At which, if self-esteem takes no offence 
 One s chance to gain his good will is immense. 
 
Legend of Sunny side. 63 
 
 I swallow mine, and step to royal favor, 
 As witness, all his subsequent behavior. 
 
 He bade me share his dinner, trout and deer, 
 Food fit for gods, if lacking other cheer ; 
 But he could talk, not like our Tenor truly 
 Words not so classic, grammar more unruly ; 
 Miner he was, his camp at Sunnysicle 
 The world for him held little else beside. 
 Once in his cabin, all the gracious ease. 
 Which gratifies by a desire to please 
 Charmed, as no luxuries without it can, 
 The welcome of a hospitable man. 
 Our meal he cooked himself, and while we dined, 
 My eager questioning called this tale to mind : 
 
 LEGEND. 
 
 A few log cabins nestling in the bushes, 
 
 A narrow valley laughing in the sun ; 
 A mountain stream, that ever widening rushes 
 
 To swell the river and its life is done. 
 
 Now Miner s Creek, but when Chulo was reigning, 
 His language called it " Gold-gleam from the West." 
 
 T was broader, rougher, flowed as now complaining 
 To the grey Rio Grande, seeking rest ; 
 
 And legends say, to dark-skinned Aztec daughters 
 Testing the charm of tempted Marguerite : 
 
 "He loves, he loves me not" the sun-flecked waters 
 Failed never to return an answer sweet. 
 
64 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 There buried in a waste of rude foundations 
 Are Aztic relics crudely carved in stone ; 
 
 Cemented walls of ruined habitations, 
 Tokens of luxury in ages gone. 
 
 And history says, a people glad of spirit, 
 Blest of the gods, dwelt happy in this vale ; 
 
 Haunts that the beaver and the fox inherit 
 Once rang in triumph to a marvelous tale. 
 
 Oh, young Lochinvar tho he came from the West ; 
 
 May doff his gay bonnet and lower his crest ; 
 
 For proud tho the plumes which his valor may wave, 
 As brilliant the glory of Chulo the Brave ! 
 
 The swiftest of foot, and the lightest of hand, 
 His war trophies counted by scores in the land ! 
 His spears were bedecked by the pride of the fair 
 And no passage of arms but his courage would dare. 
 
 An army victorious returning in pride 
 Bore chained with its victims, his terrified bride, 
 And barbed the arrow fear plunged in his breast 
 To fetter his actions and torture his rest. 
 
 She saw him look on with a stupified stare, 
 Nor knew in that gaze couched the strength of despair; 
 No offer could ransom, no prowess could save, 
 If failed her the strong arm of Chulo the Brave. 
 
 The holiday crowd in their gala attire 
 
 Stood waiting the touch of the torch to the fire, 
 
Legend of Sunny side. 65 
 
 The choristers chanted the hymnal of life, 
 The priest at the altar had whetted the knife 
 
 When swift as the lightning outdarts from the sky 
 And blinds by its swiftness, with leap and a cry, 
 Undaunted hung Valor the shambles above, 
 And bore off the doomed on the pinions of Love ; 
 
 The swiftest of foot, like a hind from the dart, 
 Scoured over the plains with his bride on his heart ; 
 And fierce tho the shout of the blood-waiting throng, 
 His triumph is lauded in story and song, 
 
 He fled to this valley and founded a race 
 
 Of giants in stature, Apollos in face, 
 
 As gentle of spirit as stalwart and bold 
 A nation of Nimrods and delvers for gold. 
 
 Their gods were the patrons of sunshine and showers, 
 Their incense the increase of fruit and of flowers. 
 As never a life on their altar was spent, 
 Tis marked as the epoch of Peace and Content. 
 
 Thus subtly the meshes which Cupid inwove 
 Taught even a savage the beauty of love, 
 
 And placed on the records of Love and of War 
 This Chulo the Brave by our own Lochinvar. 
 
LETTER XIII. 
 
 STRANGE THEMES. 
 
 CAMP breaks this morning, come the jacks 
 To their old fare, abuse and thwacks, 
 With sober faces, comic leer 
 Too innocent to be sincere, 
 Eager for mischief, miss no chance 
 To give some luckless wight a dance, 
 Stealing his socks, his towels, his soap, 
 His shirt, his shoes, his packing rope 
 No earthly trifle comes amiss 
 All he can reach a dainty is, 
 While curses rattle quick and loud 
 Like hail-stones thro the thieving crowd. 
 
 We ford the river to the public road, 
 My host and I. The burros with their load 
 Follow the trail, a narrow mountain pass 
 O erhanging many a gorge and deep crevasse ; 
 Deep Creek, in mass of swaying willows buried, 
 By its commotion seems intensely hurried, 
 
Strange Themes. 67 
 
 Like local politician, pompous, loud, 
 Compelling notice from the passing crowd. 
 Where the main road circles a narrow curve 
 By its impetuous fury forced to swerve 
 A rustic habitation lately stood. 
 A great stone chimney, yawning mouthed and rude, 
 With signs of life strewing the arid plain, 
 And some charred embers, now alone remain. 
 
 The curve at Deep Creek passed, we reach a height 
 Where an enchanting valley meets our sight, 
 And by the curling line of blue grey smoke 
 I know twas there our scattered camp awoke 
 Tho everywhere do gleams of beauty float, 
 Our Tenor never yet has hummed a note. 
 I wonder, but respect the silent mood, 
 Knowing tis thus the muses should be wooed. 
 
 Abruptly to the left a tiny square 
 
 Of rough hewn poles, arranged with rigid care, 
 
 Tell to the passer by a grave is there. 
 
 Said I, " He is unhappy who thus sleeps 
 
 In solitude where never any weeps." 
 
 " Blessed they are," our Tenor quick replied ; 
 " Babes of that home who both one midnight died, 
 Where with the followers of the rude storm king 
 Entered Death s messenger on noiseless wing. 
 
 " I missed my playmates, they were wont to greet 
 My coming with delight, half shy, all sweet, 
 
68 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Not long my absence ; but the awful lull 
 That welcomed my return was pitiful. 
 But, now, I seem to see the white-robed pair, 
 Hand clasped in hand, haunting the very air, 
 A breathless calm circles the ravine round 
 As we were trespassing on holy ground." 
 
 " Has death no terrors ? " " Nay, when such he weaves 
 
 Among the golden ripeness of his sheaves, 
 
 He but a messenger of peace can prove, 
 
 Offering the best gift in our Father s love. 
 
 What is death but a moment of eclipse 
 
 To rest our eyes before the dazzling beams 
 
 Of perfect day across our vision streams ; 
 
 To weary hearts fainting with weight of wrong 
 
 The last inn on a road too rough and long. 
 
 " Who would live alway ? With the pulse of youth 
 Beats faith in God, and trust in manhood s truth. 
 Life then is good, death but a goal far off, 
 Neither a theme for terror nor for scoff, 
 Simply fulfillment of establishing laws, 
 Until some priest-lore in his faith point flaws ; 
 Priests hold death as a scourge above their slaves, 
 Cross-bones and skulls, the charnel house and graves, 
 With the great judgment and a judge s curse 
 Symbolled in funeral pomp and somber hearse 
 Till we take symbols for the symbolized 
 And fear a boon the wiser ancients prized. 
 
Strange TJiemes. 69 
 
 " What can we give to our beloved ? No joy 
 So all unmixed but on the taste will cloy, 
 No gift without a canker at its heart, 
 No precious thing but can conceal a smart, 
 And death is God s last boon, divinest, best 
 Giving earth s weary children perfect rest." 
 
 I asked his creed. " The question presses close. 
 My duty is to lighten human woes, 
 To smooth the pathway for the frail and weak, 
 To help my brother open his pay-streak, 
 Give him a grub stake if the case require, 
 And keep the widow in a cheerful fire. 
 
 "In sober truth, the gist of modern creeds 
 Is like a wilderness of swaying reeds, 
 Thro* which it takes a keener eye than mine 
 To find the one trail to the Will Divine. 
 Form seems to rule, the Father of us all 
 Is wholly hid by gilded ritual, 
 Sinners are cloaked and hypocrites are rife, 
 Tis insufficient for our Western life. 
 
 " You smile ; but Western life is earnest, real 
 We need a creed we can apply and feel, 
 We want our souls untrammeled as our feet, 
 To pray or sorrow at the mercy-seat. 
 In inquisitions no device of pain 
 Concealed a torture like the viewless chain 
 
70 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Which early faith binds to a victim s heart. 
 I ve seen its power at work with cunning art, 
 And speak whereof I know. Our rugged life 
 Is a continuous war, a savage strife 
 To grasp requirements for our daily needs. 
 We find sparse time to jangle over creeds, 
 And blest is he to whom one God remains, 
 Who from his soul can say Jehovah reigns, 
 When he has wrenched away those early chains. 
 
 "A man s coarse nature hardens into flint 
 With the corroding care and anxious stint 
 Of urging pennies to a sovereign s duty 
 It takes all polish off his sense of beauty ; 
 And when a woman, dainty born and bred, 
 High dreams of self-denial in her head, 
 A martyrdom for love before her spread, 
 Leading her husband bravely by the hand, 
 Comes tripping to this grand but churchless land, 
 The boundless range of all our winter snows 
 Cannot outlook the prospect of her woes. 
 So surely as spring suns those snows will clear 
 Her trust in priest and creed will disappear. 
 
 " Even at the best this doleful state obtains. 
 
 Bonanzas must be worked, tho rich and rare. 
 Labor is king, and misery despot reigns 
 
 No charming outlook for a well-matched pair. 
 
Strange Themes. 
 
 What but blank wretchedness for couples curst 
 By being tied together at the first. 
 These rush upon a fate too surely theirs 
 Without an unknown quantum in affairs. 
 Man bolstered by society s strong props, 
 Finds his true status when the scaffold drops. 
 In a new country he must stand alone, 
 From native grit rebuild even structural bone ; 
 Nor is it long before the problem s solved 
 If grit be there. It never is evolved. 
 
 " Woman not brave ? You surely do but jest. 
 All we revere as courage fits her best : 
 Patience, endurance, hope that looks aloft 
 Above the lees she has persistent quaffed, 
 Dependent, timid, shrinking in a crowd 
 Here in the open shows a soul embowed, 
 Throws off inertia, and with half a mate 
 Wrenches success from the most adverse fate. 
 
 " She starts in for a * patent ; means to win ; 
 All her high strung physique fierce to begin. 
 He often faints, discouraged at his stake ; 
 The ills to be surmounted make him quake ; 
 And oftener yet alas ! he sits and thinks, 
 Pities himself, curses his luck, and drinks. 
 
 " Shame goads him on, downward and down he goes 
 Swifter than avalanche of loosened snows, 
 
7- Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Then she the brave, fronting the line of war, 
 
 Gay colors on her battle axe and car, 
 
 Defends the opening breach in her breast-works, 
 
 Ignores the traitor who more surely irks ; 
 
 Accepts her fate as one divinely given 
 
 Even as her creed dictates, red hot ; from heaven. 
 
 " Woman not brave ! Myself have seen her smile, 
 Belied by the great hunted eyes the while, 
 Till my soul shrank abashed, dismayed and cowed 
 Before the spirit in its martyr shroud. 
 
 " What jargon that of a primeval curse ! 
 The odious selfishness of man is worse. 
 The crawling worm will turn in self defense, 
 Yet woman holds no right to take offence, 
 
 " Or her imperial lord ; and we, his peers, 
 Will bring refined tortures, slurs and jeers, 
 The gibe of ignorance, the smile of scorn, 
 To make her loathe the hour that she was born. 
 For these are barbed beyond the cross and stake, 
 To make the gentle heart of woman quake. 
 Submission is her pass to life eternal, 
 As is rebellion to the realms infernal 
 One tenet dear to every Adam s son, 
 And by his ghostly counsellors passed on. 
 
 "Our nineteenth century culture talks; but facts, 
 Stubborn as fate itself, show how it acts : 
 Our slaves are freed ; dumb brutes upon the street 
 Allowed to seek redress from all they meet ; 
 
Strange Themes. 73 
 
 Orphans and waifs by liberal hands are fed; 
 
 Our wearied soiled cloves housed and comforted ; 
 
 Our murderers feted, while the prison cells 
 
 Of ghastly crimes are decked with asphodels. 
 
 But a good woman, neck- yoked to a beast, 
 
 Must thankful be, or silent at the least. 
 
 The world is breaking from its swaddling bands. 
 
 Priests grasp no longer all with impious hands. 
 
 Who would be first must stoop for his estate 
 
 Of Christian teacher, till men crown him great 
 
 Greatest when his humanity keeps pace 
 
 With godlike pity and redeeming grace. 
 
 Yet the old superstition firmly holds 
 
 That woman is the black sheep in the folds. 
 
