. JJ^C K, C RAWFORD. THE POET SCOUT A BOOK OF SONG AND STOUT. BY CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD, (Late Chief of Scouts, U. S. Army.) FUNK & WAGNALLS : NEW YORK I LONDON : J_QQ(J. 10-12 DEX STREET. 44 FLEET STREET. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886, by FUNK & WAGNALLS, In the Office of the LlferriJ;n of Crfngrefcs^ Washington, D. C. Registered at Stationers Hall, London, England. PBEFACE. IK the publication of the sketches and poems in the follow ing pages I have no thought of grasping literary or poetical distinction. They are the crude, unpolished offspring of my idle hours wandering thoughts which came to me on the lonely trail and in the bivouac and camp. They were written with no studied effort, but are the spontaneous bubblings from a heart whose springs of poesy and poetic thought were opened by the hand of Nature amid her roughest scenes. In the selec tions herein produced many past incidents of an adventurous life have reproduced themselves on the memory, and taken the shape of verse. That they are crude and rough and lack the polished finish of the droppings from more gifted pens, I freely admit, and I would therefore beg the critics to spare them. I have never figured as a hero of fiction or dime novels, and have refused to allow my name to be used in connection with that kind of literature ; hence I come before you with my " Poet Scout" in a measure unheralded. I had a Christian mother, my earliest recollection of whom was kneeling at her side, praying God to save a wayward father and husband. That mother taught me to speak the truth when a child, and I have tried to follow her early teachings in that respect. It would require a much larger book than this to tell the story of my life and the sufferings of one of God s good angels my mother. To her I owe everything truth, honor, sobriety, M41942 11 PREFACE. and even my very life. Her spirit seems to linger near me always ; she has been my guardian angel. In the camp, the cabin, the field, and the hospital, on the lonely trail, hundreds of miles from civilization, in the pine-clad hills and lonely canons, I have heard in the moaning night winds and in the murmuring streamlets The voice of my angel mother Whispering soft and low. And these sacred thoughts have made me forget at times that there was danger in my pathway. Xor will I ever forget The day that we parted, mother and I, Never on earth to meet again ; She to a happier home on high, 1 a poor wanderer over the plain. That day was perhaps the greatest epoch in my life. Kneel ing by her bedside, with one hand clasped in mine, the other resting upon my head, she whispered : " My boy, you know your mother loves you. Will you give me a promise, that I may take it up to heaven ?" " Yes, yes, mother ; I will prom ise you anything." "Johnny, my son, I am dying," said she ; "promise me you will never drink intoxicants, and then it will not be so hard to leave this world." Dear reader, need I tell you that I promised " Yes ;" and whenever I am asked to drink, that scene comes up before me, and I am safe. With these few words I launch my little craft upon the great sea of literature, trusting that it may sail smoothly and weather every gale. JOHN WALLACE CRAWFORD. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE i BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 5 MUSTERED OUT .. 19 THE HEROES DEPARTED 20 THE MINER S HOME 23 RATTLIN JOE S PRAYER 23 THE TENDERFOOT 27 LITTLE ONES PRAYING AT HOME 28 BALD MOUNTAIN 29 THE MOUNTAIN BOY S LETTER 31 NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING 32 DREAMING OF MOTHER ." 33 CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER 36 YOU ARE WANTED AT HOME 45 TRUTH 46 THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY TRAMP 47 OUR PROSPECT 49 WILD BILL S GRAVE 49 "HE DIED FOR ME \ 52 A MOUNTAIN GIRL S LETTER 55 TO MRS. I. P. JENKS 58 SOMEBODY 60 THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL 61 I M SAD TO-NIGHT 63 NATURE S TREASURES 65 MY MOUNTAIN HOME 67 SPRING IN THE BLACK HILLS 68 THE WELCOME HOME 70 HOOD S CHILDREN 71 SOMEDAY 73 ONLY A MINER KILLED 74 WE MEET AGAIN 75 MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN IN THE HILLS ... 77 FAREWELL, OLD CABIN HOME 78 IT S ONLY A DIME 81 NEW YEAR S DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS 82 THE RUINED VIRGINIA 83 IRENE IS DEAD 85 AMONG THE PEAKS... 87 FAREWELL TO OUR CHIEF 88 DEATH OF LITTLE KIT 90 UNDER THE SNOW 92 THE DYING SCOUT 94 PERHAPS 96 SANDY S REVENGE 98 CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS 100 IV CONTENTS. PAGE THE OLD TRAPPER S RELIGION 101 THE SCOUT S REQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE .104 THE DEATH OF CUSTER 106 COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OF SADNESS ? 108 BY THE LAKE 110 GOD BLESS YE, GENER L CUSTER 112 NEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP 113 MUSING 115 AN EPITAPH ON WILD BILL 117 GRIZZLY JAKE 118 BIRDS OF THE HUDSON BAY 121 MY IDEAS 122 THE PROSPECTOR S SOLILOQUY 123 THE MIXER S DREAM XMAS EVE 124 OUR NUGGET 128 BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT 130 TO JAMES G. FAIR 132 CUSTER 133 GOOD-BY 185 THE FIRST THAT DIED 136 THOSE EYES 137 THE PICNIC BY THE BROOK 138 AFTER TAPS , 139 KIT CARSON 140 TO CHARLEY 141 ODE TO CARIBOO FRIENDS 142 OUR " JACK " 143 UNDER THE SOD 145 THE OLD MINER 146 MY OWN MOUNTAIN TREE 147 MOTHER S PRAYERS 148 "CORPORAL BILL" 150 THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON 153 LILLIE 156 MY BIRTHDAY . ...157 LITTLE REVILEE 158 DECORATION DAY 160 OUR MARTYRED DEAD , 163 OFF TO THE PICNIC 165 CATO S IDEAS 166 MY HERO 1 67 THE GRAVE OF MY MOTHER 171 NORA LEE 172 OUR FIRST REUNION AND CAMP FIRE 173 THE RANGERS RETREAT... 176 THE POOR MAN S SOLILOQUY 177 THE FIRST FLOWER OF MAY 180 FAREWELL... 181 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. BY LEIGH IRVINE. A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs. EMERSON. SINCE the earliest eras of myth and fable all races have paid homage to heroism. There is in the constitution of man a tendency to hero-worship, and power always commands a certain reverence. We never tire of believing in the resources of Nature and in the hidden possibilities of man ; hence we are ever encouraged to learn of any unusual feats of our fellow-men. Revelations of virtue, courage, skill, and remarkable powers of endurance are always received with wonder and pleasure, for they help to build in the mind a hope. They lead us to believe that " what man has done man can do," and to trust in the benefi cence of Nature. Almost any stories of the exploits of men are interesting if true, provided they give us a new insight into the history of the human mind. However humble the actor or rugged the scene in which he is depicted, it is in a certain sense MAN acting and living under the varied circumstances of Ihe age and country in which the special agent is stationed. It is wonderful what a fascination is inwoven with stories of life in the far West! Tales of frontier times charm us* and hold our attention even as did the legends and Arabian fictions of boyhood days. The very landscapes in the country of the setting sun are vast and awe-inspiring, and they seem to com municate to man somewhat of their own broad proportions. It has been ihe universal conclusion of careful observers that men who go from old settle ments in the East to the mining regions or plains of the West become broad- minded, good-natured, and liberal if there were any such tendencies in their characters. The Western man is noticeable for his frankness and generosity ; and even though his manner be strikingly unconventional there is seldom a question that his motive has origin in good-fellowship. Who that has ever known a genuine frontiersman of 49 can forget his open hospitality? In VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. his presence one feels that all is clear as the diamond mornings of June. There is no need of condescension or apology for anything. The lugged cbild of the mountains stands firmly on his feet, as much as to say that all men exist by inalienable right. Hypocrisy, greed, stinginess, and all petty quibbling are forgotten. His smallest measure of value for years was four or five times what we pay for a loaf of bread or a gluss of beer, and his "dust" is divided with a generosity that puts to shame the liberality we have known in other lands. I have never looked upon these Atlantean-shouldered giants of the new West without feeling in a certain sense that they grew thus rich in physical powers and cleverness from contemplating the bounty of Nature, the plentitulness of landscape, the wastes of mountains and plains. A certain grandeur attaches even to the aiched sky and silent stars when beheld from high mountains or viewed from the depths of grand canons walled with sublime rocks and mountains crowned with peaks of perennial snow. Buckle s theory that the vast moun tains of Asia make the inhabitants superstitious and cowardly may be true ; but the " Rockies" and Sierras of the American continent seem to inspire men with courage and renewed confidence in the strength of manhood. The same statement is true of the boundless plains of the West. The cow-boy stands as a perpetual contradiction to any philosophy which teaches that the vastness of Nature makes man believe in his own insignificance. He has never had fny misgivings as to hid right to life, liberty, and happiness after his own fashion. It is comparatively seldom that one meets a real hero in the Wes-t, one entitled in any high and philosophic sense to be clashed with men of extraordinary powers. There are many to whom is due the credit of personal intrepidity, for their valor goes without question. They are bold in danger and fearless in trie presence of mortal foes. Like the old Spartan gladiator?, who were willing to face man or beast in the arena of bloody combat, they do not fear sanguinary conflicts, and their courage remains unabated to the end. But physical valor alone is not the full measure of heroism. Life is more than a series of conflicts, and its true rewards do not rest purely on a physical basis. The greatest man, the most heroic man, must lead alife which spans a wider field than animal endurance or good-fellowship. The true hero does not forget that man has an intellectual and a moral side in his nature. The old heroes were supposed to be children of the gods, and the go^s were not of the flesh, but of the mind or spirit. " The gods of fable are the shining moments of great men." Nothing is truer than that the mind is in a h gh degree the measure of the man. The highest unit is, therefore, one that deals not alone with acts of physical bravery, but with the mental life as well. Men who have the courage to think for themselves are rare, and those whose thoughts are morally pure and clear with the light of truth are rarer still. It is one of the most difficult of tasks to think, and next to this is to give a thought skilful expression, the clothing of clear language. Then how are we to BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Vll estimate a man who, amid the conflicts of Indian warfare and the surroundings of miners camps, not only acquired a fair education, but learned to cummuue with Nature and long for the inspiration of her divine afflatus? Has he not interesting elements iu his mental constitution, and such a faithfulness to the true ideals of life as to attract admiration ? This higher heroism demands a finer feeling and rarer powers than the simple conquests due to bone, muscle, dapper exploits, and animal courage. If we find in one individual the com bined beauties of an active mind, a brave spirit and great physical courage, he becomes exceedingly interesting. We long to know him, to see and feel his personality. Such a man is Captain J. W. Crawford, familiarly known as "Captain Jack." His ambition for self culture never flagged for a moment, whether on the soldier s march or by the trapper s lonely fireside. Captain Crawford s character is unique, and his life is full of incident. He is a rare example of a brave frontiersman, with a fine mind and a tender heart. Border life seems to have made him gentle rather than to have hardened him, while the grandeur of nature moved him to write poetry. At first glance it seems that there is an incompatibility between an Indian scout and a poet, and many persons are loath to believe that a man whose life was spent in frontier pursuits and Indian warfare can write readable poetry. It was, however, the theory of Macaulay that poets thrived in early ages, and that civilization is necessarily de structive of bards. It this ia true, there is something worthy of consideration in the fact that the great West more nearly fulfils the concisions named by Macau ay as being favorable to the production of poetry than any other part of the American continent. The primeval forests, the " wild torrents fiercely glad," and the wealth of vast wastes in nature combine to give to minds of poetic ten dencies that fulness of imagination and love of the beautiful which the complex ities of civilization in crowded cities render in a manner impossible. If there is any music in a man s soul, it will find expression amid the primal scenes of the lands where Captain Crawfoid spent many years of his life, hearing voices in the air " as of nymphs that haunt the mountain summits and the river founts, and the moist, grassy meadows." The power of feeling the impressions made by Na ture on the mind and heart is one of the first requisites of the poet. A bioad, good-hearted man, whose life leads in rugged paths, learns to know the value of fritndship and to recognize true manhood at a glance. In the same surroundings he becomes an expert at detec ing hypocrisy. Many of the poet scout s ballads celebrate the homely virtues of every day life, or remove from deceit its hollow mask. His vocabulary abounds in expressions which glorify the graces of simple manhood, aud for this reason even his rudest lines of dialect imitation have a beauty and freshness that are admirable. Such verses readily become popu lar with the masses, and nothing is more frequent, than to hear some of his lines familiarly quoted in certain parts of the West where they have been published. The poem entitled "Rattlin Joe s Prayer " has long been a favorite selection with Vlll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. many elocutionists and public readers. Though it is one of the roughest poems he has written, and though it abounds in slang, it is a perfect picture of the phase of life with which it deals. Where is a verse that gives a more satisfac tory glimpse into the rude life of a miner than the following? "I m lost on the rules o jer game, but I ll ax Fur a seat fur him back o yer throne. And I ll bet my whole stack that the boy ll behave, If yer angels jist lets him alone." A striking example from a poem which abounds in the lessons of justice, and which contains throughout a commendable philosophy, is found in the first verse of "Hood s Children, a poem first read at a G. A. R. entertainment for their benefit in San Francisc6. The sentence is as follows : "Dear comrades and friend sin the golden land, You may say I m rough, you may call me wild, But I ve got a heart and a willing hand To feel and to work for a soldier s child." A verse from a little poem suggested by a New York newsboy s contribution to the Grant monument fuud is also in point : " And, boys, who knows, though his dad is dead, This peer of your snob galoots May be carving his way to the nation s head, Selling papers and blacking boots." No one has ever claimed that any of Captain Crawford s poetry is comparable to the transcendental musings of an Emerson or the classic songs of Tennys>on or Holmes; but there is in them a simple melody and a sentiment ever dear to the masses of mankind. Burns and Moore wrote on themes of no wider scope than those embraced withmthe catalogue of subjects essayed by Captain Crawford. In his most unfinished songs there is often a vigor, freshness, and originality which hold the attention, even if they do violence to the rhetoric of the reader. As a writer in the New York Herald a few years ago said : " If his verses had no other merit, they might be commended to the other Western dialect poets as a genuine fount of raw material for them to draw from. The collection is a kind of kaleidoscope, into which each reader must look for himself and then nidge whether the colors and arrangement of colors are good. It must never be forgotten that every line he ever wrote was produced under the disadvantages of a fragmentary education, gained during the storms and confl cts of adult life. Considering him as a backwoodMnan, a man without the advantages of culture, whose mature life has been passed mainly upon the cheerless plains, in contest BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. IX with savages and in the society of the Western barrack-ronm and the trapper s hut. he is a wonderful personage. Under different training the rough diamond of his nature would have sparkled in the light of the literary world. While considering this phase of the man s life, it may be of interest to many persons to know something of his methods in writing. An anonymous writer in the Grand Army Magazine for March, 1883, says that he is at times a very rapid composer. The following incident is cited : "I asked Jack to return to town with me and talk over old times. On our arrival at Chloride, and after the usual questions as to old comrades had been answered, I said : " Well, J*ck, I understand you have published a book of your poetry. I ll fall you what I wish you would do for me as a favor: just prove to these friends of mine around here that you can wrie. They are not skeptical, yet I wou d like to show them what you can do, and how quick you can do it. "Jack replied : All right; give me a subject, and I ll write you a verse or two "Some one of our friends replipd : Give us a song, with a regular miner s chorus. " I won t swear to it, but this I will say, as I had no watch, that in fifteen minutes Jack handed me a poem." The writer then describes how the performance astonished the company. The following two verses from that extemporaneous effort may serve to give the reader some sort of insight into the man and his methods : " Hear the music of the hammer, As it bounds from rock and drill; See the ore piled near the windlass As it glistens on the hill; Hear the giant cannonading, Throwing out its precious load, And the merry song at evening In the miner s log abode. " There s a vein of love and pathos In each hardy miner s breast, And the thoughts of home and lov d ones, As he Hys him down to rest, Are as sweet to him though humble As the king upon his throne, For the miner s heart oft lingers With the loving ones at home." X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Being introduced to a beautiful young lady in 1875 named Frauke Bailey, she asked Captain Jack to write an acrostic on her name, and in less than two minutes he handed her the following : "Fairest flower, didst ever mortal eyes Regard thee with a more enraptured stare ? Ah, Miss, in thee I see a lovely prize ; Nor is there one in Eden half so fair. Kings might long to kiss and e en caress thee, Esteemed by all the good God bless thee. But I, alas ! an uncouth, rustic cuss, And little schooled to etiquette and such, I only ask thy friendship firm, and thus Look upon thee a friend I ask not much, Ever to dream of thee when all alone, Your form, my queen, I ll kneel before ihy throne." These are but two examples in hundreds lhat might be given to show how this original man feels, thinks, and writes. Let these illustrations suffice. Now for the outward man as known to the crowds of friends who meet him in every day life the true friend, the jo ly companion. Captain Crawford s genealogy is traceab e to a Scotch or gin. John A. Crawford, the poet scout s father, led rather an eventful life. He was born near Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1816. When fourteen years old he entered a tailoring establishment at Glasgow, and served seven years as an apprentice, and then went to London to finish his trade. After two years he returned to Glasgow. Here he nude political speeches, advocated a free form of govern ment, and was banished, a price being put on his head. He fled and hid in Rob Roy s cave, where he was fed for six weeks by an old Scotch lady called Granny McGregor, when a fishing-smack picked him up and carried him to the north coast of Ireland. Here he married Susie Wallace, the daughter of another refugee, and a descendant of Sir William, the Scotch chief. The elder Crawford was a fine tailor, a jolly companion, and a good elocutionist and reciter of Scotch selections. He was a temperate man until he married, when it seems he acquired a taste for strong drink. To escape from dissolute associates, he sailed for America in 1854, leaving his wife and five children, of whom Jack was the third, in Ireland. For four years the mother struggled to support them, receiving little assistance from her husband. Then she left her children with an uncle, James Wallace, and came to America, joining her husband at Miners- ville, Pa. He promised to reform, and partly did so. The children were sent for, and came to Pennsylvania but the father did little for them, and the boys were oMiged to work in the coal mines. Here, at the breaking out of the rebellion, we find Jack picking slate at a coal mine at $1.75 per week. His father was BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XI one of the first men to respond to the original call for 75,000 