 " Men have been monarchs of the world so long 
 There seems but small redress for such a wrong. 
 A scrap of sympathy perhaps they fling, 
 But dare not pause to draw the barbed sting. 
 Not wholly Levites, yet they fear to look 
 On hearts that custom makes a sealed book; 
 Shrink back from offering that by all denied, 
 To pass self-righteous on the other side. 
 
 " Suffrage ! Oh faugh ! That matter is too small ; 
 It hardly touches on the point at all. 
 The cause lies deeper : in the faith we re taught 
 That man as lord embodies human thought, 
 Gives him the right to flee when evils press, 
 Because by priestly shackles fettered less, 
 
74 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 While she is banned by every modern creed ; 
 Therefore is none to fill our Western need. 
 
 " For woman here the master-spirit is. 
 
 Man warms her heart because she kindles his 
 
 Flesh of his flesh, true helpmeet patient, fond. 
 
 Having to-day, she will not look beyond. 
 
 With passions like to his, how can she cling 
 
 In adoration to a bestial thing 
 
 Besotted, driveling, he who once has been 
 
 Her type of manhood. Where disgrace so keen ! 
 
 Then if her children hunger, God have pity 
 
 Reels to foundation the beleagured city. 
 
 " Woe to the craven who has robbed her brood ! 
 
 Woe to his shackles when they cry for food ! 
 
 A lioness in fury, faith nor creed 
 
 Withstands the home-thrusts of their clamoring need. 
 
 " What other love with mother-love compares, 
 The height and depth of sacrifice so dares? 
 That wondrous link between herself and child, 
 Even before his face on earth has smiled, 
 Transcends our wisdom ; for to her his eyes 
 Ever * look up in joy and not surprise. 
 Of her he craves his daily mite of food 
 And later every gift of higher good. 
 The grave may take his form, but never touch 
 Save hers must feed or smooth his nightly couch, 
 What fate betide, she cries before high heaven, 
 Here am I, Lord, and those whom Thou hast given/ 
 
Strange Tliemes. 75 
 
 Where is it mothers learn their love ? We know 
 That highest souls its highest type do show - 
 That these will most endure, and fiercest spurn 
 At every fetter when resolved to turn. 
 We should be merciful when such do strive 
 In desperate strength to keep their babes alive. 
 
 "Cases some score I know, and call to mind 
 
 This moment one, as dainty and refined 
 
 As cities breed, to aptly illustrate 
 
 How barbarous even now is woman s fate. 
 
 The country new, temptations hemmed her round, 
 
 She held her own saint guarding hallowed ground ; 
 
 Still clung to one who, with a silly smile, 
 
 Watched every snare, scarce conscious of its guile 
 
 Her church, her priest, her creed, with one acclaim 
 
 Chained her to him who honored with his name. 
 
 " Sudden and swift the avenging spirit woke, 
 Thro shackles welded by a life-time broke, 
 Flew in the face of slurs, of taunts and jeers, 
 With which cold malice settles all arrears ; 
 Clutched at the helping-hand out stretched to save, 
 Buried her past in its unhallowed grave, 
 Defied the tongues of slander, could she less ? - 
 And in her own strength wrought her own redress. 
 
 " The laws of state ? Aye, true, they set her free, 
 But Church laws bind her still in slavery. 
 Until the Judgment she must bear the shame 
 
76 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 "Of casting off allegiance to a name, 
 That was a brand like a devouring flame. 
 Whose mission tis to bind the broken heart 
 Have their harpoon within the cankered smart ; 
 Denied for her most natural behavior 
 The free gift of the meek and blessed Savior 
 Thus man dares measure God s Omnipotence 
 By his own gauging of a grave offence. 
 
 " Hers were the children ! Could their grieving cries 
 
 Be made the incense of her sacrifice ? 
 
 Could they seek pity in their mother s church, 
 
 Would food and shelter gratify the search ? 
 
 Full well we know small bounty would be theirs, 
 
 Save with her name omitted from their prayers. 
 
 For do they starve or beg, alike is flung 
 
 The blame at her from each reviling tongue. 
 
 1 Tis modern chivalry. Alas ! the best, 
 
 If not reviling, scourge her with a jest." 
 
 We rode in silence. I was awed, impressed 
 By strange ideas, in such strong words expressed. 
 While heart and training were at bitter strife 
 To reconcile these novel views of life, 
 There glimmered thro the fog of education ; 
 A crude but most uncomfortable sensation : 
 That life held ills beyond my calculation, 
 When glancing at his garb, his belt and pistols, 
 Studded with cartridges as bright as crystals, 
 
Strange Themes. 77 
 
 A sudden ponderance of the grotesque 
 Made havoc of the grave and picturesque. 
 
 Like sunlight flashing on a shaded stream, 
 Responsive to my glance did laughter gleam. 
 "I ll tell you now how we rough miners woo. 
 It has one merit : it at least is true." 
 
LETTER XIV. 
 
 THREE PHASES OF COLORADO LIFE. 
 COURTSHIP. 
 
 I HAVEN T much to offer, 
 
 But on the far hill-side 
 There is a pine-log cabin 
 
 Where I can take my bride. 
 The door is off its hinges, 
 
 The chimney too, does smoke, 
 It has a nice south window, 
 
 But every pane is broke. 
 
 The floor is hard and solid, 
 
 The roof in places split, 
 But one day s honest labor 
 
 Will make a home of it. 
 A table and three camp-stools, 
 
 Bedstead of undressed pine 
 Are all its present fixings 
 
 But then, there is the mine ! 
 
Courtship. 79 
 
 The North Star in Eureka 
 
 Alone will make us rich ; 
 The Golden Rod in Rico 
 
 I hardly can guess which 
 Will bring the most hard money, 
 
 But one thing I can tell : 
 It won t be long, my charmer, 
 
 Before you cut a swell. 
 Your dresses shall be velvet 
 
 As rainbow colors bright, 
 And sewed with pearls and diamonds 
 
 You ll set the world alight. 
 
 Sometimes she " freezes to him," 
 
 Sometimes " her pa s been there," 
 Then she mocks at his visions, 
 
 Nor gives his suit a care ; 
 As often is reluctant, 
 
 Half promises to wait 
 But girls are scarce as oak trees ; 
 
 Besides, the whims of Fate ! 
 
 The mines may prove a " fizzle" 
 
 The bare thought oils his tongue 
 To trill the same trite raptures 
 
 Lovers have always sung. 
 Original his motto, 
 
 Learned in his Western life : 
 " I ve as good a right as any 
 
 To take and starve a wife. 
 
So Letters front Colorado. 
 
 Here, " no respect of persons " 
 
 Should read " respect of things," 
 For sometimes fickle Cupid 
 
 Above them folds his wings. 
 Experiment rash ? V-e-r-y ! 
 
 For practice so no less 
 Fails often cabin s small to hold 
 
 A howling wilderness ! 
 
 Laughing I said : " The laws of compensation 
 Should yield such marriages self-approbation ; 
 There seems but little else save prospects only, 
 To keep the wedded one from growing lonely." 
 "Oh ! " he replied. " The art of living lies 
 Less in possessions than imaginings. 
 A miner from his dungeon on the heights 
 Evolves alike his sorrows and delights. 
 Hope to reality his life transforms, 
 Intensifies his sun, and gilds his storms. 
 A Christmas in the cabin will relate 
 How slightly trifles do affect his state : " 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE MINER S CABIN. 
 
 High over peaks whose ermine crest 
 
 It crowned with rainbow dyes, 
 The sun smiled in th expectant West 
 
 And tinged the purple skies ; 
 A blaze of brightness o er the plains 
 
 Its slanting radiance threw, 
 And from the cabin s dirt-grimed panes 
 
 A gleam of welcome drew. 
 
Christmas in the Miner s Cabin. 81 
 
 He paused to gaze. Th uplifted latch, 
 
 From nerveless fingers sliding, 
 Let in some truant beams, to catch 
 
 A glimpse of what was hiding 
 Th unbroken silence held even then 
 
 Spell-bound, a single second. 
 No more for scattering pearl and gem 
 
 Each to the other beckoned. 
 
 His lonely plate and sole tin-cup 
 
 Flash out in jeweled splendor; 
 His meager board is garnished up 
 
 By magic, rare and tender ; 
 His table is a snowy cloth, 
 
 His can, urn silver-mounted, 
 His solitary dip none loth 
 
 As gas to be accounted ; 
 
 His beans, a dish of raspberries gleams, 
 
 His bacon, white-fish toasted, 
 His shapeless mass of biscuit seems 
 
 A dainty turkey roasted ; 
 A coil of fuse to sausage turns ; 
 
 A keg of giant powder 
 Benignly in the sunbeams burns 
 
 A gallon pail of chowder. 
 
 A hanging coat bathed in the haze 
 
 Assumes the form of human, 
 Revealing to his startled gaze 
 
 The side view of a woman, 
 
82 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 He rubs his eyes. That instant dips 
 
 Behind the hills the sun ; 
 Fast each belated truant trips, 
 
 Its little task well done. 
 
 His home is dark, his board is bare ! 
 
 " I must have been mistaken ; 
 Tis a deceit, there s nothing there 
 
 But coffee, beans, and bacon. 
 Well " from his pocket takes a stone 
 
 " By Jove ! this is a whopper ; 
 Twill go ten thousand to the ton 
 
 Galena and grey copper. 
 
 "A million, cash in hand. No less 
 
 Can I afford to sell her; 
 For two I ll let her slide, I guess, 
 
 To that Chicago feller." 
 So sweet Contentment, which is gain, 
 
 Sits down with Hope beside him 
 More blest than we, who dream in vain, 
 
 So venture to deride him. 
 
 AT "THE BRIDGE." 
 
 "Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be 
 As more of heaven in each we see." 
 So sang my heart as the grey river glassed 
 The arch of heaven within it, as it passed, 
 Rolled over tiny isles and massive boulders, 
 A joy forever to entranced beholders. 
 
At " The Bridge." 83 
 
 It is another of those riant spots 
 
 Parceling the Rio Grande into dots 
 
 Of picturesque and perfect punctuation. 
 
 A fixed and striking note of exclamation 
 
 Is that pyramidal, cave-punctured rock, 
 
 Giant memento of an earthquake shock ; 
 
 The bush-decked banks, an undecided colon, 
 
 That shrink or swell as waves are low or swollen. 
 
 A period the blue arch bending o er us 
 To emphasize the Rio Grande s chorus ; 
 The hills above, beyond, interrogations 
 Of change in its perpetual gyrations 
 The whole unfolding clearly, as we look, 
 Into a faultless page from Nature s book. 
 
 " It is a perfect idyl," I exclaimed. 
 
 " Rightly the lovely Rio has been named. 
 
 Is it the unexpected yields such pleasure ? 
 
 One feels as falling sudden on a treasure, 
 
 When these delightful landscapes greet the eyes 
 
 Ever with newer and more keen surprise." 
 
 " Idyls of Colorado don t seem handy ; 
 
 I know none of the lovely Rio Grande. 
 
 This one, " he said " is commonplace perhaps, 
 
 But were our life successive thunderclaps, 
 
 We should appreciate a restful lull, 
 
 And vote perpetual rumbling vilely dull. " 
 
Letters from Colorado. 
 
 A COLORADO IDYL. 
 
 The " Sangre " loomed before us 
 
 Forbidding black as night ; 
 A pall funereal o er us 
 
 Intensified by light ; 
 Our " jack, " our beast of burden, 
 
 Disdained our pigmy wrath, 
 And cheerful seemed the guerdon 
 
 Of sleeping in a bath. 
 
 A growl like muttered thunder 
 
 Boomed from our muleteer ; 
 " Our jack has slipped from under 
 
 And dumped our provender. " 
 Meanwhile looked on that donkey, 
 
 Always benignly smiling, 
 Like some cherubic monkey 
 
 Obtuse to all reviling. 
 
 Our sugar was the sweetest 
 
 Concentered to all taste ; 
 Our flapjacks were the neatest 
 
 Of fancy jujube paste ; 
 Our coffee, ordered after, 
 
 Was truly past compare, 
 And in a gulp of laughter 
 
 We swallowed down a " svvare." 
 
 The rain poured on, a torrent 
 In necks and over faces ; 
 
 Predicament abhorent 
 To all Caucassian races ! 
 
A Colorado Idyl. 85 
 
 We flung our blankets round us, 
 
 Striving to cheat the wet ; 
 And thus the day-close found us, 
 
 A rather rueful set. 
 
 Just as in burst of splendor 
 
 Shone out the dying sun, 
 Serenely bound to render 
 
 Amends for evil done, 
 He took his dainty pencil, 
 
 Limned sky, and clouds, and trees, 
 With glowing bits of stencil 
 
 In rarest traceries. 
 
 Gold, orange, salmon, crimson, 
 
 Were blended faint with green, 
 To tip the purple rims on 
 
 The clouds that hung between ; 
 His slanting rays streamed from us 
 
 Thro all the moistened air ; 
 And one great bow of promise 
 
 Made earth divinely fair. 
 
 The " Sangre s " summits glowing 
 
 In countless hues and dyes, 
 His snowy raiment flowing 
 
 Alive before our eyes, 
 What wonder fortune beckoned 
 
 Above or.r trifling cares, 
 And we were in a second 
 
 Prospective millionaires ? 
 
LETTER XV. 
 
 LEGEND OF ANTELOPE SPRINGS GAP. 
 
 A CLEFT, or gap, formed by the mighty forces 
 
 That Nature brings from fathomless resources, 
 
 It bounds the high-way, towering, grand, imposing, 
 
 In rugged strength and majesty reposing 
 
 A natural fortress in a time of slaughter, 
 
 O er a ravine without a sign of water ; 
 
 Outlines of tower, impervious battlements, 
 
 Its stately bulwark to the eye presents. 
 
 Westward and to the left stretches a valley 
 
 Where legions in united strength might rally. 
 
 The snowy range, known as the Great Divide, 
 
 Turning all streams to the Pacific side, 
 
 Like a whole clan of kings with honors hoary, 
 
 Rear their white heads in uncontested glory, 
 
 And peer above the pigmy earth below, 
 
 Clad in imperial robes of spotless snow, 
 
 To the colossal scene of loveliness 
 
 A legend adds a touch of tenderness, 
 
 And calls to mind the jealous Jewish king 
 
 To whom the stripling David used to sing, 
 
 Whose harp and voice exorcised from his breast 
 
 The friends of wrath and shivering unrest. 
 
Legend of Antelope Springs Gap. 87 
 
 Chiapa, monarch of the Ilascalans. 
 Fought in this valley with the savage clans 
 Of the rude North ; and as their legends tell, 
 His trained battalions in vast numbers fell. 
 
 He, sick with anger, brooding in his tent, 
 Fondled the demons, Wrath and Discontent, 
 And none had power to chase, or exorcise 
 While death lowered dark from disaffected eyes. 
 
 Malia, a youth of marvellous grace, 
 Like David, fair of form and face, 
 Left herds untended on the plain, 
 To watch the carnage and the slain ; 
 And when the battle paused at night, 
 By songs turned the dark hours to light ; 
 Above the camp-fire s ruddy glow 
 The wond rous notes would ebb and flow, 
 Out o er the ravished army ring, 
 Until they reached the startled King. 
 
 Like Saul, Chiapa, sore oppressed 
 By spirits he had erst caressed, 
 Knew neither solitude nor rest. 
 His wearied courtiers plied in vain 
 All balms, upon the viewless pain, 
 Till Malia s voice swelled on the air 
 As hovers Hope above Despair. 
 
88 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 The King, with slowly kindling eye, 
 Yielded before the melody 
 That seemed a breath of sorcery, 
 Forming charmed circles round his head 
 Till discontent and anger fled, 
 Leaving armed Courage in his stead. 
 
 The stripling s songs brought ever restful peace. 
 
 A lavish honor every effort crowned. 
 
 Nor here to David does resemblance cease, 
 
 For courtiers envied, jealous favorites, frowned ; 
 
 Ever full armed, superior fortune brings 
 
 A ready host, supplied with slurs and stings. 
 
 Short was poor Malia s term of favor; 
 
 Malice, perchance some crude behavior 
 
 (He being but of tender years) 
 
 Adds his to many like careers 
 
 Fashioned upon a monarch s truth. 
 
 The voice of the ill-fated youth 
 
 Forgot its cunning, failed to please 
 
 To bring the chafing tyrant ease ; 
 
 And thro a quick repented burst of ire 
 
 Envy and malice gratified desire. 
 
 There, where the highest point of rocks 
 With the blue heaven interlocks, 
 Clangor from answering peak to peak, 
 Drowning the hapless victim s shriek 
 That even pity could not hear 
 Forced to the brink by hounding spear, 
 
Legend of Antelope Springs Gap. 89 
 
 His comely youth and budding beauty 
 To glinting-eyed revenge paid duty. 
 The marshaled legions all afield 
 In full regalia, spear and shield, 
 Saw his young body cleave in twain 
 Before it reached the rock-strewn plain. 
 
 Westward the sun in gorgeous dyes 
 Panoplied peaks and arching skies, 
 Enwrapped the torn mass in a fold 
 Of glittering rays like molten gold. 
 And some aver, his spirit yet 
 Traverses peak and minaret ; 
 When sunset hues flood the ravine 
 A glowing figure may be seen, 
 White robed like martyred saints of old, 
 Crested with auriole of gold. 
 
 The legend greater credence gains, 
 That King Chiapa strewed the plains 
 Lavishly with his noble dead ; 
 Then, like a coward, basely fled. 
 Shorn of all former power and glory, 
 Slighted alike in song and story, 
 He lived defiant of his fate, 
 A target for contempt and hate 
 
LETTER XVI. 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 TONIGHT, a crescent moon sails on a sea 
 
 Of blue, as boundless as eternity. 
 
 Where a faint tinge of amber lingers yet, 
 
 A fading memory tinctured with regret. 
 
 The gaunt, grey ranges outlined on the shore 
 
 Are tender as the days that come no more ; 
 
 While radiating from its home afar, 
 
 Like deathless Hope, beams forth the evening star, 
 
 And silence brooding the divinest calm, 
 
 Holds a great chord in Nature s perfect psalm. 
 
 "To the ridiculous from the sublime 
 
 Is but a step, " an adage old as time. 
 
 While our enraptured senses swept the skies, 
 
 Drinking in draughts of beauty thro our eyes, 
 
 One spake, (a fellow ever finding motes ), 
 
 " We re apt to have some wet before she floats " 
 
 Meaning the crescent, and our sudden fall 
 
 Was \vorse than Caesar s at the Capitol. 
 
Night and Morning. 91 
 
 We shivered as if rain were making tracks 
 Already down our unresisting backs, 
 Nor did it brighten matters, that we knew 
 Sometimes his horrid prophecies came true. 
 
 There are a dozen camp-fires on the plains, 
 Heavy freight teams, and unpacked burro-trains, 
 With creatures all alike, save black or white, 
 I wonder how their owners know the right, 
 For tho not birds, beasts are they of a feather, 
 And fraternize to eat and plot together. 
 
 The heavens curtain all, so gemmed with gold, 
 They are a beauteous marvel to behold. 
 As I unblest of sleep, pass from the tent 
 To share with solitude my discontent, 
 A homesick ache is gnawing at my heart, 
 All whom I love and I are wide apart ; 
 And this primeval beauty weighs like care. 
 The massive ranges, crested white or bare, 
 With foothills into densest shadow cast, 
 Seem haunted with the spirit of the past. 
 Their very magnitude is weird, unreal, 
 Shades undefined across their silence steal 
 Where the huge peaks in god-like grandeur rise 
 And god-like keep their buried mystery. 
 
 Morning is here and utter desolation 
 Broods with despair above the whole creation ; 
 At least on our creation, for tho small, 
 Yet being ours that pronoun covers all. 
 
92 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 It rained, it rains, and every thing is wet 
 Dame Nature liquidates a standing debt, 
 From parsimony jumps to lavish waste, 
 Pays compound interest with unseemly haste. 
 The tent is soaked, and leaks, our clothes and beds 
 Converted are to watertanks and sheds ; 
 Shed but a fraction, while the bulk seeps in, 
 Drenching the raptured dreamer to the skin, 
 While the foundation of a deluge creeps 
 Beneath the tent line where he sweetly sleeps. 
 The wood is damp, and utterly refuses 
 To lend itself a slave to man s abuses. 
 
 This tests a comrade to the very soul. 
 
 As in disgust all from their baths unroll 
 
 The natural Adam of each one crops out. 
 
 Some fling their blankets from them with a flout ; 
 
 Some bite their lips ; some vent their wrath in curses. 
 
 Show a rebellious spirit at reverses ; 
 
 One is quite blessed, the fellow seeking motes : 
 
 " We truly have some wet before she floats." 
 
 He puts on airs (this people call it style), 
 
 Surveys our misery with a pitying smile ; 
 
 But abject silence answers him ; the calm 
 
 Falls on his self-contentment like a balm, 
 
 Till bolder grown, watching our wordless woe, 
 
 He drawls out the remark, " I told you so." 
 
 Tis like a bombshell in a magazine, 
 As quickly makes a havoc on the scene ; 
 
Night and Morning. 93 
 
 Our much-enduring cook now maddened quite, 
 Flings down the kindling wood that will not light, 
 Catches the prophet roughly by the throat, 
 Hissing between his teeth, "You go and float; 
 As you re so glorified because it rains 
 You ought to have the pleasure for your pains." 
 He helps him with his boot toe thro the door, 
 And coolly turns to try the fire once more. 
 As if an evil spirit had departed 
 At the first match a merry blaze up started, 
 Flashed on the lowering faces in the tent, 
 Chasing the lingering gleams of discontent ; 
 Laughter and jest once more resumed their sway 
 And held a royal carnival all day. 
 
LETTER XVII. 
 
 MELODRAMATIC. 
 
 THIS wandering life throws you with strange companions 
 
 From city streets, mines, mountain-tops and canons. 
 
 Here, nature is in earnest ; if she shines, 
 
 She duplicates the mighty Apennines ; 
 
 And all her rain a driving torrent pours, 
 
 As heaven were emptying long-treasured stores. 
 
 To-night it hides the nearer range from view, 
 
 And veils the foothills in a dull grey hue. 
 
 We gather in the tent, a motley crowd, 
 Forced by the din to shriek our thoughts aloud. 
 We have new comers : one, from San Miguel, 
 I dare aver can spin a merry tale, 
 Judging him only by his wicked eyes, 
 Which are but solemn when concocting lies. 
 He has a swaggering gait, a traveled look, 
 Knows things you never find in any book, 
 Enjoys his life with an unanswering jest. 
 Because of every good he grabs the best. 
 
Melodramatic. 95 
 
 One other, and at last, oh wondering friend, 
 
 What is a "tenderfoot," I comprehend : 
 
 He rides in broadcloth, patent-boots, and kids, 
 
 See him ! his eyes half starting from their lids. 
 
 It s simply ravishing, just to behold him 
 
 Devouring all the marvels that are told him 
 
 With a credulity that knows no bounds, 
 
 As truth were always robed in startling sounds. 
 
 He uses English Latinized : each word 
 
 Enunciated to be plainly heard, 
 
 His note-book on his knees, with facile fingers, 
 
 Skilled in stenography, he never lingers 
 
 To sift th* astounding wonders that he hears, 
 
 From mining accident to " Injun skeers." 
 
 He of the San Miguel speaks native slang, 
 And emphasizes with a rapid bang ; 
 The sounds recall Mark Twain s Nevada preacher, 
 Listening to " Scotty " as a language teacher. 
 The theme gives broader license to his tongue : 
 He does not " draw it mild, " his scenes are strung 
 Together with an utter disregard 
 Of any fitness on the writer s card. 
 
 And oh, such tales ! Dumas and Jules Verne 
 
 May bury laurels they so poorly earn. 
 
 His ingenuity is on the spur, 
 
 His eager audience too absorbed to stir ; 
 
 For the whole clan abet ; no questioning glance 
 
 Reveals a doubt concerning his romance, 
 
9 5 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 And the poor " tenderfoot " is yes, betrayed 
 By the companions his distress has made. 
 
 He hails from Boston ; most distinctly feels 
 
 A super-excellence that pride conceals. 
 
 He cannot cast his precious pearls to swine, 
 
 Or teach the blind how bright the sun can shine ; 
 
 Strives to be courteous, but his best attempt 
 
 Is oddly spiced with ill-disguised contempt ; 
 
 His curious, prying eagerness to know, 
 
 Is like a child s at his first wild-beast show. 
 
 Albeit the Boston traveller is no fool, 
 
 He has not lost th ideas he gleaned at school ; 
 
 Abhors the Indian of far Mayflower time 
 
 As a dark horror native to the clime ; 
 
 The savage with the miner still confounds, 
 
 Hardly on strictly scientific grounds, 
 
 But still he feels the childish thrill of fear 
 
 Congeal his blood, when any miner s near. 
 
 Dire consequences follow slight effects. 
 His manners hurt him as he least expects. 
 Magnetic currents pass from one to one, 
 Needing no spoken word, no action done ; 
 Each feels th antipathy he does not speak, 
 Repays with interest th ungenerous freak ; 
 The Boston swell a churl the miner dubs, 
 Miner retaliates with jests and snubs, 
 And ridicule lacks never poisoned barb, 
 To pierce the web of any human garb. 
 
Melodramatic. 97 
 
 He of the San Miguel, tho he has told 
 
 Of Indian massacres and fields of gold, 
 
 Is telling now a jumbling pack of lies 
 
 That in his listener waken no surprise ; 
 
 But growing bold and bolder with success, 
 
 He mixes dates in reckless lavishness. 
 