volunteers. He served gallantly under Captain George Lawrence, with ihe Ringgolds. He was twice badly wounded, once at Antietam and once at Cold Harbor. .Jack soon ran away, and enlisted when he was not quite sixteen years old Governor Curtin sent him home twice from Harrisburgh, because he was young and small. He made a third attempt, and joined the 48 h Pennsylvania volunteers, getting fully into the war in time to be twice wounded, first at Spottsylvama, May 12th, 1864, and then at Petersburg, April 21,1865. The severest wound was received at Spottsylvania Court-House while charging the confederate works. He was carried to Washington and later to Saterlee Hospital at West Philadelphia. Here it was that he learned to read and write under the instruction of a Sister of Charity, for the necessity of earning a living for his mother and the other members of the family had deprived him of ihe advantage of schooling. His father died very shortly after the war from the effects of a severe wound in the head, received May 18th, 1864 Just before the death of his father he was called upon to bear the stronger bereavement of a mother s death ; but be fore she died she asked him to promise never to drink. This story is best told by Captain Crawford himself. In a letter dated February 26th, 1880, addressed to Colonel Judson, who had in a story made some erroneous statements about him, the Captain says: "I desire to ask a particular favor of you. ... In some of your stories you make me say I promised some one six months ago that I would not drink, etc. Now, my dear Colonel, here is where you touch a tender point. I had a sainted, God-fearing, and sweet mother, to whom I owe everything. No one but the Almighty knows what that mother suffered for me and all her children through my father s intemperance. When she was dying she called me to her bedside and asked me to promise her I would never drink intoxicants ; and although my lips had never tasted intoxicants before, on my knees, in the pres ence of my brothers, sisters, and friends, I made her that promise. Colonel, as God is my judge, I have faithfully kept it, and will while I live and breathe." The Captain has frequently brought such men as Wild Bill to tears by his pathetic recital of this incident in his life. Once Wild Bill said, after hearing Jack recite a poem called "Mother s Prayers," which is based on that promise, "God bless you, Jack; you strike a tender spot, old boy, when you talk mother that way." Soon after his mother s death Jack became anxious to try his fortunes in the West, stories of which had reached his ears. The death of his mother fell upon him as a heavy blow, but despondency was soon drowned in the ocean of hope that opened up to him. The future seemed rich, and its pleasing possibilities encouraged him to work like a hero. He obtained a letter from General Hart- Xll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ranft, which he subsequently got General Sherman to indorse. Armed with this and similar credentials, the young man started West, where he located, and soon gained the good-will of the frontier military. He soon obtained promo tion, and earned the reputation of being a bold, honest, aud bkilful scout. He was one of the earliest explorers in the Black Hills, chief of the pioneer scouts, and one of the founders of Deadwood, Ouster City, Crook, Gayviile, and Spear- fish. In the Indian campaign of 1876 he was second in the command of General Crook s scouts, and he superseded Buffalo Bill as chief on August 24th of the same year, the latter having resigned. As a scout his record has been signaHzed by singular acts < f bravery. He knows almost every foot of the frontier lands, and he is fearless in the presence of danger. In July, 1876, in response to a tele gram, he rode from Medicine Bow, on the U. P. R. R., to Rosebud and Little Big Horn, in the Big Horn Mountains, nearly four hundred miles, ihrough a country peopled with savage Indians. He carried the New York Heralds account of the battle of Slim Buttes to Fort Laramie three hundred and fifty miles in less than four days. For this he received in all $722.75. In a letter of introduction given to Captain Crawford, in 1880, by Governor Perkins, of California, the Governor said : " He is known as Captain Jack, a title gained by his devotion and loyalty to the principles of justice, patriotism, and humanity." * Captain Jack holds credentials entitling him to correspond for some of the best daily papers in New York. His letters in many papers have for years attracted attention. Besides letters he has written several sketches for magazines, but he abhors sensational notoriety. He has often appeared in public as a lecturer and reciter of his own poems, always wiih great success. The following life-like portrait, by Edward L. Keyes, late lieutenant of the Fifth U. S. Cavalry, will give a fair idea of the man : "Being in New Mexico last week, and having a day to spare, I decided to renew my acquaintance with Fort Craig, which place 1 had not sten since I camped there in 1875, en route from Arizona to the Indian Territory. Imagine my surprise when the first person to greet me, as I neared the trader s store, was my old friend and quondam companion, Jack Crawford, or Captain Jack, the Poet Scout, as he is now called. The meeting was a pleasure to us both. I had not seen him since we parted in the Black Hills in 1876, at the close of the Sitting Bull expedition, I to return to my post and he to follow a fresher trail farther to the south-west. After learning that be is post trader, postmaster, post-contractor, etc., not to mention his cattle and mining interests, he made me understand that it would be bad medicine for me if I spread my blankets outside of his wickiupp, as he termed bis domicile. So I joyfully accepted bis insinuating invitation. "Perhaps I could give you a pen portrait of the celebrated scout. He is a BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Xlll tall, wiry-built man, with a nervous, sensitive face, which his open, frank de meanor dignifies when you have once entered into conversation with him. His manner is simple and easy, entirely free from affectation. His long, light brown hair falls below his shoulders, and a mustache and goatee of the same color ornament his youthful face. A large light felt sombrero crowns his head, and his body is covered with a blue s-hirt with wid^, flowing collar. Buckskin trousers with fringed sides cover his long, muscular legs, and a belt, with a 1 persuader attached, usually encirclts his waist. He is thirty-eight years of age, though he does not look it. He was chief of the scouts during the Sitting Bull expedition, in which I took part. It was during th s campa-gn that he made that daring and remarkable ride, carrying dispatches alone fi ur hundred m.les, through the midst of the foe, riding at night and hiding in the chaparral during the day, with the knowledge that if his horse neighed he would be discovered, captured, and tortured. "We spent the day in recounting half-forgottt n events of the ho^emeat campaign, and again, in fancy, roughing it from the Platte to the Yellowstone, thence across the Bad Lands to the Black Hills. One incident I reculled which caused our conversation to take a poetical turn. I remembered that it was Jack Crawford who, while we lay encamped on War Bonnet Creek, Wyoming, sent us the sad, shocking intelligence of the gallant Caster s fate. I also remembered that soon after he reached our camp he entered my tent, and, throwing himself on my blankets, produced a small blank-book from his pocket, in which he at once began writing. Though Jack conversed well, his cliirog- raphy was somewhat peculiar. He h. d never been to school in his life, and atthe time of which I speak writing was a trail which he had only lately struck. Notwi hstanding this, he was bus ly engaged jotting down his thoughts. And at last I asked him what he was doing. Wri ing some versus on the death of Custer, was his reply. Remembering all this as though it had occurred the day before, I asked him if his now famous poem on that brave cavalry officer s tragic death was the result of that morning s inspiration. I learned that it was." But to go farther is useless. In a limited sketch there can be no complete picture of such a man. At best there is but an occasional glance, in broken outline, at the real man. To be properly estimated with his faults, to which all flesh is heir, and with those qualities which delight thousands who under stand him, he must be known. Through all the vicissitudes of fortune, the changes of time and place, no man can say he ever forgot a friend. He holds to the saying of Henry Clay, that no new friends can take the place of those we have long tried and loved. H ; s soc al qualit ; es charm large circles of admirer?, who are ever anxious to meet him, while his stories of camp and fie d, and his inex haustible fund of original Western anecdotes, enrich his earnest conversation in a manner singularly pleasing and original. * A CHAPTER FOR BOYS. I WISH I could sit down and take every dime-novel-reading little boy in America by the hand and point out to him the destination he will reach if he persists in reading the vile trash which depicts such Indian scenes as never occurred, and points out " blood-and-thunder" heroes who never lived, and of such a type as were never heard of in the West. If I had the power I would catch every dime-novel publisher in America and confine him in prison for life, where he could not pursue his crimi nal work for it is criminal and lead so many bright boj s to ruin and disgrace. My name has never yet figured in one of these trash 3* con cerns with my consent, although I have been offered quite large sums by publishers to allow my name to be used as the author of a Western story which they would have written by another, just as they do with other Western characters whom I could name. It is a great trick on the part of publishers to endeavor to secure the names of noted scouts, hunters, and actors as authors of the most ridiculous trash that was ever printed, and I regret to say that some Western men are so foolish as to bite at their glittering bait. But a few weeks since in a New York pub lication I was pained and mortified to see an old picture of myself, pub lished with others, with a flash story, and labelled, if I remember rightly, " Broncho Billy." The first desire of the average boy after reading a story of Western adventure is to go " out West and kill Indians." To a Western man this desire is so absurd and ridiculous as to be really laughable. Poor little innocent dupes ! Of the many boys who have abandoned their homes to exterminate Indians not one in a thousand ever reached the ; . ;, A, CHAPTER FOR BOYS. Missouri River, and those who did get beyond that stream invariably went to work in kitchens of hotels washing dishes, or served as lackeys in some subordinate position until their parents could send for them. The poor, blinded boys do not realize that to be efficient in the field as a scout a man must have lived in the West for many years ; must be fami liar with every foot of the country, and acquainted with the Indians and their haunts and customs. Neither do they cast a thought upon the hardships and privations of the life of a scout : exposed to piercing cold ; driving, blinding snow storms ; drenching rains ; starvation for days at a time ; intensest heat and tongues parched for water in sum mer ; always in danger of death and mutilation at the hands of an invisible and cruel foe these and a thousand other hardships always fall to the lot of a scout on the frontier. The men who follow such a life do not do it so much from a love of adventure as from a love of the big silver dollars which they receive in payment for their services. Many of the young men in the penitentiaries of the Western States and Territories assert unqualifiedly that they were brought to their present shame and disgrace through reading dime novels. They longed to be heroes or highwaymen or noted robbers, and their first attempt at crime invariably led to their imprisonment for a long term. Boys, take the earnest advice of a frontiersman, and stay at home. To attempt to gain heroism by following the course pointed out by the pub lishers of vile novels will lead you to disgrace and death, just as surely as the night follows the declining day. Learn some good trade or profes sion, and stick to it, and you will grow up beloved and honored by all who know you, and your names may some day be written high up on the glittering scroll of fame. Future Presidents of these great United States are now but boys, and you may be one of them, little reader, if you will apply yourself to study, acquire the principles of truth and manhood, and endeavor to fit yourself for the position. Try it, little friend, and avoid those damnable dime novels as you would a venomous, hideous rattlesnake. They are more dangerous. "MUSTEKED OUT." The following impromptu lines are from the pen of Captain "Jack Crawford, the "Poet Scout." N. Y. Evening Telegram, August 1th, 1885: A NATION droops her head and weeps ; Her tears are honest drops of sorrow ; Her honored chief in silence sleeps ; We march behind his bier to-morrow. To-morrow you who often stood Beside him in the fiercest fray Will humbly bow, for God is good, Since all can honor him to-day. His valor as a soldier boy, His dauntless courage as our chief, His honesty without alloy, Will ever stand in bold relief. Yes, comrades, he is mustered out ; His feet have pressed the golden stair, His soul has passed o er heaven s redoubt, To be promoted over there. 20 THE POET SCOUT. THE HEKOES DEPARTED. Dedicated to my Comrades of the G. A. R. COME back, oh come back to us, heroes departed, Come back to us comrades and pass in review, Come back, silent chieftain, your comrades are waiting To join with the angels in honor of you. We muster to-day but a few of that army You led on to victory on many a field, And we feel that thy spirit will hover around us, Our star that will guide and our hope that will shield. We honor thee, first, as our greatest commander, Transferred in advance to that heavenly corps : Tell Keno and Sedgwick, tell Burnside and Hooker, Tell Abe we are coming a million and more. Tell Washington. Warren, tell Baker and Kearney, Tell Meade, and my own beloved colonel who fell While leading our old Forty-eighth through red blazes, Eight over the ramparts and into Fort Hell. Yes, tell them we re coming, we make no distinction The private who fell with the colors in hand, The boy with his drum who has answered death s tattoo, Are equal to kings in that greater command. And if you can look from the ramparts of heaven, To-day your old comrades will pass in review, Not en masse, not in column, but scattered and straggling, Deployed -at the front, but all coming to you. And you who are draping our dear starry banner. That flag of our Union, you fought to maintain, Oh, let treason assail it, though aged and hoary, And you would go marching to glory again ! But hark ! tis the voice of the mocking-bird singing A sweet song of peace from the cold cannon s mouth, THE HEROES DEPARTED. 21 And the soldier who fought with his back to the southward Shakes hands with the one who stood face to the South. The brave meet the brave while true feelings fraternal Leap into the hearts of the gray and the blue, And Johnny cries, "Billy, while you-uns whipped we-uns, Oh, we-uns war makin it sultry for you. " Let bitterness reign among them as war missin , When niinies war singin a dirge o er the brave ; For you-uns are happy and we-uns ain t sorry, Tis the land of the free, not the home of the slave." With malice toward none and with Charity blended, Fraternity, Loyalty, peace and good-will, We gather to-day to assist one another, If need be, in climbing adversity s hill. And oh, my dear comrades, look well to the loved ones, The soldiers bequest who have answered tattoo ; Be kind to the widow, be kind to the orphan, And the Great Chief of all will deal kindly with you. A touch of the elbow with shoulder to shoulder, A flash of the eye and the grasp of the hand, And the soul of the soldier is filled with emotions, That none but the brave and the true understand. Oh, comrades, forgive me, nor think it is weakness That causes these teardrops to spring to my eyes, Tis the purest, the holiest thoughts of a soldier Who never yet flinched, and who needs no disguise. But think of the chair of our chieftain now vacant, So silent at roll call, so sad and so drear ; While the angel of death will still add to his roster, And many now filled will be vacant next year. And when after taps comes the last reveille, And "assembly" shall sound from that far-away shore, May we meet on parade neath the shade of life s tree, With Grant, silent chief, at the head of the corps. 22 THE POET SCOUT. THE MINER S HOME. IT is not a castle with towering walls, With marble floor and stately halls, With lovely walks and grand old trees, Nodding and bending in the breeze. No ; his home is an humble cot, Perched perchance on the mountain top, With tunnels beneath, where the iron horse Thunders along on his fiery course. Fair Virginia ! above the hill, Where miners dig with pick and drill, Where honest toilers seek to rest Their weary bones upon thy breast. A loving wife to make one glad, A babe to kiss the miner lad ; With this the miner need not roam, If he has a cottage and love at home. Mine, though far away from here, My cabin home is ever dear. Bright memories haunt me every day Of that cabin where I often lay, And dreamed of eyes of heavenly blue A maiden young and fair and true ; Of brighter days and toil s reward, A maiden s love for a mountain bard. Up the mountain, down the glen, Each eve I see these hardy men ; With axe and shovel, pick and drill, They toil all day with a hearty will. And when at e en their toil is o er, They hasten home to the open door KATTLIN JOE S PRAYER. 23 Of the little cot ; though shaggy and grim, There s happiness there and love within. Though the rooms within are low and small. There s whitewash on the old gray wall ; The table with its crockery, too, Is glistening like the morning dew. While all seem happy in the cot, The children, sporting on the lot, Are merry as a marriage bell, And mother whispers, " All is well." And now good-bye I must away, My time is up. Yet while I say Good-bye, I ll wish, where er I roam, That GOD will bless the miner s home. EATTLIN JOE S PRAYEE. JIST pile on some more o them pine knots, An squat yoursel s down on this skin, An , Scotty, let up on yer growlin The boys are all tired o yer chin. Alleghany, jist pass round the bottle, An give the lads all a square drink, An as soon as yer settled I ll tell ye A yarn as 11 please ye, I think. Twas the year eighteen hundred an sixty, A day in the bright month o June, When the Angel o Death from the Diggin s Snatched " Monte Bill known as McCune. Wai, Bill war a favorite among us, In spite o the trade that he had, Which war gamblin ; but don t you forget it He of en made weary hearts glad ; 24 THE POET SCOUT. An , pards, while he lay in that coffin, Which we hewed from the trunk o a tree, His face war as calm as an angel s, An white as an angel s could be. An thar s war the trouble commenced, pards. Thar war no gospel-sharps in the camps, An Joe said : " We can t drop him this way, Without some directions or stamps." Then up spoke old Sandy McGregor : " Look ee yar, mates, I m reg lar dead stuck, I can t hold no hand at religion, An I m feared Bill s gone in out o luck. If I knowed a darn thing about prayin , I d chip in an say him a mass ; But I ain t got no show in the lay-out, I can t beat the game, so I pass." Eattlin Joe war the next o the speakers, An Joe war a friend o the dead ; The salt water stood in his peepers, An these are the words as he said : * Mates, ye know as I ain t any Christian, An I ll gamble the good Lord don t know That thar lives sich a rooster as I am ; But thar once war a time, long ago, When I war a kid ; I remember, My old mother sent me to school, To the little brown church every Sunday, Whar they said I was dumb as a mule. An I reckon I ve nearly forgotten Purty much all thet ever I knew. But still, if ye 11 drop to my racket, I ll show ye jist what I kin do. "Now, I ll show you my bible," said Joseph " Jist hand me them cards off that rack ; I ll convince ye thet this are a bible," An he went to work shufflin the pack. RATTLIN JOE S PRAYER. 