 He has not seen a score and half of years, 
 
 Yet he relates the " horrid Injun skeers 
 
 Of 49, when I was in command 
 
 Of a small U. S. scouting cavalry band, 
 
 All regular muffs, not one fit for the journey ; 
 
 My first lieutenant was a learned attorney 
 
 U. S. Chief Justice in the time of Jackson 
 
 A gawky fellow by the name of Paxon ; 
 
 The mean red devils pinned him to a stake, 
 
 Had pinon piled around him for a bake, 
 
 When I rode up, for Uncle Sam demanded 
 
 The roast to feed the squadron I commanded " 
 
 " The date," asked the Bostonian, " I opine 
 
 You stated formerly t was 49." 
 
 "Yes," unabashed the graceless youth replied, 
 " T was in that year that their King Philip died ! " 
 The astounded " tenderfoot " was just a show, 
 Light breaking on him in a gentle glow. 
 
 "Your tender years, pardon me if I err, 
 Scarcely appear such honors to confer 
 In 49 ; time has passed lightly o er you 
 You have life s tribulations all before you ; 
 
98 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 I do mistake, or fail to understand 
 Precisely what the date of your command " 
 
 " We don t grow old out here in Colorado. 
 
 It is, you know, a sort of El Dorado; 
 
 For me, I ve seen these hoary, snow-clad ranges 
 
 Before my eyes pass thro some wondrous changes; 
 
 I came here when the plains were lakes and rills 
 
 And these great mountains little sandy hills. " 
 
 This was too much ; all joined the shouts of laughter 
 That shook the tent from pins to ridge-pole rafter, 
 And to the " tenderfoot " Bostonian told 
 That as to stories he was badly sold. 
 
LETTER XVIII. 
 
 CAMP AFTER RAIN. 
 
 CAMP-LIFE has many phases, 
 But he has lived in vain 
 
 Who has not heard the campers 
 Improvise a refrain 
 
 To greet the opening morning, 
 After a night of rain. 
 
 Tis natural and flowing, 
 Of flow not easy checked ; 
 
 While shapes in demi-toilet 
 Of many colors decked 
 
 Make somewhat more emphatic 
 The total stage effect. 
 
 He is accounted lucky, 
 Whose garniture is slack, 
 
 Who can wring out his garments 
 And dry them on his back ; 
 
 He can soon sum possessions 
 Camp outfit and a "jack, " 
 
ioo Letters from Colorado. 
 
 His hand a cudgel carries, 
 But twixt himself and beast, 
 
 Their happy state engenders 
 True harmony at least, 
 
 Which to the human partner 
 Is a perpetual feast. 
 
 The glorious sky hangs over, 
 The hot earth hurts his toes, 
 
 The sun pours down obliquely 
 And blisters cheek and nose, 
 
 Yet in divine contentment, 
 Serenely on he goes. 
 
 For is he not a miner 
 
 And life a gorgeous dream ? 
 
 The evils of the present 
 Merge in his silver seam ; 
 
 The goal absorbs the passage ; 
 Things are not what they seem. 
 
 He dreams of how to work it, 
 Where best to ship the ore, 
 
 Deposit with some banker, 
 Or hold the bulk in store 
 
 Till he has dumped a billion 
 Or a few millions more. 
 
Camp after Rain. 101 
 
 Oh, Hope : No other captain 
 
 Can muster such reserves 
 Of tireless strength and muscle 
 
 Of tense unflagging nerves, 
 Till all the quailing body 
 
 A willing subject serves. 
 
 True, partial are her favors ; 
 
 She plods beside the tramp, 
 For all her airy legions 
 
 Abominate the damp, 
 Make expeditious exit 
 
 Beyond the wretched camp. 
 
 There evanescent treasures, 
 
 Classed with the genus " things," 
 
 Have followed Hope s example 
 And speedy taken wings. 
 
 He only has the dryest 
 Who gives the hardest wrings. 
 
 Each one selects his specials, 
 
 Adjusts them on a line, 
 And all the prairie wonders 
 
 To see herself so fine 
 A Colorado rainbow 
 
 Just pales before that shine. 
 
IO2 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Our artist caught the spirit, 
 And while his shirt was drying 
 
 He sent his facile fingers 
 Across his canvas flying. 
 
 The natural poise of models 
 Was wholly gratifying. 
 
 Now is the sky all velvet, 
 No cloud above our heads, 
 
 But column upon column 
 Along th horizon spreads, 
 
 Foretelling that to-morrow 
 Will have more soaking-beds. 
 
LETTER XIX. 
 
 IN ANTELOPE PARK. 
 
 I AM sitting now at sunset beside the Rio Grande, 
 The Rio Grande del Norte, as it winds among the hills 
 Creeping thro its rocky canons like a shimmering 
 
 silver band, 
 Singing as it widens slowly, quavers soft and happy trills, 
 
 When the sky above is sapphire, save a gorgeous crimson 
 
 streak 
 That enfolds the Western ranges like a garment edged 
 
 with gold, 
 Spreading as the day grows fainter to the crown of every 
 
 peak, 
 Gathering gleams of green and purple to eke out each 
 
 widening fold ; 
 
 And the twilight steps on tiptoe thro the undulating air, 
 Haunting all the tender solitude with shadows faintly 
 
 seen, 
 
 Till a tremor half of terror creeps upon you, unaware, 
 As shades of the departed ones were peopling all the 
 
 scene. 
 
IO4 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Tis now the hazy future into bold relief is cast, 
 And the spirit of the canons wails a dirge above the past : 
 But a sigh among the pinons thro the golden afternoon 
 While the busy sun was fashioning a coronet for June, 
 Now with voice of tortured demon on the confines of 
 
 despair, 
 He is sobbing out his anguish to the gulches in mid-air. 
 
 You can see him gaunt and fleshless, fling his arms 
 
 above the ranges, 
 Warning off the eager present from her pond rous 
 
 work of changes ; 
 But clear above the clangor progress winds her clarion 
 
 notes, 
 On the summit s nearest heaven her imperial banner 
 
 floats. 
 She has found a way o er chasms that panthers fear to 
 
 leap 
 A foothold among crevices where serpent dares not 
 
 creep 
 Planted stakes on arching ledges that do mock the 
 
 eagle s hold, 
 Only to fling out into light a buried heart of gold. 
 
 Little yet her step has tarried in the valley s at our 
 feet 
 
 She prefers the snow-clad ranges for a royal country seat, 
 
 Till the golden heart is blazoned to the eyes of Chris 
 tendom ; 
 
 In her train no waifs of luxury, no pets of comfort come, 
 
In Antelope Park. 105 
 
 Suffering is her mighty roll-call, want the signal of the line ? 
 Hardihood, unflagging patience, hope supreme and 
 faith divine. 
 
 Hail, braves that join her standard, with scrip and staff 
 
 in hand, 
 With girded loins, with upturned face ! Eyes watching 
 
 where you stand, 
 
 Shall note the dignity of toil, and from your beacon fires 
 Borrow a ray of living light to gild new temple spires. 
 Mount up with wings as eagles, nor faint nor be you weary 
 Till floats the banner of success above your golden eyrie. 
 
 Attained, all great desire narrows down the brilliant 
 
 scope 
 That was spread to huge proportions by the magic 
 
 touch of hope, 
 But this land of untried sources shall spur the world to 
 
 dare, 
 For faith that girds the loins of hope lightens the 
 
 very air ; 
 
 The blue arch is so perfect, the buoyant breeze so free, 
 They feed great inspirations like a blast from off the sea, 
 And surging like to tidal waves glad people thronging 
 
 come 
 To plant upon her rugged breast the altar stone of home. 
 
 Man feels the Godhead in his soul, he knows himself 
 
 divine, 
 When upright on these mighty hills among pifion and 
 
 and pine. 
 
io6 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 What wonder lovers turn to thee as flowers turn to the 
 
 sun, 
 
 O beauteous Colorado, neither coy nor lightly won ! 
 Beloved of thy children, whose one ambition seems 
 To make the lamp of Aladdin no more a thing of dreams 
 But a superb reality hewn from thy mountain seams. 
 
LETTER XX. 
 
 LEGEND OF ANTELOPE PARK. 
 
 ALL nations have some tale to tell 
 Of timid fawn, or shy gazelle ; 
 And many a hardy mountain child 
 Knows where their haunts in covert wild, 
 
 One told me this. Her cabin stood 
 Within a grove of cottonwood 
 Where, like a group of wordless notes, 
 The Rio Grande s anthem floats 
 Echoing thro canons straight and tall 
 As any city s rampart walls ; 
 And where in lavish beauty grows 
 The fragile, delicate wild rose, 
 Of perfume sweet and color faint 
 As timid maid, or gentle saint. 
 
 And not unlike a saint was she 
 As stately half, half timidly, 
 
io8 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 She pointed where the shadows lay 
 In the west canon, cold and grey, 
 And told me this, the while her eyes 
 Grew awed at her own mysteries : 
 
 41 Ages ago, before the white man knew 
 
 There was a continent he had not seen 
 Before the Mexicans to power grew 
 
 The northern hordes were govern d by a queen 
 
 " Called Maxtella, of virtue so supreme 
 
 It was the marvel of those evil days; 
 Of beauty perfect as a poet s dream, 
 
 That language found no words to sing its praise. 
 
 " A vassal chief loved her, but being low born, 
 Her counsellors spurned him with infinite scorn, 
 And he in revenge brought his black magic art 
 To aid in subduing the queen s gentle heart. 
 
 " He brought powers of evil to bear on her will, 
 Edged round all her goings with hindrance cruel, 
 
 Changed every quick motive to action so chill 
 As turned her sweet mercy to pitiless rule. 
 
 " He forced her to speak that she fain would not speak 
 Commit deeds unholy she fain would not do, 
 
 Indignities bear with a fortitude meek 
 
 Harsh blows, that the blood from her white body drew ; 
 
 " Till eyes overworn failed of moisture to weep, 
 So long had he baffled her anguish for sleep, 
 
Legend of Antelope Park. 169 
 
 When a page, but a youth, not a score were his years, 
 Saw him strike the sad eves for their absence of tears. 
 
 "And a fury possessed him ; with one mighty bound 
 He held the rude sorcerer pinned to the ground, 
 With his own magic wand pinned him, writhing in vain, 
 For he knew but a wizard might loose him again. 
 
 " But the good Maxtella was as noble as fair 
 
 And seeing the odious wretch bleeding there, 
 
 With her own dainty hands did she strive to assuage. 
 
 Her pity was only as fuel to his rage. 
 
 He caught her right hand in his sharp gleaming teeth, 
 
 And as she in agony shrieked, hissed beneath : 
 
 " Now are we one forever, for with mine 
 Thy blood is mixed as water flows to wine 
 Of thy free will, and by my living hate 
 Hold I supremest power above thy fate. 
 Timid of heart, fleet-footed, spotless white, 
 Whom none may slay, Doe pass before my sight ! 
 Shame by thy speed the panting hunters breath, 
 And lure him by thy beauty to his death. 
 
 " Yea, mine, forever mine, until the dart 
 
 Of a pursuer, with unerring aim, 
 Shall pierce the centre of thy coward heart 
 
 Bringing cold death to cover up thy shame. 
 
no Letters from Colorado. 
 
 " A milk-white doe, with a most piteous moan, 
 Fled from the palace, shunning every eye, 
 
 Hiding in brake, or sheltered gulch, alone, 
 Fleeing in terror with no hunter nigh ; 
 
 " Yet longing for the dart that may release, 
 
 She often heads the herds that sweep these vales, 
 
 But who pursues finds everlasting peace, 
 Nor comes again to tell his hunting tales. 
 
 " They say that canon shelters many a corse, 
 
 And venturous youths still seek the milk-white doe. 
 
 None come again of huntsman, dog or horse, 
 Their bones lie bleaching in eternal snow." 
 
LETTER XXI. 
 
 A COLORADO TRAMP. 
 
 SCURRYING about like frightened fish in shoals, 
 I Ve counted something over eight score souls, 
 A half score prairie-schooners, idly lying 
 Becalmed, while slowly muddy pools are drying. 
 As burro-trains, delayed by storms, arrive, 
 A busy congress very much alive, 
 The schooners instant wake to active life, 
 The packers into energetic strife, 
 Nor is it long- before the hapless jacks 
 Are neatly fitted with well ordered packs. 
 
 Odd when in droves ; more comical is one, 
 A tramp beside him stolid stumping on, 
 Sharing his burden too, for never yet 
 Was miner known to overload his pet 
 A pet he is, and shares as equal lord 
 The frugal dainties of his master s board. 
 Sometimes a burro and two tramps we see, 
 Or one and four, or one to six may be ; 
 
112 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Nor heavier worked as having masters more, 
 
 He bears the kitchen implements before 
 
 The grub-box, with its simple fare close hid 
 
 Beneath a clasp and lock-protected lid : 
 
 The only secret hidden from beholders, 
 
 While beds are strapped, each on the owner s shoulders. 
 