25 He spread out the cards on the table, An begun kinder pious-like : " Pards, If ye ll jist cheese yer racket an listen, I ll show ye the pra ar-book in cards. "The ace, that reminds us of one God, The deuce, of the Father an Son, The tray, of the Father an Son, Holy Ghost, For, ye see, all them three are but one. The four-spot is Matthew, Mark, Luke an John, The five-spot, the virgins who trimmed Their lamps while yet it was light of the daj r , And the five foolish virgins who sinned. The six-spot in six days the Lord made the world, The sea and the stars in the heaven ; He saw it war good w at He made, then He said, I ll jist go the rest on the seven. The eight-spot is Noah, his wife an three sons, An Noah s three sons had their wives ; God loved the hull mob, so bid em emb-ark In the freshet He saved all their lives. The nine war the lepers of biblical fame, A repulsive an hideous squad The ten are the holy commandments, which came To us perishin creatures from God. The queen war of Sheba in old Bible times, The king represents old King Sol. She brought in a hundred young folks, gals an boys, To the King in his government hall. They were all dressed alike, an she axed the old boy (She d put up his wisdom as bosh) Which war boys an which gals. Old Sol. said : By Joe, How dirty their hands ! Make em wash ! An then he showed Sheba the boys only washed Their hands and a part o their wrists, While the gals jist went up to their elbows in suds. Sheba weakened an shook the king s fists. Now, the knave, that s the Devil, an , GOD, ef ye please, Jist keep his hands off n poor Bill. 26 THE POET SCOUT. An now, lads, jist drop on yer knees for a while Till I draw, and perhaps I kin fill ; An hevin no Bible, I ll pray on the cards, Fur I ve showed ye they re all on the squar , An I think God 11 cotton to all that I say, If I m only sincere in the pra ar. Jist give him a corner, good LOED not on stocks, Fur I ain t such a durned fool as that, To ax ye fur anything worldly fur Bill, Ease ye d put me up then fur a flat. I m lost on the rules o yer game, but I ll ax Fur a seat fur him back o the throne, And I ll bet my hull stack thet the boy ll behave If yer angels jist lets him alone. Thar s nuthin bad : bout him unless he gets riled The boys 11 all back me in that But if any one treads on his corns, then you bet He ll fight at the drop o the hat. Jist don t let yer angels run over him, Lord, Nor shut off all to once on his drink ; Break him in kinder gentle an mild on the start, An he ll give ye no trouble, I think. An couldn t ye give him a pack of old cards, To amuse himself once in a while? But I warn ye right hyar, not to bet on his game, Or he 11 get right away with yer pile. An now, Lord, I hope thet ye ve tuck it all in, An listened to all thet I ve said. I know that ray prayin is jist a bit thin, But I ve done all I kin for the dead. An I hope I hain t troubled yer Lordship too much So I ll cheese it by axin again Thet ye won t let the knave git his grip on poor Bill. Thet s all, Lord yours truly Amen." Thet s " Rattlin Joe s" prayer, old pardners, An what ! you all snorin ? Say, Lew, By thunder ! I ve talked every rascal to sleep, So I guess I hed best turn in too. THE TEKDEKFOOT. 2? THE TENDERFOOT. A SONG. LOOK not with contempt on his dust-covered form, Or his coat, tho tis shabby and gray, But think of the heart that is swelling beneath, And the loved ones he left far away. He cornes not with wealth, but his muscles are strong, And his face bears the stamp of a man ; Perhaps he has little ones praying at home Then help him whenever you can. Chorus. Yes, help the poor tenderfoot, give him a show Some day he may be a great man ; Perhaps he has little ones praying at home Then help him whenever you can. Sometimes a kind word to the poor and oppressed Will lighten the burden of care, And shed a new light on a heart that is sad, And make all his prospects more fair. It costs a man nothing to .speak a kind word To the tenderfoot strange in our land For oh ! if you knew how it brightens his life, You would not refuse him a hand. Chorus. He is poor in his pocket but rich in his mind, He is filled with ambition and hope. Who knows he may strike it, as others have done, And make a big raise on the slope. There s Mackey and Fair, there s Flood and O Brien, There s Tabor, and Routt, and McKay ; Just think of the power they wield in our land They were all tenderf eet in their day. Chorus. 28 THE POET SCOUT. LITTLE ONES PKAYING AT HOME. On the 15th of September, 1880, I was camped at Lake Groozman, " Lacpuna de Goozman," in the State of Chihuahua, Old Mexico. I had been sent out by General Buell, with two companions, to find the camp of the hostile chief Vic- torio, with the view of meeting him, and, if possible, of inducing him to return to the Reservation. While reading a letter from my wife, the following line appeared: "Remember, my dear boy, you have little ones praying at home." As this was one of the most dangerous as well as the most t resome trips I ever made, these lines were very suggestive, and there, by the beautiful lake and by the light of the moon, I wrote tne following song: THERE are little ones praying for me far away, There are little ones praying for me ; With tiny hands pressed before each little breast, Their sweet faces in dreamland I see. Bless papa, dear father, where er he may go, And where duty may call him to roam ; Through the hills or the valleys of Old Mexico, Watch over and bring him safe home. Chorus. So to-night I am happy in Old Mexico, While I sit in the moonlight alone ; For surely tis pleasant to feel and to know There are little ones praying at home. I know not what moment my spirit may fly To that land where dear mother has gone ; But oh, if I knew on that bosom so true I might rest on the morrow at dawn, I would willingly go, never more to return, Never more through these w r ild lands to roam ; But sweet little voices seem whispering to-night, " You have little ones praying at home." Chorus. BALD MOUNTAIN. 29 The moon in her splendor is shining to-night, By her beams I am writing just now, While an angel of love seems to smile from above, With the bright star of hope on her brow, And whisper in language so sweet to my soul, " I am with you wherever you roam ; And remember when weary and foot-sore at night, You have little ones praying at home. Chorus. BALD MOUNTAIN. (CAKIBOO, B. C.) WHAT mighty mountains I behold Where er I turn my e3 r es, Undoubted evidence of gold, With snow peaks in the skies ; And down below green pasture land, Where cooling streamlets flow, I never gazed on sight so grand As this I see below. What mean those giant ledges there With mossy-covered brow ? And, tell me, are there none that bear The gold we re seeking now? The little streamlets seem to frown ; I almost hear them say, " For ages we have washed it down Where miners struck the pay." And Nature ought to teach us, too, If we could read aright, That every ounce from Cariboo Came down some rugged height ; 30 THE POET SCOUT. And though our sky is locking dark, Our quartz is yet untried, Remember that Noah built an ark To float upon the tide ! And surely you, old pioneers (Who came in times of old), Will only laugh at idje fears, And never lose your hold ; For one who never turned a drill And never fired a shot, Can little know what s in the hill Except for some vile plot. But so it is in every land : Wherever gold is found, There re thieving tricksters right on hand To run it in the ground ; And you who toil from morn till night- Will you give up the ship When you have got a stake in sight- Let go and lose your grip ? Thou crystal bed, half decomposed, With walls six feet apart, We ask no wise philosopher To tell us what thou art. Tis bat the miner can unfold Thy secret, as we know, And wrest from thee the precious gold Thy bosom holds below. Go ask the winds, ye grumbling drones. If all you ve heard is true If all your quartz is barren stones In all your Cariboo ? And they will bleakly answer back, " Go, learn in Nature s school ; Go, take your pick and bend your back, But don t consult a fool." THE MOUNTAIN BOY S LETTEK. 31 THE MOUNTAIN BOY S LETTER. Soon after General Grant landed at San Francisco, on his tour around the world, Lincoln Post, G. A. R., presented the "Color Guard," amifitary drama, in which Captain Jack Crawford played the leading role (a Tennessee scout), supported by T. W. Keene and the California Theatre Company. During the performance Captain Jack recited the " Mountain Boy s Letter" amid great en thusiasm. It was highly appreciated by the General, who, being " corralled," as Jack expresses it, by big bugs and Sunday soldiers, could not reach the boys " Who followed him into the battle, And gallantly guarded the flanks." The poem was telegraphed across the continent, and appeared in Grant s " Tour of the World," published in Chicago, and, with the exception of Bret Harte s " Heathen Chinee," is the only poem ever wired from ocean to ocean. Will L. Vischer, in Denver Tribune. DEAR GINEE L : I arn t no scollar, An I never done nothin to brag, Cept this I war one o the outfit As fought for our Star-Spangled Flag. An to-day while yer toasted by scollars, An big bugs as make a great noise, Why, I thought it the squar thing to write yer, An chip in a word for yer boys. Cos, yer see, we ain t got the colat r l, Nor the larnin to dish it up right ; But ye ll find should thar be any trouble, Our boys are still ready ter fight. As for you, if they didn t corral yer, You d shake comrades hands that yer seed, An that s why I wanted to tell yer, We ll jest take the will for the deed. But yer back, and the men of all nations War proud ter do honor to you, An I reckon, Ulysses, yer told em, Ye wor proud o yer comrades in blue, 32 THE POET SCOUT. For you, we are sure, of all others, Kemembered our boys in the ranks, Who f ollor d ye inter the battle, And gallantly guarded the flanks. So, welcome, a thousand times welcome, Our land is ablaze with delight ; Our people give thanks for yer safety, Your comrades are happy to-night. We know you are wearied and tuckerd, But seein as you re a new-comer, You ll Grant us one glance on this line if, In reading, it takes yer all summer. NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING. (NEAK WILLIAMSPOKT, PA.) I HAVE heard the different preachers, In the camp among the trees, And the voices of the angels, Seeming wafted with the breeze ; And I m sure the God of Battles Smiled on those who came for good But I fear He frowned on many Who were wicked, vain, and rude. The demon Rum I saw, too, As he staggered through the camp, And the crowds who drank in darkness, For they shunned the lighted lamp. There were many Williamsporters And how they cursed and swore ! And I noticed quite a number From your moral Jersey shore. NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING. 33 Now, the camp is good for Christians, And for those who wish to come To the crystal fount of Jesus ; And I know that there are some Who have sought and found a Saviour, Who was heretofore unknown ; But I prefer the wilderness, To pray to Him alone. And often in the wildwood, And on the far-off plain, Where, all alone, so oft I ve been, And soon will be again Twas there, when shades of evening And twilight round me fell Yes, there alone with angels, I thought of heaven and hell ! And when in camp, last evening, And sitting neath the trees, I was taking notes of incidents, And thought how hard to please, If Christ Himself came down to preach And cure the sin-diseased, There s some who would not hear Him, And some would be displeased ! But there is one thing certain, And I ll tell you on the square I ve seen some preachers put on style With such a foreign air ; And some with stand-up collars Would a ragged sinner scorn ! They came out from the city To blow their gospel horn ! They told us, too, what they had done In other fields of grace How many sinners they had saved From the tormenting-place ; 34 THE POET SCOUT. But there is none that 1 have met Who d risk his scalp with me. And go convert the noble Sioux For smaller salary ! Give me the brave old pioneers The heroes good and bold Who never feared to fight and die For Christ and His little fold ! The men who left their homes, their all, The savage wilds to fight Who felled the forest trees by day And preached us Christ by night. Such is the man I love to meet, Whose face wears Heaven s brand With manly courage in his heart And rifle in his hand. And if some of these dainty preachers Cared less for wounds and scars, Would go out West and preach Christ there, We d have less Indian wars ! But if I ve judged them wrongly, Oh, pardoned may I be ; But they re not just the kind of preachers To convert such men as we. Of course, we ve no book learning, But then our hearts are right If we don t know much of preaching, We at least know how to fight ! So, Bill, old man, and you, Jack, Away to the front and flank ; You must again face that danger From which you never shrank ; And if they won t send preachers To convert the savage state, Of course the knife and bullet Must be the red man s fate. DREAMING OF MOTHEE. 35 DEEAMING OF MOTHEE. SONG. LAST night I was dreaming of mother, Yes, dreaming of mother and home, The little log hut where she blessed me When fortune compelled me to roam ; How she prayed for her boy at that moment, While tears wet the locks on my brow, And I said the good-by to my sister, Farewell to the farm and the plough ! Chorus. . Dreaming, dreaming, Dreaming of home and of mother ; Dreaming of home wherever I roam, I m dreaming of home and of mother. Last night I was dreaming of mother, I dreamed she was free from all care, And she kissed me again as in childhood At home, in the old arm-chair ; And the old-fashioned cap, like a snowflake That mixed with the ringlets of gray, Seemed richer to. me than those treasures And millions just over the way. Chorus. And oft while asleep in the wildwood Those scenes of my childhood appear, And surely the angels are watching While dreaming that mother is near ! Oh, happy the thought, dearest mother, The hope of our meeting once more, When, free from the world and its sorrows, We dwell on that ever bright shore ! Chorus. 36 THE POET SCOUT. CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. A CAMP-FIRE REMINISCENCE. About the middle of April, 1876, I received a note from California Joe, who had a fine ranche on Rapid Creek, and was trying to induce new-comers to settle there and build a town, to be called Rapid City. The note was written in lead- pencil, and ran thus : "RAPID, April 10, 1876. " Mr DEAR JACK : If you can be spared for a week from Custer, come over and bring Jule and Frank Smith with you. The reds have been raising merry old h 1, and, after wounding our herder and a miner named Sherwood, got away with eight head of stock, my old Bally with the rest. There are only ten of us here, all told, and 1 think if you can come with the iwo boys, we can lay for them at the lower falls, and gobble em next time. Answer by bearer if you can t come ; and send me fifty rounds of cartridges for the Sharps big fifty. Hoping this will find you with your top-knot still waving, I remain as ever, your pard, JOE." I immediately saw Major Wynkoop, commanding the Rangers, got his permis sion, and arrived at Rapid Creek on the following night, with four comrades. After two days and nights watching at the lower falls, Jule Seminole, one of my scouts, a Cheyenne, came in at dusk and informed us that there were between twenty and thirty Indians encamped at the box elder, about twenty miles away, and that they were coming from the direction of the Big Cheyenne, and would probably move to Rapid during the night. Jule could almost invariably tell just what an Indian was going to do if he could get his eyes on him, and he was correct in this instance. About three o clock next morning Joe went up to his cabin and started a big log fire ; also two other fires in different cabins. These cabins were over a mile from where we were in ambush, while our horses were all picketed a quarter of a mile down the creek, which was narrow at its point of entrance from the prairie, but widened into a beauti ful river half a mile up. Just as day was breaking 1 , one of the Indians was dis covered by Frank Smith wading up the creek. Frank reported to Joe and I, and Joe remarked : " Let him go he will soon signal the others to follow." In fifteen minutes more the shrill bark of a coyote proved Joe s judgment to be cor rect. Twenty -three well-armed Indians Sioux rode up along the willow bank in Indian file. There were seventeen of u?, Zeb Swaringen and Ned Baker, two old miners, having joined us the night before. We had six men on one side, near an opening, which we believed the Indians would break for on receiving our fire from the opposite side; and farther up, when the Indians had got parallel with our main body, we took aim as best we could in the gray of the morning, CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 37 and fired nearly together; then, before they recovered, gave them another volley, and, leaving our cover, followed on foot those who did not stay with us. We were disappointed in their taking the opening, but the boys were in fair range and did good work, killing one, wounding two, and unhorsing three others, who took to the woods. We got fifteen ponies, our first fire never touching horse hair, but emptying several saddles. Out of the twenty-three Indians, fifteen escaped. Joe killed three himself with his big Sharps rifle, the last one being nearly five hundred yards away when he fired from a rest off Frank Smith s shoulder. Joe had a piece taken out of his left thigh, Franklin was wounded in the left arm, and the writer slightly scratched near the guard of the right arm. Nobody was seriously hurt, and we had eight scalps to crown our victory. But 1 did not in tend, when I commenced, to write all these particulars; I merely intended to speak of a camp-fire story, as lold by Joe at the camp-fire on he n ght following the incident related. The following lines, as nearly as I can recollect, tell the story of Joe s courtship and marriage. I must add that Joe was killed at Red Cloud, in December the same year, while acting as Black Hills guide. He was a brave, generous, unselfish man, and his only fault was liquor. Now for the story : WELL, mates, I don t like stories, Nor am I going to act A part around this camp-fire That ain t a truthful fact. So fill your pipes and listen, I ll tell you let me see, I think it was in Fifty, From that till Sixty-three. You ve all heard tell of Bridger, I used to run with Jim, And many a hard day s scouting I ve done longside of him. Well, once, near old Fort Reno, A trapper used to dwell ; We called him old Pap Reynolds The scouts all knew him well. One night the spring of Fifty We camped on Powder River, We killed a calf of buffalo, And cooked a slice of liver : 38 THE POET SCOUT. While eating, quite contented, We heard three shots or four Put out the fire and listened, Then heard a dozen more. We knew that old man Reynolds Had moved his traps up here ; So, picking up our rifles And fixing on our gear, CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIEL TRAPPER. 39 We mounted quick as lightnin , To save was our desire. Too late ; the painted heathens Had set the house on fire. We tied our horses quickly, And waded up the stream ; While close beside the water I heard a muffled scream. And there among the bushes A little girl did lie. I picked her up and whispered : " I ll save you, or 1 il die f" Lord, what a ride ! old Bridger, He covered my retreat. Sometimes the child would whisper, In voice so low and sweet : " Poor papa, God will take him To mamma up above ; There s no one left to love me There s no one left to love." The little one was thirteen, And I was twenty-two. Said I : " I ll be your father, And love you just as true. She nestled to my bosom, Her hazel eyes, so bright, Looked up and made me happy, Though close pursued that night. A month had passed, and Maggie (We called her Hazel Eye), In truth, was going to leave me Was going to say " good-by." Her uncle, mad Jack Reynolds Reported long since dead- Had come to claim my angel, His brother s child, he said. 40 THE POET SCOUT. What could I say ? We parted. Mad Jack was growing old ; I handed him a bank note And all I had in gold They rode away at sunrise, I went a mile or two, And, parting, said : We ll meet again- May God watch over you." Beside a laughing, dancing brook, A little cabin stood, As, weary with a long day s scout, I spied it in the wood. A pretty valley stretched beyond, The mountains towered above, While near the willow bank I heard The cooing of a dove. Twas one grand panorama, The brook was plainly seen, Like a long thread of silver In a cloth of lovely green. The laughter of the waters, The cooing of the dove, Was like some painted picture- Some well-told tale of love. While drinking in the grandeur, And resting in my saddle, I heard a gentle ripple Like the dipping of a paddle. I turned toward the eddy A strange sight met my view : A maiden, with her rifle, In a little bark canoe. CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 41 She stood up in the centre, The rifle to her eye ; I thought (just for a second) My time had come to die. I doffed my hat and told her (If it was all the same) To drop her little shooter, For I was not her game. 42 THE POET SCOUT. She dropped the deadly weapon, And leaped from the canoe. Said she : " I beg your pardon, I thought you were a Sioux ; Your long hair and your buckskin Looked warrior-like and rough ; My bead was spoiled by sunshine, Or I d killed you, sure enough." " Perhaps it had been better You dropped me then," said I ; For surely such an angel Would bear me to the sky." She blushed and dropped her eyelids, Her cheeks were crimson red ; One half-shy glance she gave me, And then hung down her head. I took her little hand in mine- She wondered what I meant, And yet she drew it not away, But rather seemed content. We sat upon the mossy bank Her eyes began to fill The brook was rippling at our feet, The dove was cooing still. I smoothed her golden tresses, Her eyes looked up in mine, She seemed in doubt then whispered " Tis such a long, long time Strong arms were thrown around me I ll save you, or I ll die." I clasped her to my bosom My long-lost Hazel Eye. The rapture of that moment Was almost heaven to me. I kissed her mid her tear-drops, Her innocence and glee. CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER, 43 Her heart near mine was beating, While sobbingly she said : " My dear, my brave preserver, They told me you were dead. " But, oh ! those parting words, Joe, Have never left my mind. You said : We ll meet again, Mag, Then rode off like the wind. And, oh ! how I have prayed, Joe, For you, who saved my life, That God would send an angel To guard you through all strife. " And he who claimed me from you, My uncle, good and true- Now sick in yonder cabin Has talked so much of you. If Joe were living, darling, He said to me last night, He would care for Maggie When God puts out my light. " We found the old man sleeping. " Hush ! Maggie, let him rest." The sun was slowly sinking In the far-off glowing west ; And, though we talked in whispers, He opened wide his eyes. " A dreain a dream !" he murmured, " Alas ! a dream of lies !" She drifted like a shadow To where the old man lay. " You had a dream, dear uncle Another dream to-day ?" " Oh, yes ; I saw an angel, As pure as mountain snow, And near her, at my bed-side, Stood California Joe." 44 THE POET SCOUT. " I m sure Tm not an angel, Dear uncle, that you know ; These arms are brown, my hands, too My face is not like snow. Now, listen, while I tell you, For 1 have news to cheer, And Hazel Eye is happy, For Joe is truly here." And when, a few days after, The old man said to me : Joe, boy, she ar 1 a angel, An good as angels be. For three long months she s hunted An trapped an nurs d me, too ; God bless ye, boy ! I believe it- She s safe along wi you." The sun was slowly sinking When Mag (my wife) and I Came riding through the valley, The tear-drops in her eye. " One year ago to-day, Joe I see the mossy grave We laid him neath the daisies, My uncle, good and brave." And, comrades, every spring-time Was sure to find me there A something in that valley Was always fresh and fair. Our loves were newly kindled While sitting by the stream, Where two hearts were united In love s sweet, happy dream. YOU AKE WANTED AT HOME. 45 YOU AEE WANTED AT HOME. SONG AND CHORUS. Written in San Francisco while awaiting the arrival of General Grant from his tour around ihe world, and afterward sung to the General by the California Quartette. You are wanted at home, gallant chieftain, We are watching and waiting for thee, We are waiting to give you a greeting, A welcome from over the sea A welcome as soldiers can give it, Who marched with you back to the dome, We will show you, our noble commander, How much you are wanted at home. Chorus. You are wanted at home, yes, we want you, For you were our bright guiding star, You would guide us aright in our duty In peace, as you led us in war. You are wanted at home do you wonder That comrades all shout with delight ? It is love for our gallant commander Who led us in many a fight. It is you who can best understand us, Our chieftain, from over the foam. And now you are here, we will tell you The why you are wanted at home. Chorus. You are wanted at home tis the Union, The land and the home of the brave, The land of our star-spangled banner, Where man nevermore can be slave. You are wanted by hearts true and loyal, Who love you, wherever you roam, And you will be happy returning, Because there is no place like home. Chorus. 46 THE POET SCOUT. TKUTH. TRUTH is like gold in the gulches, Oft buried deep under the sod, While often the tender-foot * searches For gold on the face of the clod. The color is found on the surface, But if you would find richer stock, Go down where large nuggets are buried, Go down till you find the bed-rock. Many people examine the surface, And penetrate never within ; But the outside is sleek as a beaver, The heart often dyed deep in sin. Hence lives are but base contradictions, And hearts are oft pining in sorrow ; To-day what may seem quite angelic As crime may be looked on to-morrow. Truth, then, is scattered and buried, It is mixed with the gold in the glen ; Go wash all the dirt from these nuggets, And find if you can honest men. For truth that is pure and unvarnished Is worthy the search of the wise ; Compare it with nuggets and diamonds, Pure truth is by far the best prize. One miner, perhaps, in a million Will pick up a fortune to-day, While others may toil for a lifetime, Yet delve in the very same way. And yet tis by toiling we find them These nuggets we so much desire ; Tis only by working unceasing We manage to climb up still higher. * A new-comer. THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY TRAMP. 47 And yet truth may sparkle like diamonds, But some men will cast it aside, And, instead, they will treasure the mica, And say to the truth, " Let her slide." But truth is the old rock of ages Upon which our forefathers stood. Without it there must be corruption, And with it our lives must be good. THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY TKAMP. WHAT am I doin ? Now, what is t yer biz ? Can t a feller stand here on the corner an think ? Thunder ! I ain t no slouch, an as to my phiz, It s a little off-color. What s that ? Too much drink? Wai, I reckon yer right ; but, look ye, my friend, Yer a stranger to me, an yer one of the few As would stop for a second. They don t condescend To grant such as me but a short interview. Don t talk like that, sir, it ain t jest the thing To speak of one s mother, and she so long dead. This of n reminds me this little gold ring Jest now I was thinkin it must go for bread. An I ve worn it so long great God ! when I think How it served to remind me "while tossed on life s tide Of that angel who gave it why, even in drink She comes to me, speaks to me, prays by my side. No, no, wait a minute, I can t drink just yet, Le s talk of that last ride I took on the freight Forget ! Man alive, I don t want to forget, But there never mind I won t ask you to wait, 48 THE POET SCOUT. For I reckon it ain t interestin nor new, Thar are so many tramps, but my own brother Ned Why, stranger, thar s somethin the matter with you ! Oh, I thought as it mout a-bin somethin I said. What started me drinkin ? Wai, that s quite a yarn, An , besides, I don t want ter have you standin here Howsomever, I reckon you don t care a darn But them fancy-dressed ladies, jest see how they stare ! What s that you say ? Oh, don t make no error, Jest show me a cup of hot coffee and strong God bless you ! my heart s fairly jumpin with terror For fear you ll back out as we re joggin along. Good flavor? You bet it is the way-uppest coffee I ve struck in a month. But I can t understand Why you oh, all right so you think that I m off, eh ? What ! me, a tramp, live on the fat of the land ! Ha ! ha ! Blast your eyes, man, I d sooner to-morrow Be found in that tail-race, all crushed by the wheel, Than add one more sin to my cup full of sorrow And so, you would tempt a poor devil to steal ? Not a sup ? not a bite ! Oh, why will temptation Keep trailin me up ! Get out of my sight ! Or I swar by my soul there will be a sensation, And I will get grub in the cooler to-night ! What s that ? You know me of old ? You re another ! And, hang you ! if I wasn t weaker n water, I d What ! Git out ! You ! You, Ned ! My brother ! 1 reckon I m crazy, and that s what s the matter ! Corral me if I didn t think you wor dead, boy. Why, darn yer young hide, Ned, but whar hev ye bin ? I thought ye were plugged with an ounce of cold lead, boy ; Ye must hev slipped out fore the redskins got in. What s that? In the " Happy-go-Lucky" you struck it ! The mischief you did ! Well, somehow I knew, The last time I helped ye to pull up that bucket Thar war ducats right thar for your brother and you ! WILD BILL S GRAVE. 49 OUR PKOSPECT. THERE S a bonny wee spot in the mountains I love, Where the pine trees are waving o erhead far above, Where the miners are happy, kind-hearted and free, And many come here from way over the sea. There s gold in the mountains, there s gold in each glen, The good time is coming, have patience, brave men ; Hold on to your ledges, and soon you will see Both money and mills coming over the sea. I have seen your Bonanza, your great Cariboo ; I ve been in your tunnels, but everything s new ; I ve stood at the face of your wondrous Lowhee, And find that the prospects are good as can be. Don t think that Victoria will give you a hand, Nor furnish a baw-bee to prospect your land. The miner must prospect and show the gold free, Then capital comes from way over the sea. Now take my advice, and I m in with you, too, Just stick to your ledges, whatever you do ; Don t worry and fret, if at first you don t see A fortune in sight, for it s coming to thee. BARKEKVILLE, B. C. WILD BILL S GKAVE. ON the side of the hill, between Whitewood and Deadwood, At the foot of the pine stump, there lies a lone grave, Environed with rocks and with pine trees and redwood, Where the wild roses bloom o er the breast of the brave. A mantle of brushwood the green sward incloses, The green boughs are waving far up overhead ; While under the sod and the flow rets reposes The brave and the dead. 50 THE POET SCOUT. Did I know him in life ? Yes, as brother knows brother ; I knew him and loved him twas all I could give, My love. But the fact is we loved one another, And either would die that the other might live. Kough in his ways? Yes ; but kind and good-hearted ; There wasn t a flaw in the heart of Wild Bill, And. well I remember the day that we started That grave on the hill. A good scout ? I reckon there wasn t his equal, Both Fremont and Ouster could vouch for that fact. Quick as chain-lightning with rifle or pistol And this is what Ouster said-" Bill never backed." He called me his " kid " I was only a boy ; And to ungratefulness Bill was a stranger, Eeady to share every sorrow and joy, Brave hunger and danger. And now let me show you the good that was in him The letters he wrote to his Agnes his wife ; Why, a look or a smile, one kind word could win him. Hear part of this letter the last of his life : " AGXES DARLING ; If such should be that we never meet again, while firing my la*t shot, I will gently breathe the name of my wife my Agnes and with a kind wish even for my enemies, 1 will make Ihe plunge and try to swim to the other shore." Oh, Charity ! come fling your mantle about him ; Judge him not harshly he sleeps neath the sod. Custer brave Ouster ! was lonely without him, Even with God. Charge, comrades, charge ! see young Custer ahead ! His charger leaps forth, almost flying ; One volley ! and half of his comrades are dead The other half fighting and dying ! Let us hope, while their dust is reposing beneath The dirge-singing pines in the mountains, That Christ has crowned each with an evergreen wreath, And given them to drink from His fountains. GUTTER S LAST CHARGE. (Taken from " Tic Tacs," by permission of Homer Lee Bank-Note Co.) 2 THE POET SCOUT. " HE DIED FOR ME." ( A.S told to me by a veteran scout in the graveyard of a frontier military post.) I TELL ye, pard, in this Western wild As a gineral thing the dirt s jist piled In a rather permisouous sort o way On top of a private soldier s clay ; An one d think from the marble shaft, An the flowers a-wavin above the graft, That a major-gineral holds that tomb ; But the corpse down thar wore a private s plume. I remember the day they swore Mead in ; He war pale-complected an rather thin ; He d bin w at they call a trampin beat, An enlisted fur wanto somethin to eat. It s allus the case that a new recruit Is the butt o tricks from the older fruit ; An the way the boys tormented the cuss "War real down wicked an scandalous. He tuk it all with a sickly smile, An said if they d wait till arter awhile, When he got fed up in some sort o trim, It moughtn t be healthy to fool with him. An I knowed by the look o the feller s eye Fur all he war back ard an rather shy- That behind his skeleton sort o breast A heart like a lion s found a nest. One night as the guard at twelve o clock Relieved the sentinel over the stock, The corporal seed a sort of a glare From toward the officers quarters there. The alarm was raised an the big gun fired, An the soldiers, not more n half attired, Cum rushin out on the barrack ground, With a wild an excited sort o bound. The commander s quarters war all afire, An the flames a-mountin higher an* higher, An what with the yells o men, an the shrieks O the officers wives, with whitish cheeks, An the roar o the flames, an devilish light Illuminatin the pitch-dark night, Twar sich a sight as I ve of en thought You could see in hell w eii it s bilin hot ! An then with a wild, despairin yell The commander shouted, "My God, where s Nell? His wife responded, "She^s in her bed ! Then fell to the ground like a person dead. Up through the roof the mad flames roared, An the blindin smoke in a dense mass poured Through every crevice an crack, till a cloud Hung above like a death-black funeral shroud. (It mightn t be out o place to state, As kinder accountin fur this Mead s fate, That Nell war an angel, ten year old, With a heart as pure as the virgin gold, An she had a kind of an angel trick Of readin an sich like to the sick ; An many s the dainty her hands d bear To Mead w en he lay in the hospital there.) My God ! It war nuff to raise the hair On the head of a marble statue : there Stood a crowd of at least two hundred men, None darin to enter that fiery pen Men that war brave on an Injun trail, Whose courage war never known to fail ; But to enter that buildin was certain death, So they stood thar starin , and held their breath. Then all at once, with an eager cry An a bulldog look in his flashin eye, This Mead rushed up to the wailin band, An a paper thrust in the colonel s hand ; 54 TIIE POET SCOUT. " My mother s address," he said, an then He sort o smiled on the crowd o men, An , jist like a flash o lightnin , shot Through the door right inter the seethin pot. With a yell of horror the crowd looked on, Fur they thought with him it war good-by, John ; But a half a minute after the dash An up-stairs winder burst with a crash, An thar stood Mead like a smilin saint, The gal in his arms in a deathlike faint, An he yelled fur a rope, an let er down To terry firmy (w ich means the groun ). Then he tied the rope to the winder sash Fur to foller down, but thar cum a crash, An the blazm roof, with a fearful din, Thro wed the boy to the groun as it tumbled in ! We carried him way from the fearful heat, A-hopin the noble heart still beat ; But the old post surgeon shook his head, An said with a sigh that Mead war dead ! ***** T wan t very long afore little Nell Got over the shock, an as soon as well She circulated among the men, With a sheet o paper, an ink, an pen, An axed each one fur to give his mite In remembrance o Mead s brave work that night; An as the result this monument stands, Mid flowers planted by Nell s own hands. An every evenin she walks up here, The boys all think fur to drop a tear; An I ve seed her, too, on her knees right there, With her face turned up ards, as if in prayer. You ll see, that line at the top s to tell As how the stone war " ERECTED BY NELL." An down at the bottom thar you ll see Some Bible readin "HE DIED FOR ME." A MOUNTAIN GIRL S LETTER. A MOUNTAIN GIRL S LETTER. DEAK Tobe, since you left for the mountains Old Nick has broke loose on the ranch, And that s why I ve squatted to write you The news of the last avalanche. For I m yours and I m yours with a vengeance- And I don t give a snap for the gang, Since we plighted our love to each other In the wild mountain song that we sang. So Tobe, dear old boy, don t you worry, No matter what this may disclose, While I look at the flower you left me, And you take a peep at the rose. Tho faded and dead, they remind us Of the evening we parted last fall ; You whispered, " My wild rose, God bless you !" And I well, I blubbered that s all. And now, while I sit in the arbor, The spot where our lips snapped apart I felt just the same as that evening When my throat was chock-full of my heart. The lump has gone down, but I d rather Be choked half to death with you here Than swim in a tank of co-log- ney, When you, my own boy, wasn t near. Well, you know, Tobe, before we got spooney (Of course you remember all that), And the rooster who wore the eye-glasses And the two-and-a-half-story hat ; And you know how I hated the donkey, With his fine hair and screwed-up mustache ; But, Lord ! how he monkeyed around me, While up to my elbows in wash. 56 THE POET SCOUT. And, Tobe, you d a busted your waist-band If you d seen me a-splashin the suds, While the bubbles just sacheyed around him And dropped on his dudey-like duds. And dad, he was watchin my capers, And soon as the dandy vamoused I felt kinder skeered fur a minnit, And wished I could fly to your roost. You know the old folks often told me My face was a fortune itself ; They didn t like you worth a copper, And wanted you laid on the shelf. They tried to kick up sich a racket, And swore they would keep us apart, But, golly, in spite of the kickin , You just waltzed away with my heart. But, pshaw ! you had hardly got started When the no-account snob ambled round ; Oh, jimminy, wasn t he lovin , And didn t he look like a hound ! As thin as a coyote, and skinny, And sportin a button bokay A regular poor piece of " croppin " That old Satan could skeersely assay. And then he begun his soft nonsense. And said how he come from "the Hub." Said I, "If you don t leave the parlor My sweetheart will draw to a club." Which, he said, kinder mixed him a little, And he didn t just quite understand, So I showed him a flush, and I whispered That you held a pretty good hand. But, jokin aside, boy, he s wealthy, Owns stock in the big Torrence mine, Drives a fine pair of A 1 Comanches, And I reckon he works the best wine. A MOUNTAIN GIRL S LETTER. 57 But, you see, he got thick with the old uns, And wanted to marry me here, But you bet that I busted that racket, And kicked like a two-year-old steer. I jest made him waltz to my music, And, make no mistake, it was real ; I borrowed that little self-cocker, So often discharged by young Teal. I knew it would cause a sensation In the house of old Buckshot McGee, But somebody promised Tobias, And, don t you forget it, that s we. But now comes the worst of the racket, I m in for a long, weary day, I m locked in the room near the attic, And I reckon the devil s to pay ; Cause I whispered to father and mother That their dandy I never would wed, And that s why I borrowed Teal s whistler, To blow off the top of his head. That s why I m shut up in my chamber, But, Tobies dear, that s nothing new, For many s the night, my old fellow, Have I not been shut up with you. That is, in my dreams I have been there, So, Tobe, I must go to my bed, And I ll never say yes to the dandy, Nor go back on a word I have said. So be easy, you dear, good old miner, Till I meet you again by the well, And I ll marry my Tobe, the old-timer, And that s what s the matter with NELL. 58 THE POET SCOUT. TO MRS. I. P. JENKS. (Written in her scrap-book on her wedding day, April 16, 1884.) THE marriage bells have just ceased ringing, And you have ceased to be a maid ; And little birds are sweetly singing For you and Ike a serenade. All Nature seems to smile serenely, The sunbeams kiss the budding rose, While Ike exclaims : "Ye gods, how queenly !" As inward love s pure streamlet flows. And oh ! I pray that love unceasing, Pure and holy, shall prevail, Year by year its strength increasing, As you journey on life s trail. Cloudless skies and sunny weather, Koses budding on the way ; Hand in hand through life together Heart-strings tuned in love s sweet lay. And to Ike, my boy pard, the following impromptu lines are affectionately inscribed : MEMORIES. PARTNER of my boyhood days, When hearts were young and wild, Companion of my wicked ways, When up the hills and down the braes The farmer stood in perfect maze ; I ll draw the picture mild ! The farmer stood the dog did not : We ran o er fields and ditches ; To-day, methinks, I see the spot, And you could point it out, I wot, That fence whereon the bulldog got The half-sole of your breeches. TO MRS. I. P. JENKS. 59 And as these scenes come back anew I see again my father s frown, And while the switch was hard on you, To me the club was nothing new ; For weeks I had to twist and screw It hurt me to sit down. But ours was not a safe retreat, And soon we left the old home nest, And trudged along with weary feet, In rain and storm, in snow and sleet, And for a crust of bread to eat With saw-buck did we wrest. And then it was our mother s voice Would wake us from our dreams We chose, * because we had no choice," To make our mothers heart rejoice And soon their wicked wayward boys Pulled back against the stream. And so, boy pard, we ve stemmed the tide, Tho few the laurels won, And you are happy with your bride, While mine is smiling by my side. God grant no evil may betide Till God shall say, "Well done." And then, if up the golden tree Successfully we climb. Our angel mothers we shall see, And boys who fought with you and me To make God s flag and country free : Ah ! that will be sublime. Your boy pard, " CAPTAIN JACK." 60 THE POET SCOUT. SOMEBODY. OH, would I were somebody s darling, And somebody cared for me, And that I was loved by somebody, And somebody sat on my knee. And then perhaps that somebody Would be somebody very dear, And life would be blessed with somebody, And somebody make it less drear. Alas ! I was loved by somebody, And somebody kissed my brow, And I smiled when a boy on somebody, And somebody smiles on me now. That dear, sweet face of somebody, Of somebody true and brave, The sunburst of hope for somebody That laid her away in the grave. And the angel face of somebody Seems watching over me still. And though I weep for somebody, As I journey over life s hill, I know I am loved by somebody, And somebody wishes me joy, For I had a love for somebody, That somebody had for her boy. She is there with the angels, somebody, Who watched over me when a child, An angel on earth was somebody, When I was youthful and wild. But God had called for somebody, And somebody s work is done, And somebody waits with the angels, To welcome her wayward son. THE BUKIAL OF WILD BILL. 61 THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL. (To Charley Utter Colorado Charley. ) UNDER the sod in the prairie-land We have laid him down to rest, With many a tear from the sad, rough throng And the friends he loved the best ; And many a heartfelt sigh was heard As over the earth we trod, And many an eye was filled with tears As we covered him with the sod. Under the sod in the prairie-land We have laid the good and the true An honest heart and a noble scout Has bade us a last adieu. 