 Do not mistake ; by tramp I never mean 
 The non-describable you ve often seen 
 A hang-dog look, a shiftless shambling gait, 
 A tout-ensemble enough to weary fate. 
 Unlike even at first sight (I did describe 
 The items which distinguish all the tribe) 
 This species is indigenous to the soil, 
 A cross between a shirk and son of toil, 
 And at some cunning crafc or dextrous trade 
 A mark for industry had doubtless made ; 
 But this wild life or these bewildering skies 
 Make honest labor hateful in his eyes. 
 
 Possessing often mines of wealth untold, 
 His purse almost a stranger is to gold ; 
 For all he earns, can borrow or edge round 
 Is shot with reckless faith into the ground, 
 To bring an increase manifold perhaps, 
 Or expedite a general collapse. 
 Failure he meets with stoical sang-froid, 
 Success much like a happy-hearted boy, 
 Spends as he won, with a too ready ease 
 He can get more, and has himself to please. 
 
A Colorado Tramp. 1 1 3 
 
 What think you, is his state more blessed or cursed ? 
 His motto as of old " Pike s Peak or burst ! " 
 
 We had a tramp come to our camp last night, 
 Bedraggled, weary, hungry, in worse plight , 
 
 Than Lazarus lying at the rich man s door 
 So bruised he was, so abject and footsore ; 
 After his inner man was comforted, 
 Talked like a volume one has never read. 
 
 He talked of many things, reform, free trade, 
 Of stocks and funds, how modern mining paid, 
 Drifted to rich discoveries and their weight 
 In building up the grandeur of a state, 
 Thence to first years of California fame 
 When the gold fever ravaged like a flame, 
 Lapping with fiery tongues our youthful braves 
 From tender homes into untimely graves. 
 
 Bewitched by gold that often met their hands 
 Among a worthless mass of yellow sands, 
 A hundred thousand dollars seemed a mite, 
 Easy of gain, to their confused sight ; 
 And worsted fifty times, owned no defeat. 
 So long as they could struggle to their feet, 
 They labored on with varying success. 
 The fickle goddess did not always bless, 
 More often frowned. One hardly need to say 
 That hundred thousand seldom saw the day. 
 
 " Indeed," the speaker said, " I ve seen the time 
 Mv total wealth did not exceed a dime ; 
 
H4 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Glad then to drop four cyphers from the five 
 And call myself the luckiest man alive. 
 But twas conceded who tried fortune there 
 Cancelled the right to falter or despair: 
 When things became too desperate, we left 
 Some took to privateering, some to theft, 
 A few worked hard to gain a livelihood, 
 Convert their spendthrift energies to good; 
 These last are men tis generally allowed, 
 Of which our Uncle Sam may well be proud, 
 For lessons learned so roughly can but count 
 In summing up the total, grand amount. 
 
 " Mining is much the same in any place. 
 Starting together, some head in the race. 
 I ve had my gains and losses, hardly more 
 Than usual fall at any miner s door. 
 Large as an egg a nugget once I found, 
 Nor slept again until I owned the ground ; 
 Washed and re-washed the soil with patient care 
 But saw no trace of color anywhere. 
 That speculation left me penniless, in debt, 
 With an experience hardly to forget. 
 
 " My fortune changed : I found a quartz mine next, 
 
 Lived in a dug-out, neighbors never vexed ; 
 
 In five months picked ten thousand of pure gold, 
 
 Then grew insane to see the treasure sold. 
 
 At San Francisco spent it like a king, 
 
 In six months little owned if anything, 
 
A Colorado Tramp. 1 1 5 
 
 And in disgust struck out for Colorado, 
 Which best deserves the name of El Dorado." 
 
 Said one : " In Colorado has not been 
 
 A mine like that, and gold is never seen." 
 
 "No?" cried the tramp, ejecting forth the word 
 
 Till through the crowd like hissing bomb twas heard 
 
 " No ? Your assertion even at a glance 
 
 Shows either spite or willful ignorance. 
 
 Gold was the lode-star of the pioneers ; 
 
 Silver undreamed of in the early years, 
 
 When the first miners, brave and self reliant, 
 
 Came to San Juan and found the Little Giant. 
 
 Gold was the cry of all. Men reckless beat 
 
 The unsought treasure underneath their feet, 
 
 Nor cared for that enriching, now the world 
 
 Like streams within the granite mountains curled. 
 
 " Who does not know the mountain Hamilton, 
 The silver veins like little rills thereon ? 
 And old King Solomon, whose arteries leap 
 Beneath a stroke as giants wake from sleep ? 
 Or the North Star, the bright particular gem 
 That makes the lustre of his diadem, 
 Which toil shall polish till its marvelous rays 
 Bathe all the State in one stupendous blaze ? 
 And * Sultan Mountain, worthy peer of these, 
 Which day by day a chance observer sees 
 Flash into light their riches of freed stores 
 And bleeding silver from their wounded pores ? 
 
u6 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 All bearing gold, nor, as a jewel tossed 
 Within the waves, in silver bulk is it lost. 
 
 "One in a million well, scarce one in ten 
 Won fortunes of those California men. 
 Why ask it here ? Toil hardly has begun 
 To delve the mountains around Silverton ; 
 For toil is poor, our labor must be fed. 
 And capital is slowly hither led. 
 Our State is bound to burn a silver star 
 Clear in the zenith, and be known afar; 
 Scarce even now a hearthstone in the land 
 But from her borders grasps an absent hand. 
 
 " This slower growth will better teach the State 
 
 To use her strength and give her counsels weight. 
 
 To a new architecture of her own 
 
 These granite ranges act as corner-stone, 
 
 For stalwart sons like blocks from mountains riven, 
 
 On firm foundations to build up to heaven. 
 
 Her rugged school should mistress be of tongues 
 
 To sound the tocsin upon human wrongs, 
 
 The majesty of truth in every word, 
 
 Till eloquence with bated breath be heard 
 
 Her Forum to the world a shining light, 
 
 With Tribunes proud to minister the right, 
 
 And filling full the great hearts of her sons, 
 
 With Charity, the faith of noble ones, 
 
 Till the whole world must reverence and honor 
 
 The heads that bring new dignity upon her, 
 
A Colorado Tramp. 1 1 7 
 
 Pure gold in soul, tho prominence and place 
 Be sometimes yielded for the silver case." 
 
 A sudden quiet with his silence fell, 
 
 His hearers all seemed rooted by a spell, 
 
 And then as by one impulse prompted, rose 
 
 A cheer that shook the tent like storm of blows 
 
 Cheer after cheer, and that be-draggled man 
 
 Arose and bowed as only courtiers can. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE RIVER. 
 
 It mocks me, the weird music of the river, 
 I cannot catch the key-note of its song ; 
 
 Dominant in the major chords, and ever 
 Soft in the minor when it creeps along. 
 
 When tempests brood, it clangs in martial chorus, 
 Heralding hosts with swift but muffled tread ; 
 
 When the storm bursts, an army all victorious 
 Beats with its triumphs requiems for the dead. 
 
 What haunted springs a willing tribute render 
 To swell the river s majesty and might ? 
 
 What memory makes the sighing notes so tender 
 When peace touches the silver waves with light ? 
 
 Sprite of the river, poet s souls are fashioned 
 To gather sounds too faint for ruder ears ; 
 
 Give me the key-note to thy song impassioned, 
 And I will make the world in love with tears. 
 
Ii8 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 It only mocks me, with a gibe of laughter, 
 The elfin ripples tumble over stones ; 
 
 And even the white-fringed garments trailing after 
 Echo suspicion of derisive groans. 
 
LETTER XXII. 
 
 A NORWEGIAN GIANT. 
 
 WE RE starting out this morning the storm-king s 
 
 changing mind 
 
 Has moved his corps for battle, and left the sun behind ; 
 A mighty potentate the sun our camp is all agog : 
 The burro-trains come trotting in with self-complaisant 
 
 jog; 
 
 An everpresent whittling force sits round with stick 
 
 and knife, 
 
 Assiduously chipping off the precious hours of life 
 One only article of faith they quite revere as true ; 
 " That Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands 
 
 to do." 
 
 I tried to pack a burro, and felt by far more proud 
 Than when with the Regatta Club, displaying for a crowd. 
 Beelzabub the mite was named it showed in leer 
 
 askance 
 He gave my half placed pack a kick, and me, a stolid 
 
 glance, 
 
1 2O Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Another kick, and pack and pride were mingled in the 
 
 dust 
 You may perhaps have heard before, "When donkeys 
 
 drive needs must. " 
 Man learns some physiologic facts by contact with the 
 
 ground, 
 
 His own specific gravity is accurately found. 
 And how much natural Adam goes to compass a rebound, 
 Judging by the ungrudging thwacks with which I squared 
 
 my debt ! 
 The old original in me, is not extinct as yet. 
 
 Looms like a tower above us all, majestic, self-reliant, 
 A splendid specimen of man, a seven-foot Norway giant ; 
 A tawny beard flows to his waist, he sports a lion mane, 
 Thro which the sunbeams scintillate like mica on the 
 
 plain, 
 His laugh rings like a bugle-blast, his blue eyes framed 
 
 for laughing 
 Appear to heed the ills of life no more than comrade s 
 
 chaffing. 
 There is but one child in the camp ; wax is he in her 
 
 hands, 
 
 Delilah had not Samson bound in more enduring bands. 
 He sits or stands, he walks or lies in any attitude 
 That her imperial majesty may deign to call her mood ; 
 Her baby tyranny is odd, and many busy eyes 
 Look up half pleased, half envious to watch her 
 
 witcheries. 
 
A Norwegian Giant. 121 
 
 Well under way, a tiny stream, 
 
 Spread to some width by later rains; 
 
 Does like avenging fury seem 
 To bar our progress o er the plains. 
 
 The burros, all averse to touch 
 
 Their unshod feet upon the water, 
 Resist persuasion, shrink and crouch 
 
 Like timid sheep brought up for slaughter. 
 
 Men pull and drive, by sheer brute force 
 
 In time compel the midgets over ; 
 They willing then pursue their course, 
 
 Happy as bees in flowering clover. 
 
 It falls by some unwitting chance 
 
 One burro is without a pack, 
 Meets the Norwegian giant s glance 
 
 Who in a flash is on its back 
 
 And sight grotesque he is to see, 
 
 His mighty frame perched like a tower, 
 
 The mite beneath feels destiny 
 To be a most resistless power. 
 
 Astonished at the huge long legs, 
 That almost trail upon the ground ; 
 
 He tottering moves, and succor begs 
 By piteous glances cast around. 
 
122 L etters from Col 01 ado. 
 
 But braves the flood ; when half way thro* 
 By some sleight of his hinder quarters, 
 
 Just crouches low, and slides from view 
 His burden in the muddy waters. 
 
 A second s lull, a ringing shout 
 That fairly broadens to a shriek, 
 
 As little " jack " trots nimbly out ; 
 The giant slower ; nor so meek. 
 
 Even his merry eyes flash bright 
 With anger at our wicked laughter, 
 
 But centering on his doleful plight, 
 Good-natured ripples follow after. 
 
 And catching up the tricksy beast, 
 
 He flings him o er his shoulders fairly, 
 
 Saying " I II make him wish at least 
 He hadn t been so pert and airy. " 
 
 Then striding back into the river 
 He dips the little creature in, 
 
 Stands him on dry land all c-shiver 
 With nimble heels if soaking skin. 
 
 Our laughter then grew sudden cool 
 None envied the poor brute s position ; 
 
 All thought it wise the man to rule 
 By humoring his disposition. 
 

 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 HISTORY OF A DESERTED CABIN. 
 
 "THERE is a destiny " perhaps you know the rest. 
 
 I dared not think what occult ill shaped mine, 
 
 When suddenly my bronco, zeal possessed, 
 
 Spurned every guiding trick of hand and line, 
 
 Sprang with a leap into a furious speed 
 
 Which had done honor to a better steed. 
 
 I heard in fancy the old mocking jeers 
 
 Pelting like hailstones round my shrinking ears, 
 
 When destiny (a jerk) brought up before 
 
 Th apparent end, an open cabin door. 
 
 Within, no sign of life ; a chimney wide 
 Held long dead ashes ; wedged against its side 
 A rude cot bed, whose complement of hay 
 Indented as unused for many a day, 
 Showed it to be deserted, entered only 
 By tramp belated, or some freighter lonely. 
 
I2 4 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Who the last tenant ? I was idly thinking, 
 
 When caught my eye some object in the chinking, 
 
 And destiny, that wrought me good, was here 
 
 A mountain paper dated back a year. 
 
 I send you what of worth it held a gem, 
 
 And fit to grace a poet s diadem. 
 