62 THE POET SCOUT. No more his silvery laugh will ring, His spirit has gone to God ; Around his faults let Charity cling While you cover him with the sod. Under the sod in the land of gold We have laid the fearless Bill ; We called him Wild, yet a little child Gould bend Ms iron will. With generous heart he freely gave To the poorly clad, unshod Think of it, pards of his noble traits While you cover him with the sod Under the sod in Deadwood Gulch You have laid his last remains ; No more his manly form will hail The red man on the plains. And, Charley, may Heaven bless you ! You gave him a " bully good send ;" Bill was a friend to you, pard, And you were his last, best friend. You buried him neath the old pine tree, In that little world of ours, His trusty rifle by his side His grave all strewn with flowers ; His manly form in sweet repose", That lovely silken hair I tell you, pard, it was a sight, That face so white and fair ! And while he sleeps beneath the sod His murderer goes free,* Released by a perjured, gaming set, Who d murder you and me * Tried and released by a lot of petty gamblers, but afterward arrested at Laramie City, and taken to Yankton, Dakota, tried and hung. 63 Whose coward hearts dare never meet A brave man on the square. Well, pard, they ll find a warmer clime Than they ever found out there. Hell is full of just such men ; And if Bill is above to-day, The Almighty will have enough to do To keep him from going away That is, from making a little scout To the murderers home below ; And if old Peter will let him out, He can clean out the ranch, I know. I M SAD TO-NIGHT. Lines suggested by the following remark from a young lady at a Christmas party : " Captain, you seem happy always." I M sad to-night, and yet my face Is only marked with cunning smiles, For looking in the glass I trace In every feature false beguiles. I m sad to-night, and yet they say, Because I dance and laugh and sing, That I am always, oh ! so gay, And laugh with such a merry ring. But I would scorn to show my grief, I use my muscle and my brain ; For work will always bring relief, And sunshine comes just after rain. And though the game is hard to find, I have no time to weep or wail ; Let those who will remain behind, I ll still pursue the same old trail. 64 THE POET SCOUT. I m sad to-night, and yet just now A hundred merry voices rang ; There s perspiration on each brow, From laughing at the song I sang. I m sad to-night why do I sing? Because God gave me voice and power ! And oft I ve made the woodland ring, While all alone with some wild flower. And often on the lonely trail I ve bursted out with something new ; I started with a song from Yale, I m singing yet in Cariboo. I m sad to-night, and yet should I Let others know one care or sorrow, While hope is whispering by-and-by ? No ! no ! twill be all right to-morrow. I m sad to-night, but sweet ambition Tells me that I must hold my own ; And while lasts the ammunition I will hold the fort alone. For other skies have clouded o er me, And other moons have shown less bright, But thou, fair star of hope before me, Hath always been my beacon light. And so I ll tarry with thee longer, Ever faithful, firm and true, With confidence still growing stronger, In thy high hills, fair Cariboo ! And I believe with those old-timers That there is luck for thee and thine Lucky years for all our miners, Forty, Sixty, Seventy-nine. NATURE S TREASURES. 65 NATURE S TREASURES. DEEP within her breast doth Nature hide Her precious ores her silver and her gold, While rough, uncouth upon the mountain -side, Is found the tempting float a tale untold. The hardy pioneer with eager eye Scans every boulder with a wistful glance, And tho a hundred times he fail, will try Another trip there s still another chance. With hopeful heart in Nature s solitude, He prospects hill and gulch, and every night In his abode uncouth perchance and rude, He dreams of home and wife, and prospects bright. And time rolls on, his form is bending low, The fire has gone from out those bright blue eyes, His chestnut hair has turned as white as snow, And yet, half blind, he finds a wealthy prize. And what is wealth or what is influence If life has scarce an hour for happy thought ? Would Nature s vaults disclosed half recompense The ravages that care and toil have wrought ? The miner leaves his happy home and wife To share his love with fashion s yellow god, And some I ve known, and shared their toil and strife, In Chloride, now lie sleeping neath the sod. They came for gold, but those were early days, When beasts of prey, in shape of fiends, ran wild ; When " noble reds" were sung in minstrel lays, And none were noble save the prairie child. Oh ! Mother Nature, if thou didst conceive And bear such offering as they claim for you, Disclose thy treasure-vaults, and while you grieve Thy breast will soften with thy tears of dew. 66 THE POET SCOUT. Oh ! if we only knew, and knowing cared, To share those precious gems in Nature s breast, The child of want and woe would then be reared In love and peace, and none would be distressed. But not until her breast is torn apart With cruel blows and giant s powerful blast Will she disclose the secrets of her breast, And then monopoly will hold them fast. A curse be on the men who hoard their stores While want and woe and heavy hearts repine, And begging but a crust at their back doors, Hear sounds of revelry and popping wine ; But ignorance is bliss, and these poor souls, Deformities of want and woe and shame, In blissful ignorance and flowing bowls Attempt to drown their sorrows who s to blame ? God knows I speak the truth when I declare I would not change my heart for wealth of Gould ; For if I tried to climb the golden stair, Some honest soul would tell me I was fool d. If God is good, and surely He must be, I ll take my chances with the poor and meek ; And if our hills will share their wealth with me, I ll fight monopoly and assist the weak. And if when all earth s weary work for me Is ended, and I lay me down to die, A thousand careworn faces I shall see Made happy when they come to say good-by, And then if up the golden stair I climb, When Gabriel toots I ll whisper through his tin I scattered gold and sunshine down below, St. Peter sure will bid me waltz right in. MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 67 MY MOUNTAIN HOME. FAE beyond the rolling prairie Is a home more dear to me Than your grand and stately mansions, Or your cottage by the sea ; In a little dell that s girdled By the mountains, rocks and trees, And the notes of Nature s songsters Making music in the breeze. Why I love my shady woodland, Why I love each flowery dell, Where, beside my trusty comrades, I have fought where many fell ; Where so oft alone I ve wandered, Sat and mused the whole day long, To the music of the songsters I have sang my humble song. It is grand in Nature s grandeur, Thus to live and love as well, Where around the blazing camp-fire Stories we would hear and tell, And, with merry voices ringing, Comrades joined me in my rhymes, While we sang of by-gone pleasures And the days of other times. Oh, how happy in the woodland, Or beside some mountain brook, Where so oft the speckled beauties Dangled shining on my hook ; Where the deer and elk were grazing, Where the buffalo loved to stray, Birds on every sheet of water, And life seemed a long day s plaj r . 68 THE POET SCOUT. Then at night, when all was quiet, How my friends would gather near, In the little old log cabin, Where each hardy pioneer Used to laugh and shout so hearty To the banjo s merry tone Shall we meet no more, dear comrades, In that little mountain home ? SPKING IN THE BLACK HILLS. BEAUTIFUL Spring in the highlands of nature, Snow on the hill-tops and grass in the vale ; Sunshine is beaming on each living creature, And not e en one sorrow our joys tu assail. The pine trees are bowing and bending before us, The miner is building his new cabin home ; And the birds seem to carol in musical chorus, " Angels watch o er you where er you may roam." Beautiful Spring, you will loosen the fountains, Long sealed by the frost in the valleys and hills ; And down from the tops of the mightiest mountains Will dance little streamlets and murmuring rills. Blessings will follow we feel it, believe it If men will be faithful and work hand in hand, Though many will tempt you, while working, to leave it, But don t you be fooled, for there s gold in this land. Beautiful Spring, you will bring us sweet flowers ; Thousands will gather from far o er the land, And many will find bright homes in these bowers, And, seeing the grandeur, themselves grow more grand. Farmers will come with their ploughs and their harrows, The bright golden grain will be waving ere long ; While civilization will bury the arrows, And the red man will sing his last sad death. song. 70 THE POET SCOUT. THE WELCOME HOME. HOME again ! Each stalwart comrade Breathes his honest welcome back. Dog my cats, we s glad to see you, Laws-ee. Whar ye bin to, Jack ? Why, old pard, we ve bin a-thinkin , Somehow, ye had lost yer ha r, An you bet yer life, we missed ye At our meetin s over thar." Not one buckskin boy among them Not a man in all that throng But was glad to gaze upon me, I had been away so long. How my heart, with fond emotion, Beat that night at Modie s store, When the boys, with pure devotion, Gathered round their chief once more ! There was Bob and Jule and Franklin, Bill and California Joe Every man an Indian fighter, Knowing all a scout should know. But my songs and acts had won them, And amid their merry shouts, In the Buffalo Gap entrenchments, I was hailed their chief of scouts. Whether in the year succeeding I deserved the name or not, By our pioneers and miners I shall never be forgot. Never did the wily redskin Find me napping by the way, And I tried to do my duty In the camp or in the fray. CUSTEK CITY, D. T. HOOD S OHILDBEN. 71 HOOD S CHILDEEN. [San Francisco Post.] When the ex-Confederate General Hood and his wife died at New Orleans, from yellow fever, leaving nine children, the members of the Grand Army throughout the United States were the first to tender benefits and organize fairs for their relief. Lincoln Post, of San Francisco, procured the Baldwin Theatre for one night, and the entire company, including James O Neill, Lewis Morrison, C. B. Bishop, and others volunteered, as did also T. W. Keene, then leading man at the California Theatre. On the afternoon of the day preceding the entertain ment, Colonels Lyon, C. Mason Ktnne, of Lincoln Post, G. A. R., and Fleurnoy, of Texas, an ex Confederate, waited upon Captain Jack Crawford, and requested him to write a poem appropriate for the occasion; and " Remember, Jack," said Colonel Fleurnoy, " that we-uns as did the fightin have nothin agin you-uns as fit us." "Wai," said Jack, in that peculiar vernacular of the West and South, " I reckon, pard, as how I are right smart posted as to that," and with an "Adios, comrades I ll try," went immediately to his room. On Ihe next night, Col. Kinne announced that Captain Jack Crawford wtts to read a poem. T. W. Keene, to-day s greatest young tragedian, held Jack s manuscript, and actually pushed him before the curtain. Jack, with voice trembling with fear and emotion, stood before the grandest audience that ever sat in the Baldwin, while in the front orchestra seats sat the Blue and the Gray in uniform, above them hanging a silk banner of blue and gray, and intertwined with the Stars and Stripes, on which was inscribed: " The Blue and the Gray under one Flag." Jack was dressed in his field buckskin suit; and looking all over the great mass of humanity in the galleries and below, his eyes resting on the Blue and the Gray, he began : "My comrades in Blue, my brothers in Gray, your committee waited upon me yesterday and requested me to write something worthy of this occasion. I submit the folio wing impromptu verses in Fraternity, Charity, and Loyalty : DEAE comrades and friends in the golden land, You may say I m rough, you may call me wild, But I ve got a heart and a willing hand To feel and to work for a soldier s child. Do you think I ask on which side he fought ? If man and soldier, his record was good ; For though our Union was dearly bought, All hatred is buried with Hooker and Hood. 72 THE POET SCOUT. " And, comrades, I ll tell you right here, to-night, The men most bitter against the Gray Are those who never were seen in a fight, But who always got sick on a fighting day. With soldiers, my friends, it is not so : They respect each other, the Gray and the Blue ; Nor are they ashamed that the world shall know How they stood by their colors, brave men and true. " Was Jackson ashamed when he knelt to pray For the cause which he thought before Heaven was just, While marching his half-starved boys in Gray, On an ear of corn and a single crust ? Was Lee ashamed when he tendered his sword To Grant, who refused the warrior s steel ? Who said, Your horses shall be restored, For braver never wore spurs to his heel. " Oh ! generous hearts, in the Golden State You are forging the links of a Union chain, That cables one end at the Golden Gate, That will circle the States to the Gulf-swept main. A chain that will bind us, the Blue and the Gray, In a union of purpose the gods will approve, In love that grows strong in adversity s day, And hearts that will stand by the flag that we love. "The past it is dead ! But we cannot forget it, And, comrades, we wouldn t forget if we could ; As for myself, I shall never regret it, This poor little service I render for Hood. His loved ones will not be distressed nor discarded, And to-night I am proud of a share in the stock, And shall feel, as a soldier, I m fully rewarded By one little prayer from his innocent flock. " One little prayer from the loved ones we foster, His latest bequest to his comrades in peace, As the pale hand of death wrote his name on the roster And the angel on guard gave his spirit release. SOME DAY. 73 "Oh, comrades, let charity s mantle enfold them, Old Abe had no malice, no hate in his soul ; On the ramparts above may we hope to behold them, While Washington musters each name on the roll." SOME DAY. TO JIM. SOME day I cannot tell just now, But hope and faith are strong, And I can see one little ray Of sunshine through my song ; And clouds that overhung my sky And part obscure it still, Will leave bright sunshine by and by, While climbing up life s hill. Some day my soul inspires the thought That makes my path more clear. I see one sweet forget-me-not, Where all was dark and drear. And slowly on Miss Fortune s trail With eager feet I ll press, My motto no such word as fail, While courting Miss Success. Some day, while kneeling at her feet Or sporting by her side, I ll steal into her heart s retreat And claim her for my bride. And while I hold her in my arms, If you should come my way, I ll let you gaze on all her charms And win her too some day. 74 THE POET SCOUT. ONLY A MINER KILLED. Although everything that science, skill, and money can devise is done to avert accidents, the average of fatal ones in the Comstock is three a week. " Three men a week." ONLY a miner killed ; Oh ! is that all ? One of the timbers caved ; Great was the fall, Crushing another one Shaped like his God. Only a miner lad Under the sod. Only a miner killed, Just one more dead. Who will provide for them Who earn their bread ? Wife and the little ones, Pity them, God, , Their earthly father Is under the sod. Only a miner killed, Dead on the spot. Poor hearts are breaking In yon little cot. He died at his post, A hero as brave As any who sleep In a marble-top grave. Only a miner killed ! God, if thou wilt, Just introduce him To old Vanderbilt, Who, with his millions, If he is there, Can t buy one interest Even one share. WE MEET AGAIN. 75 Only a miner killed ! Burj T him quick, Just write his name on A piece of a stick, No matter how humble Or plain be the grave, Beyond all are equal The master and slave. WE MEET AGAIN. The following, written by Jim Carlin while editing a New Mexico paper, explains itself: " Once upon a time, as the story writers say, when the hostile Indians were en deavoring to till a contract to paint the whole western country a bright red, the writer was serving the Government in a meek and unobtrusive manner, his duties being to monkey around in advance of the troops and take observations from the back of a broncho of humble birth and modest demeanor. He never used a pack animal to carry the scalps secured, and never marred the stock of his Sharps rifle with something like 75,829 notches, each notch representing an increase in the aboriginal cemetery, but worked as faithfully as he could for $8 a day and found. While engaged in this innocent pastime he first struck the trail of Jack Crawford, who was running an opposition shop in the same line of business, and in the same territory, and the friendship there formed and cemented by the dan gers which surrounded the two men has grown brighter and stronger as the jears rolled by. " When a cessation of hostilities rendered that peculiar line of business too dull to interest an adventurous nature, Jack took a little whirl at the show bus iness with Bill Cody, and his pardner of the trail and the camp-fire went back East, intending to join the church, go into the retail family grocery business and get rich. Occasional letters passed between the old friends, and they grad ually drifted apart, until they entirely lost track of each other. For over five years we heard not a word from Jack, and began to fear he had got religion and had had his hair shingled The zigzag cantering along of events brought the writer to New Mexico, and a few days since he learned that his old friend of the long ago was at Fort Craig. He at once wrote to the old boy, and in re- 76 THE POET SCOUT. sponse, on Tuesday last, received the following, which gave his heart a pretty severe attack of the mumps. The letter opens just as it is here given and is a pretty good indication of the paralyzing astonishment the Poet Scout felt at hearing from one whom he thought might be dead and trying to learn to play a golden harp in the angelic orchestra above: LORD BLESS YOU, OLD PARD, SHAKE ! ! ! " Let my heart speak out in a simple song, To the echo of days long ago ; Let my soul burst forth in a friendship strong, That grows stronger as older I grow. For many a night when I laid me down, With the star-spangled heavens above me, I thought of a friend in a far-away town Whom I loved, and I knew that he loved me. " * And I dreamed, oh ! how oft, on the lonely trail, When nature was hushed all around me, That your rifle came down, when the foe would assail, And when enemies tried to confound me ; And a little bird whispered, when I was awake, Your pard has been dreaming about you " God bless you, old boy, again let us shake, My muse has been lonely without you. " So to-night I am happy, and that s why I sing Do you catch the old strain of the mountains, When my voice, like a bird, made the old woods ring, In chorus with streamlets and fountains ? When the antelope stood, and the prairie wolf stared, And the jack-rabbit failed e en to start ! For they knew by my singing that peace was declared, As the songs welled right up from my heart. " And that s how I am feeling to-night, dear old Jim, Though unhappy a short hour ago ; But while reading your letter my eyesight was dim, Though my eyes have not failed me, I know MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN IN THE HILLS. 77 " But a something came up in my throat, dear old boy, That I ve not felt before for a year ; But, Jimmy, I swallowed the big lump of joy, And I just washed it down with a tear. " MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN IN THE HILLS. A PARODY. Written at Caster City, in the Black Hills, in the spring of 1876, for Dick Brown, the banjo-player, and sung by Dick and I, ihe miners joining in the chorus, in the camp and the cabin. IN my little new log cabin home my heart is light and free, While the boys around me gather every day, And the sweetest hours I ever knew are those I m passing now, While the banjo makes sweet music to my lay. Chorus. The scenes are changing every day, the snow is nearly gone, And there s music in the laughter of the rills ; But the dearest spot of all I know is where I love to dwell, In my little new log cabin in the hills. While the birds are sweetly singing to the coming of the spring, And t^ie flow rets peep their heads from out the sod, We feel as gay and happy as the songsters on the wing Who are sending up sweet anthems to their God. Chorus. Then let us work with heart and hand, and help each other through In this pretty little world we call our own, Whether building or prospecting yes, or fighting with the Sioux, For tis hard sometimes to play your hand alone. Chorus. 78 THE POET SCOUT. FAREWELL, OLD CABIN HOME. YE folks of fashion and renown, Who live in city and in town, And who, mid luxury and ease, Have everything the heart to please, And every morning take your ride, Mid worldly pomp and fashion s pride, At evening down the promenade With lovely girls and hearts all glad, And home ah ! that must be divine- A little moss-grown hut is mine. Where the streamlet s merry lay Makes sweet music with its laughter, Dancing, rippling day by day I shall hear it ever after. Where, from Harney s snow-clad crown, Many rills come dancing down, Where the speckled beauties glide Swiftly through the silvery tide, You may have your stall-fed steers I have lots of mountain deers. You may have your hot-house greens, I the good old standard beans Beans and pork. Sometimes he d kill A buffalo bull, would Buffalo Bill ; Then with chicken, grouse and quail, And splendid soup from buffalo tail. Oh, how happy, gay and free O er the mountains wild I roam Bank stocks never trouble me In my little mountain home. Up the mountain, down the glen Dangerous ? Only now and then. If a bear you want to court, Take her where the hair is short ; FAKEWELL, OLD CABIN HOME. 79 If you want a fond embrace, Meet old Bruin face to face. If she s strong, with frame well knit, You ll find her most affectionate. Bears and buffaloes, what care I Catermounts may rave and foam ; I must leave you by and by, So farewell, old cabin home. 80 THE POET SCOUT. Nature grand and wild and free. Full of life and ecstasy ; Courting nature, dead in love, Coo again, thou gentle dove ; Teach me, bird of paradise, How to thaw the lover s ice ; Make the blood within me boil- Man must love, or man must spoil ; Tell me, how am I to love, And a maiden s fancy move ? Will you miss me when I go When away from you I roam ? If your nest should fill with snow You can take my cabin home. Good-by, scenes of mountain bliss, Where the clouds come down to kiss Crowning rocks and hiding trees, Until lifted with the breeze. Farewell, valley of my heart ! Time has come when we must part ; Farewell, all thy sweet wild flowers ! All thy nooks and shady bowers Nevermore my eyes can see Valley half so fair as thee. Valley, cabin, all farewell ! Oh, for one forget-me-not ! I would leave it in the dell Plant it near this moss-grown cot. CASTLE CBEEK, BLACK HILLS. A DIME. 81 IT S ONLY A DIME. The following letter, inclosing a silver dime, was received at the Mayor s office: NEW YORK, July 30. " MR. MAYOR : I see a orphan sojer s boy sends five cents, and calls it his mite ; I send ten. My dad was a sojer, and they say he was a good one. He was with Grant, and I guess he is now. I sell papers and black boots. If Vanderbilt and Gould and dem oder big fellows give as much as they could afford, same as me and the oder boys, General Grant s monument would be bigger than the staty of Liberty. JOHNNY. "Postscript. Mother says, Don t sine your name, cos dey mention it in the papers. Mother is a widder, and I goes to Sunday-school. Call this Johnny s mite." While reading this, vivid memories came up before me, and I felt as if this little tribute would not be out of place : You may talk of the love of little Nell, Of her wreath and her innocent bliss, But oh ! how each comrade s heart will swell When he thinks of a love like this ! " It is only a dime," said the little waif ; But, boys, it was rich and bright. There never was locked in a banker s safe Such riches as this boy s mite. " For dad was a soldier, too," he said, "An a good un, the soldiers say ; An dad was with Grant wherever he led, An dad is with Grant to-day." And, boys, who knows, though his dad is dead, This peer of your snob galoots May be carving his way to the nation s head Selling papers and blacking boots. 82 THE POET SCOUT. NEW YEAK S DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS-1876. BEYOND the Mississippi, And the old Missouri, too, On the far and distant prairie, With comrades brave and true, One year ago I wandered In the hills so far away ; I was happy in my cabin One year ago to-day. The morning was a fair one, And the skies were bright and clear, And the snow like diamonds sparkled, While we chased the panting deer ; 4 I never will forget it, Each miner lad felt gay, For we found a splendid prospect One year ago to-day. A band of hardy miners At evening gathered round, Some on rustic benches And others on the ground ; We ate and drank together, Our hearts were light and gay, For a Concord coach first entered Our Hills last New Year s day. And as the noble horses Came flying up the street, With fifteen hardy miners, You bet, it was a treat ; And the noble Colonel Patrick, Twas this I heard him say : * Come in and take a drink, boys, For this is New Year s day." THE RUINED VIRGINIA. 83 But time has worked its wonders, And in every gulch and glen, Instead of half a hundred, Ten thousand hardy men, With sluice and pan and rocker, Work hard and trust in heaven ; And twenty Concord coaches Are there in Seventy- seven. THE RUINED VIRGINIA. (Virginia City, Nevada, almost totally destroyed by fire, October, 1876.) DID I hear the news from Virginny, The news of that terrible fire ? Yes ; but I couldn t believe it When it first came over the wire ; But when I found it square, pard, I weakened, you bet, right here, And I didn t care a tinker s Who saw me drop a tear. Just reason the thing for a minute There s two thousand miners right there, It s cold, way up in the mountains, And some s got no breeches to wear. And that ain t the worst ; for instance, There s two of my old pards hurt, And a dozen that wore plugs Sunday Ain t got the first stitch but their shirt. Now, Jack, ain t that rough on Virginny ? Well, there ain t no saints out there ; And I spec it s a second Chicago, And this is a kind of a scare. 84 THE POET SCOUT. But dog my cats if I see it Exactly in that thar way, For most of them hardy miners Are honest, by Joe, as the day. But maybe it s all for the better That s what the good people say ; But I don t want any in mine, pard, If the Lord will but keep it away. I don t read much in the Scripture, But I ve heard the good parson talk About sinners bein punished by brimstone When against the commandments they balk. Now, I don t jist understand it, Though I tumble to what they say ; Nor I don t see why the Almighty Should treat a poor man in that way. While the fellers who s got the lucre, And the worst to connive and swear, Always give us poor devils the euchre The deal ain t exactly square. And if, as the parson tells us, There s a place after this, called hell, With fire and red-hot brimstone With a nasty kind of smell ; I ll be dogged if some fine snoozers (That I have a reason to know) Won t find a scorchin old corner In that furnace way down below. Now, there was old Kit McGregor, He was rough and ready, but smart ; He could whip any man in the diggin s And there wasn t a flaw in his heart. But when old Parson Plum, one evening, Done dirt didn t act on the square He sent the daylight clear through him, And laid the old sinner out there. IRENE IS DEAD. 85 Now, is Kit goin to hell for that, Jack? Not much ! the Lord bid him shoot, And he killed a worm of the devil A hypocrite, rogue, and galoot. Besides, the gal was his darter, And she panned out a woman most fair, And was loved by all in the diggin s But Kit had revenge right there. IKENE IS DEAD. The following letter, written by the noted writer of frontier tales, Ned Buntline,, furnished the theme for the verses bearing the above title, and which are now published for the first time : " EAGLE S NEST, N. Y., Jan. 17, 1881. " MY DEAR CRAWFORD : Three words speak the agony which volumes could not describe, the loss which all the gold in your mines could not replace, the shadow which hangs darkest in all my long, eventful life Irene is dead! " My little pet, my darling, our household angel, my only one, has taken wing for heaven. Her marble cold form sleeps beneath the snow on yonder hillside,, but her spirit is in the land of eternHl light and song. "God help us! My wife s grief is crushing. I bear as bear I must, but no past agony ever reached this. . .. . " Give my love to your boys. You may see me in the saddle in the spring. My beautiful home is a desert to me now. Were it not for my wife, I d be with you. inside of two weeks. " Yours faithfully, "E. Z. C. JUDSOX (Ned Buntline)." Ix THE FIELD, GJO CALIENTE, N. M., Feb. 3, 1881. DEAR OLD HEART : Your sorrowful yet beautifully touching letter, containing the sad news of Irene s death, is at hand, and the rough frontiersman, your friend, can only drop a silent tear; bat if you could look through the dark tangled undergrowth away into the clear sunlight of my sou , at this moment, you could witness the beating of a heart that is all sympathy forthee and thine in thy deep sorrow and bereavement. Irene is dead! Oh, lhat her gentle spirit would act as a medium to-night, that would manifest itself in poetic expression ! But my hand trembles at the thought. In the midst of savages, suffering at this moment from a wound received but three days ago, and looking each day upon the new-made graves of friends and brothers, how can I, amid such scenes, 86 THE POET SCOUT. express in true poetic spirit sentiments worthy as a memoriam to this angel? Thy only rose, thy sweet Irene. Those three words contain more than would fill volumes Irene is dead! Irene is dead I Thine only one, Thy little household pet, Transplanted from a world of sin,. A rose in Eden set. How sweet the thought ! why, dear old heart, That land is far more fair, And Heaven decreed that you should part To meet again up there. Irene is dead ! Do angels die ? No, no ; but He doth sever The hearts He loves Irene wilt live, Forever and forever. Bow not thy aged head in grief, For Irene knows no pain, And all is love, and joy, and peace, Where you shall meet again. Irene s asleep ! Thy little rose Has lain her down to rest ; Her marble face in sweet repose, The snow above her breast ; The pure white snow, a fitting shroud For thine own sweet Irene, Whose life had never known a cloud, Thine own heart s fairy queen. Thine only one hath taken wing, Thy little household dove ! Methinks I hear the angels sing In chorus, love with love, And Irene s voice is in that throng : "Sweet ma and papa dear, Your darling sings a sweeter song While waiting for you here." Fraternally yours, J. W. CRAWFORD (Captain Jack). AMONG THE PEAKS. 87 AMONG THE PEAKS. OH, gentle breeze, from sunny South, With scent of fragrant flowers, Warm again with thy heated breath These sovereign hills of ours. Burst forth in every mountain glen Where streams no longer flow, With sunny beams from azure sky, To melt the crusted snow. And onward from the boisterous sea Sweep clouds of tepid rain ; Let thunder be thy bugle call To free our hills again. And when the distant roll is heard, Twill set each heart aglow, For many who have waited long Will see our streams o erflow. Our hearts will greet the smiling sun, And bless the heavenly rain ; And hope, now dead, will come to life When spring is here again. . And hardy, honest sons of toil Will grasp their tools once more ; Hydraulic, drift and sluice again, As in the days of yore. And when the summer time has come, With hearts and mountains free, Each day a stronger link will forge To bind our harmony. CARIBOO, B. C. 88 THE POET SCOUT. FAREWELL TO OUR CHIEF. The following lines were written on the field on the same day that Buffalo Bill bade farewell to the command, August 24th, 1876, when I was appointed to suc ceed him as chief of scouts. FAREWELL ! the boys will miss you, Bill ; In haste let me express The deep regret we all must feel Since you have left our mess. While down the Yellowstone you glide, Old pard, you ll find it true, That there are thousands in the field Whose hearts beat warm for you. And while we wish you every joy, Wherever you may roam Success in everything you try, And happiness at home ; Yet would we wish you ever near To join us in the shouts Of courage when the foe is near, And hail you Chief of Scouts ! So, Bill, old boy, we wish you well We cannot wish you more ; On sentiment we will not dwell You ve been with us before ; Your smiling face, your manly form, The starlight in your eye, In memory always will be dear God bless you, pard good-by ! 90 THE POET SCOUT. DEATH OF LITTLE KIT. (To his Father, Buffalo Bill.) The following verses were written at Custer City, D. T., on hearing from Mr. Cody (Buffalo Bill) of the death of his little boy, Kit Carson Cody. MY friend, I feel your sorrow Just as though it were my own, And I think of you each morrow As I ponder, when alone, On the wonders of our Maker, As the world goes round and round ; Since Kit is with his namesake In the happy hunting-ground. But the parson used to tell us Of things we little knew, And how the Lord would chasten The good, the brave and true ; That all was for the better, Though it used to tax my wit, Till i heard he sent an angel For your darling little Kit. At first I thought, but thinking Made me wonder still the more, Till at last I saw a vision While I slumbered on the floor Of my little new log cabin In the Hills, not long ago. Yes, I saw the old Kit Carson, With a beard as white as snow. He wore the same old buckskin, But white, as if just tanned, And beyond him, on the prairie, Was a scene so very grand DEATH OF LITTLE KIT. 91 That I would not dare describe it But that voice, that well known sound The words were, " Pards, I m happy In the happy hunting-ground 1" I saw an angel hover O er a dark ravine below The rippling, dancing water That in silvery streams did flow. Then downward went the angel ; Old Kit just leaped for joy, When from below that angel Brought Kit, your darling boy. The old man raised him fondly, And clasped him to his breast, While peace and sweet contentment Upon him seemed to rest. Just then a painted redskin Was scowling from a mound, When crack went Kit s old rifle, And the fiend went under ground. And then a milk-white pony And a steed as white as snow, With wide-expanded nostrils, Were roaming to and fro, When Kit exclaimed, "Come, darlings, My prairie birds, this way !" And soon they both were mounted, While the choir began to play. I heard the sweetest music That mortal ever heard, While steed and snow-white pony Were flying like a bird. I woke, and in my cabin Your letter soon was found ; And Kit had joined his namesake In the happy hunting-ground. 92 THE POET SCOUT. And, pard, when life is ended, If acting on the square, We, too, will meet old Carson And your baby-boy up there. UNDEK THE SNOW. IN MEMOBIAM. (Lines on the Death of T. E. Pattullo.) UNDER the snow we have laid him down- Down in the depths of the grave ! The dearest, kindest heart in the camp Has passed o er eternity s wave. Gone forever ! alas, can it be, Will we never again see his face ? Never again clasp his honest hand, With its warm and earnest embrace ? Under the snow in the golden land, So far from the home of his mother, No loving sister to close his eyes, But the hand of a faithful brother. God help that mother and sister, too ! The news will be sad we know, " Our own dear boy in Cariboo Is dead and under the snow !" " Dear mother" and now I speak for Tom- " Dear mother, don t grieve for me, I ve only laid me down to rest Beneath the old pine troe. So tired, dear mother, I needed rest, To sleep, to dream, to die ; And God does all things for the best, I ll meet you by and by." UNDER THE SNOW. 93 Under the snow ! The setting sun Seemed bathed in tears to-day, And all are lonely in the camp Since Tom has passed away. And many were the heartfelt sobs, And many tears did flow, And charity round his faults we flung, With a mantle of pure white snow. Under the snow he sleeps to-day, Mourned by the sad rough throng. And just before he passed away He spoke of his favorite song, " Maid of Athens !" beautiful maid ! There she stands at the door ! Ere we part another verse, Twill ring on the other shore. Under the snow the heart is still In death forevermore The heart that never saw distress Go hungry from his door. And many, many will attest, Who left here long ago, A truer friend than all the rest Now sleeps beneath the snow. Under the snow ! A sinner sleeps- Heal saints are very few But Tom was what we called a man, Mongst men in Cariboo. And when our earthly work is done And the world is at an end, The Lord will not forget the man Who s been the poor man s friend. 94 THE POET SCOUT. THE DYING SCOUT. (A Song to the Memory of Muggins Taylor, who was Custer s courier.) COMRADES, raise me, I ain (tying, Hark the story I will tell ; Break it gently to my mother, You were near me when I fell. Tell her how I fought with Caster, How I rode to tell the news ; Now I m dying, comrades, dying- Tell me, did we whip the Sioux ? Chorus. Comrades, raise me, I am dying, Catch the story I will tell ; Break it gently to my mother, You were near me when I fell. Tell my mother that, when dying, Every scene came back anew All those happy days of childhood, When life s cares I little knew. Tell her that I still remember How she wept for very joy When she clasped her arms around me, Welcomed home her soldier boy. Chorus. Comrades, tell my mother truly How we fought to hold the hill ; Tell her how we gained the vict ry That I die a soldier still. Hark ! I hear a voice up yonder, All is sunshine, bright and fair ; Tell my mother I am dying- She will meet her boy up there. Chorus. MRS. KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD. 95 MRS. KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD. Mrs. Kate B. Sherwood, of Toled o, Ohio, is the wife of General J. R. Sherwood, Colonel of the lllth Ohio Volunteer Infantry, who won the stars of a general by gallant conduct at the battle of Franklin. She is a native Buckeje, and since her marriage, in the autumn of 1859, then in her eighteenth year, she has de voted much of her time to journalism and literature, has been a contributor to many of the leading newspapers and periodicals, editor of the Toledo Journal and editor of the Woman s Department of the National Tribune. In the spring of 1885 she published "Camp Fire and Memorial Poems," a volume of recitations for Grand Army camp fires, which has been widely read, and some of the poems have been translated into German. As an industrious literary worker she has few equals, and has translated lrgely from German and French into English. It is, however, in local and Srate charity work that Mrs. Sherwood s character shines with its greatest lustre. In every charitable movement in her native State she has ever been a recognized leader, and wa* one of the original organiz ers of the Woman s Relief Corps, Auxiliary to the Grand Army of the Republic. 96 THE POET SCOUT. During the years 1884-85 she served as president of that organization with great honor and credit, and retired with the blessings of her co-workers and of the vast army of veterans all over the land. She is a woman of high and noble im pulses, of pure Christian character, and possesses a heart which ever beats in sympathy with want and suffering, and hands ever ready to work for the unfor tunate. Just after the retirement of Mrs. Sherwood from the position of President or the Woman s Relief Corps, I had the honor to recite one of my poems in her presence, and she took her badge of office from htr own bosom and pinned it to mine. This touching circumstance called forth the following: PEKHAPS. (To Our G. A. R Goddess Comrade Kate B. Sherwood.) PERHAPS, beloved goddess, you never will know it, The joy and the pride that inflated my soul That night when you pinned your own badge on my bosom That night when my heart wrote its name on yoiir roll. Perhaps it was weakness that made my eyes glisten, While looking in thine, rather misty, I ween, While a warrior s soul and the heart of a woman Were drifting in sight of our comrade, Pauline.* Perhaps it will be, when the moss has grown over A spot that is speckled with daisies just now, Where I shall retire from life s nettles and clover, That I shall meet you with a crown on your brow. Perhaps all the sunshine that dodges our coming Along on life s pathway will burst on to us there ; Perhaps all the music now deaf to our thrumming Will thrill our tired souls in that Eden so fair. Perhaps, after all, mid the strife and commotion, The worry and fretting of life s busy throng, The soul will ride over the tempest-tossed ocean, And anchor where angels and sunshine belong. * Paul Van Dervoort, Past Commander-in-Chief and honorary member of the Woman s Relief Corps. PERHAPS. 97 Perhaps you will greet me with love, song and laughter, Where all our heart s yearnings will cease to exist ; Perhaps in that wonderful, unknown hereafter, Our poor, weary comrades may once more enlist. Perhaps in God s army our missing will gather, Unknown will be known when they answer their names ; Not one be unseen by the all-seeing Father, Though sleeping in woodland, in mountain and plains. And oh ! what an army of heroes will muster When Gabriel s trumpet shall call to review, And near to the throne in a hallowed lustre Will stand one grand army the Gray and the Blue. Perhaps the great chieftains will have a reunion, And oh ! what a camp fire the angels will see Grant, Jackson and Sherman, and Hancock and Gordon, With Buckner and Johnston and Logan and Lee. Perhaps each will tell of the heart s honest promptings, That bade them take arms on the side they thought right, And the great Chief of all will make plain why He willed it Why comrades and brothers each other should fight. Perhaps He will point to the emblem of freedom, As out o er the dome her broad stripes are unfurled, And say to those chieftains, those battle-scarred heroes, " Your work made that flag to enlighten the world." And you, beloved goddess, will gather with others To meet them and greet them. If I can be there, I shall ask God to let me be aide to dear mothers Who gave their brave sons to our country so fair. And, Kate, if the Lord will detail me to find it, Your crown will be brighter than any I know ; With sunshine in front and with starlight behind it, I m sure it will light up this world here below. 