 Who wrote I know not, nothing tells the page, 
 
 Tis weather-stained, and sorely blurred with age. 
 
 "WE HAVEN T ANY HEROES NOW. 
 
 "We have n t any heroes now," 
 
 Our little daughter said. 
 The book she held was Ivanhoe, 
 
 As yet not wholly read. 
 Her brows were knitted into thought, 
 
 Her eyes with interest bright ; 
 I saw a shadow she had caught 
 
 Not true reflected light. 
 
 I, glancing down the " Local News " 
 
 Read of a truer glory, 
 Of acts our modern pens refuse 
 
 To fashion into story, 
 Accounting noblest recent deeds 
 
 Only the simplest duty, 
 Which, therefore, fail poetic needs 
 
 As themes of perfect beauty. 
 
History of a Deserted Cabin. 125 
 
 My "local " every detail gave 
 
 Of a great snowslicle, falling ; 
 Instant within an icy grave 
 
 Ten miners close enwalling ; 
 Two out of twelve alone remained 
 
 Above the tight-packed snow, 
 With strength that Samson might have shamed 
 
 One plowed the mass below. 
 
 And one had strapped his armor on, 
 
 A pair of snow-shoes light ; 
 His spear and battle-axe were one, 
 
 A pole to balance right. 
 No plumed helmet, visor, casque, 
 
 No glittering sword had he, 
 Nor veiled his visage in a masque 
 
 Of ancient chivalry ; 
 But bare his face to wind and storm, 
 
 His girdle but a rope, 
 His breast-plate coat not over warm, 
 
 This champion of Hope. 
 
 An unseen foe, ungallant, rude, 
 
 Thrust many an icy dart 
 In savage and relentless mood 
 
 Straight to the stalwart heart ; 
 Their cold, steel points congealed his veins, 
 
 Blinded his fearless eyes 
 God shield, or on those cruel white plains 
 
 A vanquished knight he dies ! 
 
1 26 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 A fiercer blast, a whirlwind shock, 
 
 A cloud of stinging spray ; 
 The foes in deadly combat lock, 
 
 The victor speeds away ; 
 Up hill, down dale, his flight as keen 
 
 As wild bird on the wing, 
 Almost before his form is seen 
 
 His shoe glance echoing. 
 
 Urged onward by a harrowing fear 
 
 That he may be too late, 
 He feels creep shudderingly near 
 
 The stealthy step of fate ; 
 If if he faint, his comrades die ; 
 
 Louder than trumpet sound 
 That thought, his winged footsteps fly 
 
 Above the glacier-ground. 
 
 He hies him like a loyal knight, 
 
 Not for a lady s love, 
 In joust and tilt and tournay bright 
 
 Prowess and skill to prove ; 
 He throws no lance before the crowd, 
 
 Mid bugle-note and shout : 
 His audience the storm-fiends loud 
 
 That compass him about. 
 
 Reaching the neighboring mine, he falls, 
 Bursts thro the cabin door, 
 
 But in no voice of triumph calls, 
 His tilt with fate is o er ! 
 
History of a Deserted Cabin. 127 
 
 And they he sought upspring to arms, 
 
 As never yet sprang knight 
 To win a gentle lady s charms, 
 
 Out thro the awful night. 
 
 A noble band, how brave, how strong, 
 
 Know only those in need ; 
 Are they not heroes, fit for song, 
 
 Their act heroic deed 
 The little maid looked shyly up, 
 
 Her cheeks all rosy red, 
 Her sweet eyes like a flower cup 
 
 With dewdrops yet unshed. 
 
 And fell her voice in tender tone : 
 
 " Brave knights of story are, 
 Yet he who delved the snow alone 
 
 The braver seems by far : 
 An easy matter tis to fight 
 
 With crowds admiring by ; 
 But more heroic the lone flight 
 
 That won its goal to die. " 
 
 Our Tenor found me reading, and his face 
 
 Like April sun a moment saddened over ; 
 Then, swift as April sun the clouds do chase, 
 
 His handsome visage burst its cloudy cover : 
 " What jewel do you hold ? Full well I guess 
 
 If set by whom I think, its theme unknown, 
 Tis worth the reading. Of such daintiness, 
 
 You will not prize it for the theme alone. 
 
128 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 " Poor Poet, with a fiery spirit bound 
 
 In cage, so frail it swayed in every blast, 
 And shivered even at summer tempest sound. 
 
 Until it fell and crushed the bird at last. 
 Poor Poet, he had come with meager purse 
 
 And meager frame, both to replenish here, 
 He loved these purple skies, and tuned his verse 
 
 To sing of themes our miners hold full dear. 
 
 " They love fair Nature s every mood, and know 
 
 To find the germ of beauty in all moods. 
 If storms enwrap the Range s haughty brow, 
 
 Or sunset silvers all the vale decked woods ; 
 He loved them too, and of their lives became 
 
 A tender part, a comrade much beloved, 
 Revered and tended, while poetic flame, 
 
 Fed by their worship, to sweet numbers moved. 
 
 " His table lacked not game, his larder never 
 Knew empty shelves, tho theirs were often 
 
 bare, 
 And when he faster failed, night fell not ever 
 
 Without some pitying brother watching there. 
 
 He died, or started life which shall we say ? 
 
 Life ends in death, why should not death in 
 
 life? 
 
 * Tis simply crossing in the unseen way 
 Which parts achievement from the whirl of 
 strife. 
 
History of a Deserted Cabin. \ 29 
 
 " We buried him without a priest or prayer, 
 
 With heads uncovered and eyes blind with 
 
 tears, 
 And that is hallowed ground if anywhere, 
 
 For every heart went up to Him who hears. 
 The cabin is deserted. I had thought 
 
 No gem was straying. . I have here a few, 
 Some given by him, some few at random caught 
 
 Read, they may be a thing of joy to you." 
 
 " The City in the Plains," I later found 
 In the old paper. Those on other themes 
 
 Our Tenor lent me, and their strong, sweet sound 
 Is of the ranges in their sunset gleams. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Offspring of sunshine and of storm, 
 Across the glistening valley spanned, 
 Who does not see the master hand 
 
 In brilliant hue, and perfect form 
 
 With either foot on valley earth, 
 
 Close clinging to rough mountain sides, 
 Till but a glowing arc divides 
 
 The sun and storm that gave thee birth. 
 
 Sweet harbinger of peace, shall we 
 
 Who climb life s rugged crags and peaks 
 Heed not the still small voice that speaks 
 
 In arc and sombre canopy ? 
 
1 30 Letters fn*m Cofonufo. 
 
 There is no bow without a cloud, 
 And best it gilds the blackest shroud. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 How royal is September s reign 
 
 Only the other morning 
 She wore a cloak of silver white 
 
 A most unique adorning ; 
 
 And barely touched the aspen boughs, 
 
 With low-trailing hem. 
 Yet left each little sleeping leaf 
 
 Bespangled with a gem. 
 
 In vain the autocratic pines 
 
 Reared a defiant crest, 
 On every bristling needle point 
 
 She a bright opal pressed. 
 
 Crystals lay strewn on granite stones, 
 And upon window panes, 
 
 Mosaic fret-work, choice designs 
 Of fens and woody lanes. 
 
 Enraptured, the uprising sun 
 
 Glanced on the shimmering white, 
 
 Flooding the new awakened world 
 With irridescent light ; 
 
 And fixed by a too ardent gaze 
 The hues to fadeless dyes, 
 
 A very marvel of delight 
 To our entranced eves. 
 
History of a Deserted Cabin. 1 3 1 
 
 By all this lavish color spread, 
 
 We know September s here, 
 Embodied prophecy of peace 
 
 The crown month of the year. 
 
 None other has her fragrant breath ; 
 
 Is with her calm endowed ; 
 Can boast her breadth of purple skies, 
 
 Her graceful specks of cloud 
 
 None other has her tender touch. 
 
 Shy as a maiden s kiss ; 
 Our very earth seems nearer heaven, 
 
 And life foretaste of bliss. 
 
 TO COLORADO. 
 
 Thy snow-capped peaks soon chilled the summer s faith, 
 Dear land of ours, she spurns thy proffered love, 
 And with a quivering hush her ripened grace 
 Falls like a purple glory on the hills"; 
 A glory that not all her wealth of green 
 Could emulate, the shadow of decay. 
 
 But we, thy children, nor repine nor grieve, 
 Knowing that beauty is thine handmaid still, 
 Already draping her Autumnal tints 
 Against the blue of a more perfect sky ; 
 Where flecks of clouds, like anchored ships at sea, 
 Seem freighted with our vanished earthly hopes, 
 And our enamored eyes learn to look up, 
 Piercing behind them to the borne beyond. 
 
132 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Come, try our Colorado hills, 
 
 Ye who are slack of thought and theme ; 
 Our life a broader measure Mils 
 
 Than (by your gauge) at first would seem 
 Forced into seeking wider scope 
 To compass a more boundless hope. 
 
 No narrow streets shut out our sky, 
 
 No human throngs confuse our thought, 
 
 Our boundaries are mountain high, 
 
 And these against the blue dome caught ; 
 
 While regal Peace holds empire sweet 
 
 To where the blue and prairie meet. 
 
 Intense our life, no lily hands 
 
 Nor idle feet find favor here ; 
 Harsh are unbroken, rock- strewn lands, 
 
 And snow-clad peaks supremely drear; 
 Till through the lens of loving eyes, 
 Friends seem they in familiar guise. 
 
 Our fair young state far dearer is, 
 
 For perils and privations past, 
 Than if all possibilities 
 
 By sure success had been forecast ; 
 How great and fathomless our love 
 By an unswerving faith we prove. 
 
History of a Deserted Cabin. 133 
 
 Come here, if searching something new, 
 
 Not fanciful like tales of old ; 
 Scenes of distress are ghastly true, 
 
 Bearing some streaks of purest gold. 
 Ye cannot in a hundred years 
 Exhaust our round of hopes and fears. 
 
 Faint-hearted heirs of prophecy, 
 
 When ever yet lacked power a theme, 
 
 Or can, while joy and misery 
 Comfort and pain so human seem ? 
 
 While man confuses right and wrong 
 
 Themes there will be for tale and song. 
 
 THE CITY ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 The day in brilliant colors dressed 
 
 Salutes the waking valley, 
 And to the storm-beleaguered west 
 
 A host of sunbeams rally ; 
 A strip from the cloud-body shorn 
 
 Along the foothills hovers, 
 And forms of light and shadow born 
 
 Its white-fringed darkness covers. 
 
 When, paling to a softened grey, 
 
 The sunbeams quiver thro it, 
 The scene beneath seems far away, 
 
 But perfect as you view it ; 
 
1 34 Letters from Colorado, 
 
 A city, slumber-wrapped, appears 
 In outlines wondrous tender, 
 
 Its crested towers a castle rears 
 
 In barbarous strength and splendor. 
 
 Dwellings there are and thoroughfares, 
 
 Mosques, thro whose fretted portals 
 And frescoed nave float faint the prayers 
 
 Of unentombed immortals, 
 The minaret, the stately halls, 
 
 The donjon, aged and hoary, 
 To the bewildered gaze recalls 
 
 A scene in ancient story. 
 
 Holds Montezuma s unquiet shade, 
 
 Court in some vanished city, 
 That he a desolation made 
 
 Against the voice of pity ? 
 Do his enchanted courtiers glide 
 
 Amid that gilded pallor ; 
 And vaunt in shadowy pomp and pride 
 
 The trophies of their valor ? 
 
 Nay, spite of an ungentle soil 
 
 The picture is prophetic ; 
 These ranges, draped in silver foil, 
 
 Tho rugged, are magnetic ; 
 That sunlit city on the plains 
 
 Foreshadows but the glory 
 Of the young state, when she attains 
 
 The wealth of ancient story. 
 
History of a Deserted Cabin. 1 3 5 
 
 Then, gold that ribs her mighty hills 
 
 Shall join with Art, to cover 
 By artificial lakes and rills, 
 
 Her arid prairies over, 
 With forest trees, with bright parterre, 
 
 White lilies, crimson roses, 
 Till every valley blossoms fair 
 
 And Beauty s self discloses. 
 
 A PRICELESS JEWEL. 
 
 I wore a jewel in my breast, 
 
 Of purest ray and priceless worth, 
 For me who knew its value best 
 
 Its beauty filled the whole wide earth. 
 
 I guarded that nor blur nor dust 
 
 Should mar its lustrous glittering, 
 And called it mine, tho but a trust 
 
 From an all wise and careful King. 
 
 I fell to vaunting of my wealth, 
 
 No longer counted it a loan, 
 When sudden, nor by force, or stealth, 
 
 The King came forth and took his own. 
 
 I dare not grieve or sum its cost, 
 
 Or weep when I its form recall, 
 " Tis better to have loved and lost, 
 
 Than never to have loved at all. " 
 
1 36 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 For stamped by His own loving hand, 
 How safer far than guarding key, 
 
 The King in His own beauteous land, 
 Has set my jewel safe for me. 
 