98 THE POET SCOUT. SANDY S REVENGE. A MINEK S STBATEGY. " I SAY, young feller, have something to take ? Yer a stranger to me, but I like yer style, And I reckin I met ye somewhar afore Come, fellers, won t ye all have a smile ? Ye see, I ve jist come in from the mines, Where we fellers strike it rich sometimes." " Excuse me, sir, but I never drink, And I m just as much obliged to you. I can t help it, sir, you may believe or not, But nevertheless I am telling you true. And, by the way, a word in your ear You ll be drugged and robbed if you drink in here. He looked at me with his great blue eyes, And laughingly said : " That s a very good joke. I own a half," said he, " in the prize," And looking around on the crowd as he spoke, "I ve got enough in my buckskin, I think, To treat the house. Come, every one, drink. " And see here, youngster, you take a cigar. The other bottle I mean the brandy. Wall, here s how what might be my name ? Wall, it might be Jim, but they call me Sandy. And I don t know much bout books and sich, But what s the odds when a feller s rich ? " Do I want a bed ? Wall, I reckin I do, And I want a good n, ye bet yer life. Come, set em up agin for the crew ; What s tha* ye say he v I got a wife ? 99 Wall, now yer shouten why, bless yer soul, My Jennie s the trimmest gal of the whole. * Me gettin full ? Is that what ye said ? Wall, I reckin I am. I ll go pretty soon ; An , landlord, when I get up to bed, Send me a night-cap up ter my room. An don t you forget it I want it strong, So I kin sleep on it, soundly an long." " Good-night !" he said, as he passed me by, And I saw a smile on his sunburnt face ; And then he winked with his flashing eye, And whispered : " If ye kin find the place, Jist come to my room between twelve and one, And I reckin as how we kin have some fun." It was nearly twelve when he said good-night, So I quietly left, as if to go home, And turning quickly round to the right, At a corner window I saw him alone, With a navy revolver in either hand, He fixed them, and laid them down on the stand. I climbed the porch ; it was rather dark, But somehow I managed to reach the top. I tapped at the window and made a noise, When he motioned that I should stop. . Too late the lamp was turned out quite, And he whispered : " I ll play her alone to-night." Five minutes ! and each to me seemed an hour, But at last the painful silence was broke ; A heavy thud then a leaden shower And the little room full of fire and smoke. A light was struck, and there on the floor Lay landlord and son by the open door. 100 THE POET SCOUT. CHKISTMAS DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS -1876. LAST Christmas day, I remember it well And I reckon I ll still remember When emigration began to swell, Though our chances war mighty slender, A band of as bully men, by Jove, As ever struck out a-trailin , Struck for the Hills ter hunt for gold, With bull teams just a-sailin . And I war guide of the outfit, pards ; Ye see, I d been thar before, When we struck it rich on Calamity Bar, So I struck for the Bar once more. But I ll never forget when crossin the Platte, And the ice in the middle gave way, And down went our wagons, bulls and all Pards, that war last Christmas day. Ye see, it war only a mile across Wall, that ain t much out thar But the boys kinder left it ter me, bein boss, As ter whether the ice would bear ; So I reckoned as how I thought it would, And we started gee whoa right away ; But she cracked like an old cook s kettle, she did Pards, that war last Christmas day. Who cuss d ? Oh, no, pards, I never swar, But just about that ar time There wasn t much poetry in my head I couldn t a-spun a rhyme Ye see, the quicksands war orful bad, And none of us felt very gay ; Cause we had ter wade and carry our grub Pards, that war last Christmas day. THE OLD TRAPPER S RELIGION. 101 And now while I m ridin on cushion seats, With nothin to worry or fret, By thunder ! I almost wish I war back A-courtin my bride, my pet ; I mean my " Winchester," bully old gal And the reds will keep out of her way ; She dropped a buck weighin three hundred pounds Pards, that war last Christmas day. THE OLD TKAPPER S RELIGION. I AIN T goin ter preach ye a sermon, Nor I ain t goin ter sing ye a song, An I reckin as how ye won t think so, If I don t draw my story too long ; But I am jist from the church in the city, Whar I hear n the good parson man tell Bout the psalm- singers home up in heaven, An the sinners hot layout in hell. I didn t at first understan him ; Ye see, I sot back nigh the door, With my leg threw way inter a tunnel, An my slouch layin flat on the floor ; But, somehow, his words set me thinkin , An it worried me ever so long, Till I dropped on the settled conclusion Thet he drawed it a little too strong. Sez he, ye must all get religion, An stay with the rules o the church, Else, or, on the great day o judgment Ye 11 surely git left in the lurch. 102 ,,, THE POET SCOUT. Sez he, now s the day o salvation, For why do ye weaken and wait ? Fly from that trail strew d with pleasure, Cos it leads right direct to hell s gate. Then 1 ax d myself, what is this racket That he seems so dead earnest about ? Is it sittin close up near the pulpit To jine in the general shout ? Is it wearin a face* like a bean-pole, Chippin in with a lusty amen, An loafin around in the temple While the beggar lies sick in a pen ? Ar these psalm-singin nabobs religious, Cause they pray in a satin-lined box, An all the time durin the preachin Keep plannin their next steal in stocks ? Do ye think as they ll waltz inter glory Because they re mixed with the flock? Not much ! They ll git left on the margin, For Christ will go down to bed rock. In course, they re looked on as Christians, Tho they gamble all week on the Board, They freely come down with the wherewith To help on the cause of the Lord. But I think at the last resurrection They ll have nothin but wildcat to sell ; And instead of the Stock Board in heaven They ll get points on a corner in H 11. Ar the poor folks all bound to perdition That labor and toil day by day For yer gilt-edged Sunday professors- Like Duncan* on starvation pay ? * J. C. Duncan, manager of the Pioneer Bank, San Francisco, who was a pil lar of the church, and stole $2,000,000 from the depositors, and who denounced the honest prayer of " Rattlin Joe" as sacrilegious. THE OLD TRAPPER S RELIGION. 103 Ar they bound to take lodgin s with Satan, While Duncan, the deacon, steals all ? An pays with the sweat of the poor man The price for a sanctified stall? Ar they to be damn d inter torment, An driv through unquenchable flames, Cause the big book in front o the pulpit Don t happen ter show up thar names ? Is the devil a-goin for to yank ein To his kingdom of fire down below, Jist cause they don t jine in yer meetin s, And work in the very same row ? In short, can t a man as lives honest, An don t take the devil inside (For no man kin be a good Christian An yet from his sideboard imbibe). If he does every day to his neighbor As he d have thet same neighbor to do, Won t he fare jist as well at the clean-up As if worth a million or two ? The churches are good institutions ; I like to hear good preachers tell Bout Christ and the good o religion, But they ought ter preach temperance as well: Cause rum s the stronghold o the devil, An a man as drinks don t always win, Cause he never kin keep himself level, Since rum is a cuss and a sin. But I tell ye, a man as lives honest, If he never hears tell o the church, Kin jist be as happy hereafter, And roost on the heavenly perch ; We re all in the way o temptation, Thar s no one who s free from all sin ; But Christ won t go back on us- poor folks If we do jist the best that we kin. THE POET SCOUT. THE SCOUT S BEQUEST BEFOEE THE BATTLE. TWAS a moonlit night, just a year ago, As we sat and lay by the old camp fire. 11 Come fill up yer pipes," said Muggins the scout, "And draw yoursel s up just a little nigher, "An I ll tell ye a story (the gospel truth), An I reckon I couldn t lie to-night ; For somehow I feel as if this poor chap Wer goin ter git left in to-morror s fight. "An , pards, if I do I see ye smile, But I ar in earnest, you bet yer life, Nor I arn t afeard to pass in my checks ; But, pards, I m a-thinkin of home and wife. I left the old cabin now two weeks ago ; My poor wife s face wor a picter of sorror. Muggins, said she, if ye get killed, Then God but, no matter, I go to-morror. " Ye know me, boys ; now look ye here, Don t tell me I mustn t go in with you ! I never did weaken in all my life, An to morror I ll lead them boys in blue. "An if, when the evenin sun goes down, This time to-morror ye find I m dead, I want ye to tell me now, right here, Ye won t see my little ones want for bread. " No ! thank the Lord ! but how about Jim ? Now, there ar a boy as is like his dad, An Bat, if ye say that you ll tend ter him, Why dyin to-morror won t be so bad." ****** Next eve, as the sun was going down, And firing had ceased along the line, Old Muggins was humming that little song Of " Home, Sweet Home," in the bright sunshine, THE SCOUT S REQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE. 105 When zip came a bullet, and Muggins fell. "Battees," he said, "Bat, don t forget My wife my Annie my blue-eyed Mag, An Jimmie our Jimmie his father s pet." We covered him up with the mossy sod ; Renewed our promise above his grave ; Left him alone alone with his GOD Muggins the scout, and Muggins the brave. 106 THE POET SCOUT. THE DEATH OF CUSTER. In July, 1876, I received a telegram from W. F. Cody (Buffalo Bill), which read : "Have you heard of ihe death of our brave Caster?" I immediately wrote the following verses, which I sent Mr. Cody, in answer to his dispatch on the following day : DID I hear the news from Custer ? Well, I reckon I did, old pard ; It came like a streak of lightin , And, you bet, it hit me hard. I ain t no hand to blubber, And the briny ain t run for years ; But chalk me down for a lubber, If I didn t shed regular tears. What for ? Now look ye here, Bill, You re a bully boy, that s true ; As good as e er wore buckskin, Or foughi with the boys in blue ; But I ll bet my bottom dollar Ye had no trouble to muster A tear, or perhaps a hundred, When ye heard of the death of Custer. He always thought well of you, pard, And had it been Heaven s will, In a few more days you d met him, And he d welcomed his old scout, Bill. For.. if ye remember, at Hat Creek I met ye with General Carr ; We talked of the brave young Custer, And recounted his deeds of war. But little we knew even then, pard (And that s just two weeks ago, How little we dreamed of disaster, Or that he had met the foe) THE DEATH OF CUSTER. 107 That the fearless, reckless hero, So loved by the whole frontier, Had died on the field of battle In this our centennial year. I served with him in the army, In the darkest days of the war ; And I reckon ye know his record, For he was our guiding star. And the boys who gathered round him To charge in the early morn, War just like the brave who perished With him on the Little Horn. And where is the satisfaction, And how are we going to get square ? By giving the Beds more rifles ? Invite them to take more hair? We want no scouts, no trappers, Nor men who know the frontier ? Phil, old boy, you re mistaken Ton must have (he volunteer. They talk about peace with these demons By feeding and clothing them well ; I d as soon think an angel from heaven Would reign with contentment in hell ; And some day these Quakers will answer Before the great Judge of us all, For the death of our daring young Custer, And the boys who around him did fall. Perhaps I am judging them harshly, But I mean what I m telling ye, pard ; I m letting them down mighty easy Perhaps they may think it is hard. But I tell ye the day is approaching The boys are beginning to muster, That day of the great retribution The day of revenge for our Custer. 108 THE POET SCOUT. And I will be with you, friend Cody, My mite will go in with the boys ; I shared all their hardships last winter, I shared all their sorrows and joys ; So tell them I m coming, friend William, I trust I will meet you ere long ; Regards to the boys in the muuntains, Yours truly, in friendship still strong. COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OF SADNESS? Written some years ago to the late Charley Reynolds, Custer s bravest and best scout, who perished by bis side on the Little Big Horn. COMRADE, why this look of sadness ? What has caused this sudden change ? Why thus wander in the moonlight, Acting so uncommon strange ? Know that I would share thy sorrow, Even shed a tear with thee ; Sick or wounded would I leave you ? No ! nor would you part from me. Tell me, then ; I too, have sorrow, But I drive it from my mind ; Tis but folly thus to borrow Trouble from the midnight wind. Come, there s music at the barracks, We re having quite a hop to-night- Have a dance with little Jessie, And I m sure you ll feel all right. No ? Ah, comrade, I can see it, Even though you will not tell ; You have loved with all your nature Loved not wisely, but too well. COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OF SADNESS ? 109 This it is that makes you gloomy Cuts you to the very core ; But you must remember, Charley. There are very many more. So, at last, I ve got your secret Only one ? Indeed ! not more ? Me ? Why, man, that ain t a marker I can count them by the score. Women why, of course, they re fickle, But the men are fickle, too, And I m sure the greater number Of the fairer sex are true. Yes, I had one little sweetheart ; Do you see that blackened spot ? There it was that I first met her In her father s little cot ; And beside this mossy willow, When the skylark s music fell, Gertie told me how she loved me, Mid the fragrance of the dell. While my arms were fondly twining Round her little form so fair, Bright blue eyes like diamonds shining, And the moonbeams kissed her hair Then it was a silent arrow Pierced my little girl and I Pierced her through the heart, God help me Me to live and she to die. Here, beside this dear old willow, Where the flowers are growing wild, Rests old Bruce, the guide and trapper, With my love, his only child. Rest in peace, my little darling, There is joy in Heaven for you ; As for me no peace, no resting While there lives a single Sioux. 110 THE POET SCOUT. Now, my boy, you know the reason Why I seek this spot alone ; When the moon is up and shining, I can watch beside my own. Go, enjoy yourself I cannot, While my angel sleeps close by. Hark ! get down I see a scalp. lock ! Not a word he, too, must die. Death was silent in his mission Not the faintest sound was heard ; While the scout, with cat-like motion, Moved as if he were a bird ; Then the flash of steel by moonlight Not a word had yet been said ; But the brave young lover conquered Scored another for the dead. BY THE LAKE. MY heart is just dancing with rapture To the music that springs from the soul, As I revel in Nature s seclusion, Where God left His name on her scroll. And the birds seem to ask for a token For a something that they may retain A song that the soul may have spoken, By the streamlet that flows to the plain. And here far away in the wildwood, With Nature, unsullied by art, Those thoughts that were dear to my childhood Still twine themselves close round my heart. Sing on, sweetest songsters, thy singing Bright memory s slumbers awake ; Thy voices in sweet chorus ringing So I leave you in peace by the lake. THE POET SCOUT. GOD BLESS YE, GENER L CUSTEB." BY gosh, I ar as hungry As a prairie wolf, you bet, An , pards, I won t forget ye, An am moughty glad we met. Yer see, I ve been ter prospec , An I lost my latitud . Laws ee, but I war hungry, Them beans war moughty good. " I ve see d thet face afore, pards Can t say as how I know, My eyes ain t wot they us ter war Bout fifteen year ago. But, dog my cats, I ll swar it, Let s take a closer sight Blest if it arn t the Gener l ! I knew I must be right." And then a pearly tear drop Stood in the old man s eye. " Yer know I ve pray d ter see him Jist once afore I d die ; He saved my wife and baby "When the reds began to muster." With outstretched hand he, sobbing, said " God bless ye, Gener l Custer !" " I reckin ye don t remember Old Bill as run the mail From Sidney up to Red Cloud, When ye war on the trail; An how thet frosty mornin Yer saved my Tommy s life, An took a heap o chances- She told me Jane, my wife. 113 " I warn t thar to thank yer When I heerd the story through, Cause that war all I had ter give, An all as I could do ; An , Gener l, if yer wants me, Tain t much as I kin do, But, dog my cats, I m ready To trump death s ace for you." "NEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP!" In the spring of 1875, in Custer City, at the time I wrote the following verses, I was, to say the least, sick and tired of the mountains. I had just nursed to life old Charley S , from Chicago, an old Forty-niner (who was always kind to me), while a man named Hughes lay on one of my bunks, his arm shattered by a bullet from the wrist to the muscle, and Jule Seminole, one of my scouts, a faithful Cheyenne warrior, lay on the other bunk, with pneumonia. I had hard work to watch Jule. If I ever left the cabin during the day, and the sun was shining, he would be sure to jump out of bed, run around the cabin with only a single blanket thrown around him, and squat right down on a log or stone, his moccasined feet in the melting snow; and when I tried to reason with him, and scold him for exposing himself, he would look at me with his great brown eyes, shake his head and say : " You heap good to me ; me know you like 1 get well. But me no like white man s medicine. Too much bad taste. Suo. heap better big medicine." He always returned to his bunk, however, and finally got well again, and proved his devotion to me afterward on many occasions, never los ing sight of me while on the trail. Hughes had a little boy nine years old, who relieved me occasionally, and watched while I slept. I never took my clothes off, night or day, except to change my underwear, for I only had a buffalo robe and one blanket, which I spread on the damp sawdust floor; and only for a strong constitution and temperate habits, I, too, would have been laid up. One even ing, a merchant, who had just come in the Hills, called to see me, and when I told him how I was situated, how I had to hunt for my meat, and how discour aged I was beginning to feel, he remarked : "Never get down-hearted, Jack never give up the ship /" And, although he was well off in this world s goods, he never offered me a pound of tea or a piece of bacon. After he left my cabin, while my single tallow candle cast a sickly light upon the smoked logs, I wrote, " Never Give up the Ship 1" 114 THE POET SCOUT. " NEVER give up the ship, old boy !" Said a friend to me to-night ; " But jog along with a manly step, And with spirits always light ; Laugh with a hearty will, old boy, And wait for the turn oE the tide, For this is a beautiful world of ours So, Jack, let your troubles slide." How easy it is for him to say " Never give up the ship !" While thinking of a gas-lit home, And I with a tallow dip, Ensconsed in my little log caboose, The wolf and the snow at the door ; I wish I could give up the craft, I d sail in her no more. " Never give up the ship !" he said, This friend. I could almost curse ; With love and friends and a happy home Ah ! yes, and a bottomless purse. How easy it is for one to say, " There s better luck in store," When hunger and sickness pass him by And knock at another s door. When home for him is a safe retreat, And nothing to worry or fret, While I in the snow must hunt my meat Or what ? Why, starve, you bet. Two comrades wounded, sick and sore, Are stretched on the bunks beside, While I shake down on the sawdust floor And wake with a sore-marked hide. Old Charley too has just got well ! He told me I saved his life, And how I loved to hear him tell Of his home and his dear good wife, MUSING. 116 And how, if ever I went back East, His folks I must call and see. Then, old boy, we will have a feast, And drink your good health in tea. Well, I don t intend to give up the ship, But I wish I could find a canoe, And we were two hundred miles from here, On the banks of the old Mossu I reckon we d float, would Jule and I, Though we worked our venison raw, And never let up till we gazed once more On the spires of Omaha. MUSING. (To the Man of Intellect.) These verses were written in answer to an anonymous letter written by some one in Victoria, B. C. (who was English, you know), telling me to desist from imposing my doggerel on an intelligent newspaper public. WHILE with various thoughts and feelings I am musing here to-night Thoughts of other years of sorrow, Feelings of a heart more light Musing still, and still I wonder . . What my future lot will be, While my soul is craving knowledge, Will not fortune smile on me ? Is there no poetic beauty In those simple songs of mine ? Must a man be bred in college Ere he dares to form a rhyme ? Though his soul dictates the music, Yet his words, uncouth and plain, 116 THE POET SCOUT. Must not find a friendly welcome From the learned man of brain. While my beating heart oft whispers Sweetest music to my soul, And I feel that heaven-born passion Which I care not to control, That which neath the spreading branches Often caused my mates to start, Aye ! and list with awe and wonder To the songs which left my heart. Far away in wild Dakota, Hours I ve stood upon the green, Spouting what I thought poetic, Only by my comrades seen, Bevelling in nature s grandeur. Ah ! but those were happy days, For I thought I was a poet, And deserving of some praise. Yet, alas ! here comes a letter Telling me 1 must desist, Written by perhaps George Francis- Such a s- Train was to his fist. Stop it, Jack let reason guide you. Good advice you dare reject, And you ll get another letter From a man of intellect. Every man is not a classic, Nearly all who labor read These at least peruse my verses, Sometimes even with a greed. Let me, then, a little longer Pass like this my idle hours ; Time will surely make me stronger Spring must come to bring the flowers. IN THE MOUNTAINS, CAEIBOO, B. C. AN EPITAPH ON WILD BILL. 117 AN EPITAPH ON WILD BILL. The following epitaph on J. B. Hickock(Wi1d Bill) was written while sitting on his grave, near Deadwood, on the 10th of September, 1876. SLEEP on, brave heart, in peaceful slumber, Bravest scout in all the West ; Lightning eyes and voice of thunder, Closed and hushed in quiet rest. Peace and rest at last is given ; May we meet again in heaven. Best in peace. 