 Here but a loan ; in that fair place 
 From which it sheds a radiance down 
 
 To light my steps, by living grace, 
 I know it there will be my own. 
 
 Oh, ye whose jewels wait with mine 
 Once more to glow upon your breast, 
 
 Look up with me where now they shine, 
 And say "The wise King knoweth best. 
 
 This last in manuscript and blurred with tears, 
 And life and death alternate link the years 
 
 Of our earth-pilgrimage. Methinks had J, 
 A jewel laid away in dust to rest, 
 
 The pain and loss my faith would sorely try, 
 
 How could I say, "The wise Kin- knoweth best. 
 
LETTER XXIV. 
 
 LEGEND OF LOST TRIAL. 
 
 AN awful presence looms before, 
 
 Stamped with the signet seal of change 
 
 Those pond rous tomes of buried lore, 
 The crown-peaks of the Rocky range, 
 
 The mighty pinnacles of pride, 
 
 Dividing streams on either side. 
 
 Might our untutored ears but hear, 
 What tales gigantic could they tell 
 
 Of desolation made more drear 
 By earthquake or volcanic swell, 
 
 Which the refining hand of Time 
 
 Is rounding into the sublime, 
 
 Till now a consecrated haze 
 The royalty that age has won 
 
 Enwraps the great forms in a maze 
 Of ambient air and regal sun, 
 
 The wondrous soft and mellow tone 
 
 No youth can hope to call its own. 
 
138 Letters front Colorado. 
 
 Almost appears a silver rift 
 Within the purple arch above ; 
 
 So pleased their snow-clad brows they lift 
 To meet the proffered kiss of love. 
 
 Their frown, which centered storm defies, 
 
 Melts to these Colorado skies. 
 
 Somehow this blue sky always seems 
 To conjure up a maiden s smile 
 
 Before her sinless youthful dreams 
 Are tainted wiih our worldly guile, 
 
 When life is all one glowing morn 
 
 And Love, a babe, but newly born. 
 
 This lovely land as guileless is, 
 
 Yet undisturbed by man s rude love. 
 
 There solitude is happiness ; 
 
 The day and night to silence move, 
 
 And purity reigns everywhere 
 
 About the soft delicious air. 
 
 Compelled to feel that earth is good, 
 
 Enough of luxury to live, 
 Having content and solitude 
 
 What better gifts can heaven give ? 
 The unpolluted air forgets 
 To harbor sorrow and regrets. 
 
Legend of Lost Trail. 139 
 
 LEGEND. 
 
 Suggestion of pathetic tale 
 
 Our camping ground to-night, " Lost Trail : " 
 
 As yet a paradise it seems 
 
 For tenderest poetic dreams. 
 
 All nature when the poet wills 
 
 In sympathy responsive thrills 
 
 To meet his love. My heart and I, 
 
 Wafted from scenes that nearer lie, 
 
 Some sweet enchantment girding round 
 
 Beyond the pale of sight or sound 
 
 A tinge of sadness brimming full 
 
 Our pleasure in the beautiful 
 
 With poet s pain, a truer joy 
 
 Than bliss without its sweet alloy, 
 
 As measures of sublimest strain 
 
 Are grandest with some chords of pain. 
 
 Our Tenor comes, a snatch of song 
 Upon his rarely silent tongue, 
 So clear and liquid, every note 
 Leaps careless, gushing from his throat, 
 That lark and thrush and bob-o-link 
 Have given him their best, I think. 
 
 He stands in half uncertain mood 
 His gaze upon a dark pine wood 
 That up a rugged rock-slope creeps, 
 Then speaks : " That forest sacred keeps 
 
140 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 The secret of the long lost Trail, 
 A quaint but simple mining tale. 
 
 " Four white men, prospecting in Mexico, 
 Met by some camp-fire a young Navajo, 
 Who told of rich gold placers, only known 
 To his own tribe. In spots so pine-o ergrown 
 None but an Indian could trace them out, 
 Wound so the trail the underbrush about. 
 
 " It ended as such themes are apt to end : 
 
 The Navajo impressed a bosom friend, 
 
 Both to the white to act as muleteers ; 
 
 The former, deaf to council, cautious fears, 
 
 At known as unknown dangers lightly laughed 
 
 How highly spiced with Indian guile and craft ; 
 
 For what will turn a miner from his bent ? 
 
 They came where now we are, and pitched their 
 
 tent, 
 
 After a journey of no little care 
 Then had the trails no haven anywhere. 
 
 " Quickly a trifling gain brought hopeful cheer, 
 
 Small gain being earnest of more gain anear. 
 
 But the guides feigned, and often miles from camp 
 
 Urged their white comrades many a weary tramp, 
 
 Till sudden, in a burst of faith, one told 
 
 He minded now where lay the long sought-gold. 
 
 "Taking three mules, provisions for some weeks, 
 Resolved on thorough search of neighboring creeks, 
 
Legend of Lost Trail. 141 
 
 Two with the guides, eager at break of day, 
 
 Anxious and hopeful, went their patient way ; 
 
 Two whites remained behind. Ten days being gone, 
 
 Returned their comrades footsore and alone, 
 
 Telling a tale more marvelous and wild 
 
 Than nurse could frame to please inquiring child. 
 
 "The first night out a sheltered nook was found 
 To serve the purpose of a sleeping ground, 
 And coming morn, one helping with the meal 
 Bringing a pail of water, did reveal 
 A golden nugget lying bright therein. 
 Appeared the prize at hand they hoped to win. 
 In truth it was : they gathered treasure fast ; 
 Toiling untired what time the sun did last, 
 Grew eager to display their garnered spoil 
 And bring the absent ones to aid their toil. 
 
 " Not trusting over much the Navajos 
 And fearing to convert to open foes, 
 Twas deemed all wise the party should not break, 
 But each in turn charge of the treasure take. 
 Their mules were packed, the Navajos but gone 
 A little space, before the whites moved on. 
 The trail was steep with underbrush bedight, 
 The mules and drivers wholly hid from sight. 
 They searched, they shouted, threatened, raved 
 
 swore, 
 
 But gold-packed mules or drivers saw no more ; 
 And seeking patient many weeks did fail 
 Ever to find a clue to the * Lost Trail. " 
 
LETTER XXV. 
 
 RIVER BEND HILL. 
 
 While jogging along in the merriest mood 
 Over nature s own road, hardly faultless but good, 
 We halt where for teams it apparently ends, 
 Or rather breaks off, for the grey river bends, 
 And I see at our left a most horrible slope, 
 Presenting to me the forlornest of hope ; 
 By the deep ruts of wagon-wheels cut in the road 
 Conclude tis the Silverton road ere I m told. 
 
 At the top of the hill a huge post firm in earth 
 Recalls to our Tenor some subject of mirth 
 "A sort of a tramway," he laughingly cried, 
 "This post where our great prairie schooners are 
 
 tied." 
 
 Thus far a fair wagon road winds, fair enough, 
 But beyond all loo rocky, too jagged and rough, 
 So this tramway was fitted to meet the demand 
 And swing clown the freight to a leveler land. 
 
River Bend Hill. 143 
 
 Against gravitation, by slim power held back, 
 They sometimes break loose with a thundering 
 
 thwack, 
 
 Tho snubbing post, aided by deadlock and chain, 
 Is mostly successful in bearing the strain, 
 And certainly lightens the terrible force 
 Which would else crush the teams in its pitiless 
 
 course. 
 
 He deserves a gold medal who ventured it first 
 We have other inclines, but this is the worst. 
 
 Some comical accidents happen, of course : 
 The venturing teamster just screams himself hoarse 
 While his wagon is pendent, and quakes in his shoes, 
 For tho he may win, ten to one he will lose. 
 
 I ve seen a wheel smash and a tongue rudely riven 
 
 In splints, with such force in the earth it was driven ; 
 
 I ve seen the rope frayed like a delicate thread 
 
 As the ends with a whiz flew in flags overhead ; 
 
 A schooner and most of its valued contents 
 
 A mass of confusion worth very few cents ; 
 
 All sorts of strange freaks on the innocent track, 
 
 But never a freighter consent to unpack ! 
 
 A sweet fascination lies hid in the risk, 
 
 Each hopes he can win if he s careful and brisk. 
 
 All is it or nothing. He s hardly a man 
 
 Who only attempts what he easily can. 
 
 The burros keep straight on ahead. You can see 
 By that long zig-zag trail how I happened to be 
 
144 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 When descending it, at such a vantage of height, 
 As to watch unobserved a most laughable sight 
 A heavy ox-team had been buoyantly sent, 
 Grew fractious, and swift as a rocket it went ; 
 The oxen broke loose with a bellow of rage, 
 Tore over the plain like wild beasts from a cage, 
 The schooner lay wrecked with her broadside to view, 
 And wonderstruck, speechless, hung over her, two 
 The owner and one who had helped matters thro 1 ; 
 
 The latter a man whose grey beard plainly told 
 Of a wisdom experience-boughten, pure gold ! 
 He said in that drawling, self-satisfied tone 
 Used always by saints who from sinners have grown : 
 " Your ropes did n t hold ; seems to me you d a 
 
 known 
 
 You d ought to be careful in handling such stuff 
 To see that your stay-chains are solid enough." 
 
 The owner, a youth, glared, but answered no word ; 
 
 I slid by in silence, as never I heard, 
 
 Knowing well useless sympathy, offered to ire, 
 
 Is only supplying dry fuel to a fire ; 
 
 The scene to an act in a drama was equal, 
 
 It ends with a moral or rather a sequel : 
 
 On my very next trip with positions reversed 
 Were the very same actors I saw in scene first; 
 The schooner was up, and with vigorous strokes 
 The teamster was giving fair shape to some spokes, 
 
River Bend I I ill. 145 
 
 When the grey-beard adviser appealed for his aid 
 " Come, give me a hand with my load on the grade." 
 
 I watched them, and seemed to divine by a spell 
 Some tragedy threatened. A whiz, crash and yell 
 All mingled together in discord profound, 
 A lull that made awful the absence of sound 
 Broken by a rich voice in the tenderest tone : 
 "Your ropes didn t hold; seems to me you d a 
 
 known, 
 
 You d ought to be careful in handling such stuff 
 To see that your stay-chains are solid enough." 
 
 The grey beard s old eyes blazed with passionate 
 
 wrath, 
 His will could have swept the bold boy from his 
 
 path, 
 
 But a glance at the mischievous impudent eyes 
 Recalled his own words, injudicious if wise, 
 So he swallowed his choler, untangled his mules, 
 And patched up his wreck with his enemy s tools. 
 
LETTER XXVI. 
 
 ON THE DIVIDE. 
 
 I STAND upon the Great Divide 
 
 See rivers flow on either side, 
 
 See the blue vault a little nearer, 
 
 The majesty of silence clearer, 
 
 Feel the sublimity of awe 
 
 Pervade the universal law, 
 
 Where grandeur is content to shine 
 
 To meet alone the Eye Divine, 
 
 Where sun and storm in routine sweet 
 
 Swell with grand chords the anthem meet 
 
 Which tells to listening worlds how broad, 
 
 How measureless the power of God ! 
 
 The vast unbroken solitude 
 Disperses every meaner mood ; 
 Bare at a glance man s heart is laid 
 He sees this magnitude arrayed 
 In all the pomp of rugged might, 
 Himself compared, a very mite, 
 
On the Divide. 147 
 
 Yet feels a sense of guarding care 
 Creep like a promise thro the air ; 
 The Lord who shaped this boundless space 
 Made last, and greatest, Adam s race, 
 Accepts his praise, how faint a thing 
 Amid this silent worshipping. 
 
 Ascending these defiant walls 
 The light and shadow equal falls, 
 But looking from the summit down 
 The shadows wear an awful frown. 
 Unheralded to far off homes 
 Death from a dark niche stealthy comes, 
 Spreads with a cruel, cunning touch, 
 For the worn traveler s tempting couch : 
 And its white drapery, spotless pure, 
 Conceals an ill no balm can cure. 
 Who sleeps wakes never, nay, has found 
 Twas slumbering on enchanted ground. 
 
 My host speaks. " From all points we see 
 Some spot made sacred by a tragedy. 
 Two gulches here lead into Silverton 
 This on our right called Stony, now the one 
 In common use ; for Cuningham is dread 
 From snowslides and a record dark of dead. 
 Leaving his heart with wife and babes at home, 
 Only last year, one seeking health had come. 
 News, storm delayed, told of a dangerous scourge 
 Brooding his loved ones, pleading wife did urge 
 
148 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 His swift return, and he with undue speed 
 Fled on the wings of terror to their need. 
 If overtasked, if grief too keenly tried, 
 None know. Alone in * Cunineham he died. 
 
 " I call this one to mind of many more. 
 
 Over that savage cliff, entombing four, 
 
 Sudden, for even with foot upraised to tread 
 
 And arm outswung, it moulded to the dead. 
 
 One was the carrier. Of busy men 
 
 Who went or came, it was the custom then, 
 
 Indeed is now, to join him on his beat, 
 
 As often keeps his trail the track of feet. 
 
 He being missed was sought, days else had flown 
 
 Perchance, nor made their tragic ending known. 
 
 " Mark where the cabin stands behind us ; night 
 From watcher there alone shut out the sight, 
 And hearts were there which every ill had braved 
 So near was help, which haply might have saved. 
 
 " All the year round our mails perforce, 
 Or rain or shine must take this course. 
 Drear beyond words when winter keen 
 Covers the trail now plainly seen. 
 He needs be brave, the hardy wight, 
 Who skims alone this desert white 
 With never rock or shrub to show 
 A ravine from a drift of snow. 
 
On the Divide. 149 
 
 He earns his pittance, nay, is spanned 
 His life chance by a tiny hand, 
 When o er this fearful waste he glides 
 Or down some treacherous chasm slides. 
 
 Yet gabbling tongues will mocking say, 
 A carrier s life is merest play ; 
 We know too well his arduous ask. 
 His toil nor his reward do task 
 Tis meagre small ; such service great 
 Should find no niggard in the state, 
 Not here with scrimping palm be doled 
 The unused surplus of her gold. 
 
 " This time I make my twentieth trip : 
 In rain, when false step, hair-breadth slip 
 Had surely spread my mangled bones 
 To whiten on some gulch s stones ; 
 In sun adoring and subdued 
 By the transcendant solitude ; 
 At night when hungry wild beast leered; 
 From covert, crouching as I neared ; 
 Alone, and with gay friends to cheer, 
 Not once without a throb of fear. 
 
 " These tales are pitiful, and seem 
 Like horrors of a fever dream 
 To you who listen. I, who tell, 
 Know their reality too well, 
 Remember too, the first who died 
 As carrier on the Great Divide 
 
150 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Framed like a fair gigantic tower, 
 Limbs set for fleetness as for power, 
 Swift-footed was he as a deer, 
 And confidence laid every fear ; 
 Freighted with hearts our mountain mail, 
 We would not think that he could fail. 
 
 " This same route he had traversed o er 
 
 A hundred times, or less or more ; 
 
 Often for whim, but at the last 
 
 Some mightier spirit bound him fast. 
 
 At this far day his lonely death 
 
 Yet quickens the reciter s breath ; 
 
 Sending a thrill thro him who hears, 
 
 Till sudden start unbidden tears ; 
 
 And why more sad his fate appears 
 
 Than that of many killed by slide 
 
 I know not. But this Great Divide 
 
 Is something that can cow man s heart ; 
 
 The very silence makes him start 
 
 As never loudest cannon could : 
 
 The sea of white peaks seems at feud 
 
 With all his manhood. Peak on peak, 
 
 North, South, East, West, where er we seek, 
 
 Only the same unbroken ocean 
 
 And utterly devoid of motion. 
 
 " Death here perhaps takes harsher form 
 Than in the shock of slide or storm : 
 What e er the cause be, sure it is 
 No fate seems pitiful as his. 
 
On the Divide. 151 
 
 He was beloved, well known, and first 
 One thus his ne er old story versed 
 And gave to print. It merits place, 
 For saddest truth has lent it grace." 
 
 A scrip he tendered, sere with age. 
 I took this story from the page, 
 And followed the lone pilgrimage 
 With swelling heart. I know a tear 
 From your eye drops upon his bier. 
 
 OVER THE DIVIDE. 
 
 (John C. Grinnell left Carr s Cabin after a storm in 
 November 1876, to carry the mail to Silverton. He 
 left in good spirits, his friends watching him start. 
 Either he became snow blind or bewildered, for, miss 
 ing him at the usual time for reaching Silverton, a 
 party set out to find him, which they did in Stony Gulch, 
 about 300 yards from the summit, his charge tightly 
 grasped in his hand, showing his last thought. He was 
 of splendid build and dauntless courage, and no one for 
 a moment entertained a doubt of his being able to ac 
 complish that which he had done hundreds of times 
 before. The mail was carried on the shoulder, the 
 carrier using snow-shoes.) 
 
 Adieu ! brave companions, the storm-king has passed, 
 We can laugh at the fury that still swells the blast, 
 
152 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 Still moans thro the canons an impotent wail 
 The pines tower triumphant, the poor aspens quail 
 With their brown, shriveled leaves like an army in rags 
 The savage old king flaunts a few tattered flags, 
 But his power is departed. A remnant of pride 
 Yet garlands the brow of the fearful Divide, 
 And tho blue laughs between them, those ragged grey 
 
 clouds, 
 
 Are cold as the barren white peaks in their shrouds. 
 Fill the glass and adieu, bid me cheery God-speed, 
 And forget not a thought to a comrade in need. 
 
 With a swinging gait he started, 
 
 Secret triumph in his face ; 
 Confident and happy-hearted, 
 
 Quickening not his measured pace, 
 Till our eyes no longer noted 
 
 When we turned us with a jest, 
 And of all our friends, we voted 
 
 "Jack" the bravest and the best. 
 
 Sublime in his manhood, supreme in his might, 
 No terrors for him had the pitiless white 
 That covered the chasms and gulches from sight, 
 And left but a desert all trackless and wide, 
 Entombing the trail o er the fearful Divide. 
 
 And Ciningham spotless lay bright in the sun, 
 With no boundary to mark where the foothills begun ; 
 At the summit a tremor of fear pierced his brain, 
 And horror embodied looked up from the plain, 
 
On tlie Divide. 153 
 
 Where even in summer, a silence like death 
 
 Chills the blood of the wayfarer, numbing his breath. 
 
 In the horrible vastness, converging to haze, 
 
 Where Stony Gulch elongates under his gaze, 
 
 It was there where he fell, with the blue heavens o er him, 
 
 The white sea and solitude stretching before him. 
 
 We marked where his footsteps had faltered, could tell 
 How bravely he struggled to win e er he fell, 
 Hearing pulse, thro the silence, the waves of his knell, 
 Tracing ever a circle, despair leading blind 
 To the void of stagnation he deeme d behind. 
 
 Ye who have seen Stony when summer suns shone, 
 
 Imagine him there in the winter, alone ! 
 
 Can words paint the horror that turned him to stone ! 
 
 Yet the sleep that God gives his beloved had crowned him 
 On his couch with the cloak of the weary around him, 
 At peace with himself and his Maker we found him. 
 
 My host is called behind ; some wretched jack 
 Slipped from the cliff, or tangled in his pack 
 Over a more than usual dangerous pass ; 
 They sometimes fall a crude dismembered mass ; 
 A packer leaves his place to join my walk 
 At signal from my host. And needs our talk 
 
 Must drift to snowslides, " Had he seen a slide ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite a few." " Where, on the Great Divide ? " 
 
1 54 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 " No, most in mines." " Would he not tell me one 
 Where he himself had been, had seen and known, 
 The facts he spoke of ? " After much demurring 
 He told me this, as favor great conferring: 
 
 THE SLIDE AT THE EMPIRE MINE. 
 
 All day a steady snow had drifted down, 
 Hiding the restful hues of dun and brown 
 On friendly hill-side, and the slender trail, 
 That bound us world-ward. Did no spirit quail 
 At the appalling doom looming before us, 
 With the unsettled snow-mass trembling o er us? 
 
 If any feared, none spake ; the laugh and jest 
 Rang out as clear, perhaps with added zest. 
 And but that they who worked at night-shift stood 
 With outstretched palms, in half unwilling mood 
 To leave the fire, no outward sign betrayed 
 If any felt discouraged or dismayed. 
 
 The storm had lulled, but the insatiate wind 
 Trailed a pathetic, vengeful wail behind, 
 When the brave four took courage, shut the light 
 And genial glow out from the prying night. 
 
 Six yet remained ; not one essayed to speak ; 
 The silence broken by a stifled shriek 
 That blanched all lips, and every man upsprung ; 
 Wide to the night the cabin door was flung. 
 
On the Divide. 155 
 
 A rude gust quenched our lamp, and darkness gave 
 To unknown ill the horror of the grave ; 
 A whirring din, a roll like distant thunder, 
 On coming, as the hills were rent asunder, 
 And with hushed breath we each the other eyed, 
 Knowing we faced that awful thing, a slide ! 
 
 Our world-ward trail was sheltered by a ledge, 
 (Rising on one side like a rocky hedge,) 
 That served for shielding some the cabin door, 
 And as a quaking mass went thundering o er 
 Beyond the trail, leaving it bare and steep, 
 Into a yawning chasm fathoms deep, 
 Our unbound hearts leaped upward with a sigh 
 For us the King of Terrors had passed by. 
 
 The shaft-house from the cabin lay some feet, 
 
 Barely five score : but every tempest beat 
 
 With cruel fury thro a small ravine 
 
 Across the trail, wholly devoid of screen ; 
 
 And quite lost now. Instinct our only guide, 
 
 We labored blindly, and on either side 
 
 A comrade found. These both alive were saved, 
 
 The shaft-house walls were whole, the roof had caved 
 
 And buried two, quite dead, tho barely cold 
 
 A sight that cowed the bravest to behold. 
 
 Will Clark was but a lad, not yet eighteen ; 
 We knew some household darling he had been ; 
 For he had gentle speech and dainty ways, 
 Appeared to yearn for our good will and praise, 
 
156 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 The other, Jack Monroe, was the reverse : 
 He sandwiched every sentence with a curse, 
 Defiant seemed, alike of God and man, 
 To such extremes his daily actions ran ; 
 Yet strange to say, his friendship for the youth 
 Was strong as death, and beautiful as truth. 
 
 We found his giant body wedged between 
 The splintered rafters ; an effectual screen 
 From their sharp spears, shielding the tender frame 
 As oft his tongue had sheltered him from blame ; 
 One great hand held the slender fingers close, 
 One couched the head in its last long repose, 
 And thus they sleep, our pitying hands provided, 
 Who living, loved, in death were not divided. 
 
LETTER XXVII. 
 
 AN INCIPIENT MINER. 
 
 A WEEK I ve been in Silverton, 
 Our tenor and his train just gone 
 Across the Range, and Eastward bound 
 Over the same fair pleasure ground 
 That was to me one long delight. 
 
 Parted from him, and looking down 
 
 Upon the little mining town, 
 
 Find nothing bright in trim-laid-street, 
 
 After the winding trails we Ve crossed, 
 In all the faces that I meet 
 
 Seem searching for a comrade lost. 
 
 Yet not without a theme for hope 
 
 Am wholly left, for mining schemes 
 Are floating in unmeasured scope 
 
 Among my busy waking dreams. 
 Your letter comes with warnings, late ; 
 
 Already I am bonded over, 
 Have caught the mining fever fate 
 
 Alone knows when I shall recover. 
 
 . 
 
158 Letters from Colorado. 
 
 I Ve started right, engaged a " Mine-Expert " 
 To see surveys and magnify the dirt, 
 Note the assays and probe with learned eyes 
 To utter depths of mining mysteries. 
 Tho in the abstract I do guess his meaning, 
 Cannot be sure to which side he is leaning 
 Buyer or seller, may perhaps be sold, 
 But boughten wisdom should be worth some gold 
 Your logic fails to make my folly plain. 
 Being determined, all advice is vain. 
 I came to learn, and like an earnest scholar 
 In search of knowledge, scorn to grudge a dollar. 
 Success is but another name for pluck, 
 And cowards they who never try their luck ; 
 Right hath he none who cannot well defend it, 
 " Nor money needs who knows not how to spend it." 
 
 H. L. WASON. 
 WAGON WHEEL GAP, 
 
 Rio GRANDE Co., COLORADO. 
 
CUPPLES Sr HURD, 
 
 Publishers, Booksellers and Importers, 
 
 94 BOYLSTON STREET, 
 
 (Opposite the Public Garden.) 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Messrs. Cupples and Hurd have 
 opened at the above address a fine stock 
 of miscellaneous books for which they 
 will be pleased to receive orders. 
 
 All orders by mail will receive 
 prompt attention. 
 
 The newest books, whether American, 
 English or French, will be kept con 
 stantly in stock. 
 
 Correspondence solicited. 
 
BELLES-LETTRES. 
 
 THACKERAY S LONDON: His Haunts and the Scenes 
 Of his Novels. With two original portraits (etched 
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 WHAT IS THEOSOPHY? By a Fellow of the Theo- 
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 CUPPLES & HURD, Publishers, Boston. 
 
BELLES-L E TTRES. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF PAIN. By JAMES HINTON, M.D. 
 With an Introduction by James R. Nichols, M.D., 
 author of " Whence, What, Where? " etc. A reli 
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 i vol., i6mo, cloth, $1.00. 
 
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