118 THE POET SCOUT GRIZZLY JAKE. WE sat by the smoking camp-fire, On the eve of a summer s day ; There was Grizzly Jake, and Yankee Jim, And whole-soul d Pete McKay ; There was little Bessie and Annie Roe, And Flora, the pet of the train ; There were noble women and hardy men, Who had started across the plain. Old Grizzly Jake was our leader, And the bravest in all the train ; His home was among the mountains, His camp was the rolling plain ; But his heart bore a heavy burden, And his face wore wrinkles of care, But his eyes were as bright as the eagle s, Though frosted his once golden hair. He sat by my side this evening, On the trunk of a fallen tree, When Flora, our blue-eyed darling, Came over and sat on his knee. " Untie Jake," said the child, "I do love o And mamma said oo feel so bad, Taus oo hasn t no ittle F ora Is at why oo always feel sad?" Great drops stood in beads on his forehead, And tears rolled away from his eyes, As he answered : " My Jean and my Flora Are waiting for me in the skies. Yes, darling, I had a sweet Flora, And Jean was her mother my wife. Aye, dead ! Oh, God ! it was fearful 1 Cut down in the morning of life. GRIZZLY JAKE. 119 * And still but why should I think it My Flora may still be alive ; fet I saw in her breast the cold arrow. No, no ; she could never survive. No, child, it is too long a story, And perhaps it would cause you a fright. There, now, run away to your mamma." " Untie Jake, let me tiss oo dood-night." " Good-night, and God bless you, my angel 1 Oh, God !" said the old pioneer, " Thou only can know niy deep sorrow ; And, God ! Thou art all whom I fear. Nor hell, with its fury, can daunt me, And, death, I would welcome Ihee still ; But the fiends have not all departed, And one there is left, I must kill." The camp was as still as the night wind- Not a sound, save the stirring of leaves As the scout strolled oft to the river, And walked to and fro neath the trees, Until long after midnight, still walking, He saw (yet he seemed not to see) The head of a Sioux in the willows. " It was Flora who sent me," said he. He knew what was coming at daybreak, Nor feared, while yet dark, for his life ; For he knew they d not dare to attack him, Except with the arrow or knife ; So he kept out of range of such weapons, And carelessly walked to the train, Where he lay down, and spoke in a whisper, Lest fright and confusion might reign. And soon every man in the outfit Was piling up bacon and flour, Inside of the wheels of each wagon. The morning would dawn in an hour. 120 THE POET SCOUT. The relief for the three-o clock herder Went out with his orders O. K. Said Jake: "Round your cattle up slowly ; We ll corral them at break of day." Every woman and child was still sleeping, And all were prepared for the fight, When our pet of the train, little Flora, Awoke from a dream, in a fright ; And, seeing old Jake with his rifle, She whispered these words in his ear : "Untie Jake, while asleep, I was d earning Dat oo ittle F ora was here." " God bless you !" again said Old Grizzly, And he whispered these words in her ear : " Keep low till I come again, darling ; I believe that my angels are here." " Twenty men," said the old man of sixty, " Fleet-footed, with nerves that are steel, Follow me, while the morning is darkest. Good angels are with us, I feel. " And you who remain with your sweethearts, And you who must fight for your wives, Be guided by me, I entreat you, And we will not lose precious lives ; And, men, when you bring up your rifles- Don t mind though these devils may yell ; It is only a ruse to stampede you Just look through your sights, and look well. " Don t fire till within twenty paces By that time each face you can see. They believe all are sleeping ; and, comrades, Just aim twixt the shoulder and knee, While we strike for their rear in the sage-brush. No fear by the time we are seen, You will have struck for the living, And I for my Flora and Jean. BIRDS OF THE HUDSON BAY. 121 Uncle Jake and his twenty departed. Not a man, not a woman or child But believed in his grit and his goodness ; And the pet of the train sweetly smiled, As she whispered, "He s dust ike the Sav or ; And, mamma, 1 ain t dot no fear, Taus Dod sent his F ora his angel To tell him bad Ingins were here. *###** On the field there are fifty GOOD Indians, And all looking peaceful and bland. Perhaps they have gone to be angels, Perhaps they have gone to be d d; And perhaps Grizzly Jake will recover, And look on his angel and queen, For Flora is smoothing his ringlets, And bathing his temple his Jean. BIRDS OF THE HUDSON BAY. EVEEY day when I open the door Of my little cabin, I see before Two little birds a happy pair, Sitting, and cooing, and twittering there- Sitting and waiting, perched on a bough, And never afraid of me somehow Waiting to see the door open wide ; Then in a moment, close to my side, They come and chirrup, but never sing- Chirrup for crumbs, waiting for spring Spring that will come, melting the snow, Then my pets will leave me* and go Off to the meadows, happy and gay, Beautiful birds of the Hudson Bay. * Hudson Bay birds (natives of British Columbia). 122 THE POET SCOUT. MY IDEAS. While in Barkerville, B. C., a certain California expert condemned the quartz, and said we had no ledges; in answer to which I wrote the following verses : BARKER, I love thy rustic hills, I love thy streams and bowers ; I ve lingered near thy rippling rills, And gathered sweetest flowers ; And down thy wondrous valleys, And up each snow-clad peak, I ve wandered where the roses Of nature s grandeur speak. Oh, where in God s creation, Can we poor people go, And find a better prospect Than these our croppings show ? And tell me, oh, ye experts, From whence the millions came, That rolled out in the sluices, Since Barker got its name ? And if there are no ledges In this little world of ours, Go cast aside your sledges, And pluck your budding flowers. Go draw your stakes and burn them, And cache your mining tools, And tell the whole creation That you re a set of fools. And then, when you have vanished, Some kid-gloved millionaire Will step into your country, And call it wondrous fair. And ere your hair is silvered, The news will come to you : " The world has nothing richer Than the mines of Cariboo." THE PEOSPECTOK S SOLILOQUY. 123 THE PKOSPECTOE S SOLILOQUY. While sitting one day at one of our mining claims in the Black Range of New Mexico, discussing the propriety of sinking a shaft, my paid, Jim Biain, Detter known as "Apache Jim," arose, and, striking a tragic attitude, cried out: "To sink, or not to sink ? that s the question. This incident suggested the following : To sink or not to sink ? That is the question ; Whether tis fitter in the prospector to sell The highly metalliferous croppings for a song, Or, using muscle, to dig down, And thus, by perseverance, strike it rich. To work, to sink, and by that sinking strike a lead Of gold or silver, or finest copper glance That luck is heir to. Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To sink, to blast ; To blast, perchance to bu st aye ! there s the rub, For at a shallow depth what base may come When we have shovelled off th uncertain top Must give us pause. There s the respect Which makes calamity of a prospect-hole ; For who can tell what pinch may come below The argentiferous stuff component parts of lead, The metalliferous decomposed conglomerate Eruption of nature, all broken up ; perchance The insolence of luckier pards, and. then The chance the miner takes by sinking shaft, While he himself might be much better off By simply waiting. What is t we would not do But that the dread of something yet unseen, The undiscovered pay-streak (perhaps not there), That makes us rather raise the monuments we have Than open up the ground \ve know not of. Thus prospecting makes cowards of us all, And so the prospects of a big bonanza Are sicklied o er by some dark, cussed doubt, And speculators in a surface prize Do thus regard their interest, turn aside, And lose, perchance, a million ! THE POET SCOUT. THE MINEE S DEEAM XMAS EVE. To my Comrade and Brother, T. W. Keene. IT was Christmas eve, and the pale moon smiled Through the silvery clouds of gray ; The scene was grand in nature wild And stars shone bright as day ; And, all alone by his stony hearth, A miner, young and strong, Thinking of all he loved on earth, Sat, singing this little song : SONG AND CHOBUS. Dedicated to everyone who has Loved Ones far away. Dearest Annie, I am thinking, While the night winds whisper low, Of my loving wife and babies, And my heart is all aglow ; For I ve struck it in the gravel, And our home will soon be free ; So I write to tell you, darling, Kiss the little ones for me. Chorus. Kiss the little ones for papa ; Tell them, in their joy and glee, How I love our little darlings- Kiss the little ones for me. Tell our darlings it is twilight, While the shades of evening fall, And I m gazing on their shadows, On their baby faces small ; How I dwell upon each feature, Full of love and ecstasy, While I kiss our babies pictures Kiss the little ones for me. (jhorus. -XMAS EVE. 125 Tell the little ones I m coining, When they go to bed each night, As they whisper, " God bless papa 1" With their baby faces bright. I have written to the banker You have waited patiently ; While I dream of home, my Annie, Kiss the little ones for me. Gh or us. The tears rolled down his swarthy cheek, And the heart that knew no fear Beat faster as he heard her speak Or, rather, seemed to hear His Annie s voice, so low and sweet, In answer to his lay : "Dear Harry, we again shall meet, While love is in its May." "Oh, happy dream ! K dream it be I ll lay me here till dawn, And close my eyes, that I may see This happy scene go on." And while the glowing embers died Upon the stony hearth, He wandered back to Annie s side, The spot most dear on earth. He dreamed that all was gloomy there At twilight Christmas eve The children cold, the larder bare, And no one to relieve. And, listening through a broken glass, He heard his dear wife say : "Don t cry, my darlings yet, alas ! To-morrow s Christmas day !" Oh, how his manly bosom heaved His face was all aglow ; 126 THE POET SCOUT. "My darlings soon shall be relieved. I ll go right in but, no ! Old Santa Glaus shall play his part ; I ll dress him to his eyes, And fill each little saddened heart With joy and sweet surprise." And as the rays of morning light Were peeping o er the hill, Old Santa Glaus, with hair snow-white, Sat down on the window-sill, , Weary and loaded with precious freight From his back to the cutter-sled. "Ha, ha !" he laughed, "I m not too late They re just getting out of bed." The children s tongues were loose again, And their eyes were opened wide ; The rags were gone from the broken pane, And three stockings hung inside. The largest stocking was long and red, And lettered with gold and bright ; "This is for little Jack," it said, While little May s was white ; And the third for Annie, the faithful wife. "Oh, mamma, mamma dear!" Said Jack, while showing a pearly knife, " Old Santa Glaus was here !" "And, mamma," said little May, whose eyes Were beaming with delight, " Dod heard our prayers np in a sties, Tos we prayed so hard las night. "Yes, darlings, God has heard your prayers, And smiled behind the frown." Old Santa Glaus had climbed up-stairs, And now came tumbling down ; And such a sight was never seen By mortal eyes before, THE MINER S DREAM XMAS EVE. 127 While Santa Clans, the miner king, With good things strewed the floor. Then quick he threw aside his staff, The white beard from his face, While mid a storm of cry and laugh, And three in one embrace, The happy miner said that day He never more would roam ; And thus, two thousand miles away, He spent his Christmas home. ***** " Ccnsarn my picter ! Harry, lad ; Laws-ee ! yer ain t up yet? Why, boy, what makes yer look so sad ? Thar s somethiu wrong, I ll bet ; Corral me if yer don t look sick ! Wa al, pshaw ! I ll jest prescribe Thar s hur letter, long and thick That s why I tuck this ride. "I ll bet two beaver-skins agin A starved coyotte s pelt, And all the ore on Jennie Lynn That s worth a darn to smelt, As that s a daisy Christmas-box To drive away the blues. So, Harry lad, let this old fox Go off and take a snooze." Hold on, old pard ! this is, indeed, A Christmas-box for me The medicine I sorely need I ll share it, pard, with thee. From Annie, way back in the East ; My fears were all absurd. To-day they ll have a glorious feast The banker s kept his word. POBT CBAIO, NEW MEXICO. 128 THE POET SCOUT. "OUR NUGGET." MAY CODY CEAWFORD. SOME call her blue eyes, And some call her pet, Violet and sunshine, And sweet mignonette ; Golden hair, blue bird, And sweet little love, But I call her May flower, My little white dove. Chorus. May flower, May flower, Budding in beauty and love, Daffodil dimples and daisies, I call her my little white dove. Eyes like her mother s, And lips like a peach ; Cheeks like two apples That s just out of reach ; Ears like bright amber, With gold hair above, My own little May flower, My little white dove. Chorus. God bless our darling And keep her alway, Guide her through flow rets On each coming May. Teach her to love us, As much as we love Rosy cheeks, blue eyes, Our little white dove. Chorus. 130 THE POET SCOUT. BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. To Buffalo Bill. The following verses on the life and death of poor old Buffalo Chips arc founded entirely on facts. His death occurred on September 8th, 1876, at Slim Buttes. He was within three feet of me when he fell, uttering the words credited to him below. THE evenin sun war settin , droppin slowly in the west, An the soldiers, tired an tuckered, in the camp would find, that rest "Which the settin sun would bring em, for they marched since break o day Not a bite to eat cept horses as war killed upon the way ; For, ye see, our beans an crackers, an our pork war outen sight, An the boys expected rashuns when they struck our camp that night ; For a little band had started for to bring some cattle on, An they struck an Indian village, which they captured jist at dawn. Wall, I war with that party when we captured them ar Sioux, An we quickly sent a courier to tell old Crook the news. Old Crook ! I should say Gener l, cos he war with the boys Shared his only hard-tack, our sorrows and our joys ; An thar is one thing sartin he never put on style. He d greet the scout or soldier with a social kinder smile, An that s the kind o soldier as the prairy likes to get, An every man would trump death s ace for Crook or Miles, you bet. But I m kinder off the racket, cos these Generis gets enough O praise ithout my chippin , so I ll let up on that puff ; For I want ter tell a story bout a mate of mine as fell, Cos I loved the honest fellar, an he did his dooty well ; Buffalo Chips we call d him, but his other name war White ; I ll tell ye how he got that name, an reckon I am right. You see, a lot of big-bugs an officers came out One time to hunt th buffaler, an fish for speckled trout. Wall, little Phil ye ve heerd on him, a dainty little cuss As rode his charger twenty miles to stop a little muss. Well, Phil, he said ter Jonathm, whose other name war White ; " You go an find them buffaler, an see you get em right." BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 131 So White he went an found em, an he found em cecli a band As he sed would set em crazy, an little Phil looked bland ; But when the outfit halted, one bull was all war there, Then Phil he call him " Buffalo Chips," an swore a little sware. Wall, White he kinder liked it, cos the Gener l called him Chips, An he us ter wear two shooters in a belt above his hips. Then he said : " Now, look ye. Gerier l, since ye ve called me that ar name, Jist around them little sand-hills is yer dog-gone pesky game." But when the hunt war over, an the table spread for lunch, The Gener l called for glasses, an wanted his in punch ; An when the punch was punished, the Gener l smacked his lips, While squar upon the table sot a dish o Buffalo Chips. The Gener l looked confounded, an he also looked for White, But Jonathin he reckon d it war better he should lite ; So he skinned across the prairy, cos, ye see, he didn t mind A chippiri any longer while the Gener l saw the blind, Fur the Gener l would a-raised him, if he d jist held up his hand, But he thought he wouldn t see him,, cos he didn t hev the sand, An he rode as fast aye, faster, than the Gener l did that day, Like lightin down from Winchester, some twenty miles away. Wall, White he had no cabin, an no home ter call his own, So Buffaler Bill he took him an shared with him his home. An how he loved Bill Cody ! By gosh ! it war a sight Ter see him watch his shadder an foller him at night, Cos Bill war kinder hated by a cussed gang o thieves As carried pistols in thar belts an bowies in thar sleeves ; An Chips he never left him for fear he d get a pill, Nor would he think it moughty hard to die for Buffalo Bill. We us ter mess together that ar Chips an Bill an me ; An ye oughter watch his movements ; it would do ye good ter see How he us ter cook them wittles, an gather lots o greens To mix up with the juicy pork, an them unruly beans. An one cold, chilly mornin he bought a lot o corn, An a little nask o likker, as cost fifty cents a horn. Tho forty yards war nowhar, it war finished soon, ye bet ; But, friends, I promised some one, and I m strong teetotal yet. 132 THE POET SCOUT. It war twenty-fourth o August, in the last Centennial year, We bid farewell to Cody an gave a hearty cheer ; An Chips said, lookin after : * I may never see him more, Nor meet him in his cabin as I us ter do of yore, Whar I us ter take his babies an buy each one a toy, An play with them ar younkers jist like a great big boy." An when the cold lead struck him " Jack, boy," said he, " you tell He stopped, then said : "Bless Cody, the babies all farewell." He s sleepin in the mountains, near a little runnin brook, Thar s not a soul to see him, cept the angels take a look, Or a butterfly may linger on his grave at early morn No mortal eye may see it till old Gabriel toots his horn ; For we laid him neath the foot trail that the Sioux might never know, As they d dig him up and scalp him if they had the slightest show ; An we marched two thousand footmen and horsemen o er his breast Without a stone to mark the spot, we left the scout to rest. An then I sent a telegraph and tol Bill he war dead ; I ll give in full his answer, an this war what he said : " Poor White, he war my truest friend. My wife and children, too, Have wept as if he war our own. An , Jack, I ask of you To write a little verse for us in mem ry o poor White." So that war Cody s telegraph, an that is why I write ; But laws ee ! my book-larnin ar shaky for a bard I can t jist do him justice, but Heaven holds his reward. TO JAMES G. FATE. MY FKIEND. DEAE friend, I have a word to say to you, Something to tell ; perhaps you never knew Half my distress, the shock of Fortune s frown, That bore me down to earth, and kept me down, Till you, with generous heart, made clear the way ; Gave hope where hope was dead a sunny ray CUSTER. 133 Dispersed the clouds that overhung my sky, And made my crutches to the four winds fly. Oh, sir, had I a heart of stone, Instead of flesh and blood, I d gladly own That you have made of me this very day A man, but in a different way From kicks and frowns (by which some men are made), By starting me a little up the grade. " Now help yourself /" I thank you from my heart For those last words, because they form a part Of this new life and make my bosom thrill A beacon light to guide me up life s hill. Once there, upon the summit of its brow, My heart will speak as it is speaking now ; From out its greatest depths will breathe a name That made me in my joy forget that I was lame. Then Heaven helping every act of mine Will prove my gratefulness for one of thine. So let me live that you may proudly say, I was his friend in need, and am to-day. SAN FBANCISCO, September, 1879. CUSTEE. To General Wesley Merrill, Ouster 1 s Friend and Comrade. "No spot onihe American Continent," says Major Newsom, in his "Black Hills Sketches," is "so grand and beautiful as Custer. Lying peacefully in a basin, French Creek winding through it, and the ground gently ascending even to the apex of Harney s Peak, the scene is lovely beyond description. In front of the city a high mountain rears its head; just outside of the line of houses a bluff surrounds the place in a semicircle, and from this bluff no grander view ever fell upon the vision of man. Talk about scenery in Europe ! It is tame in com parison with that about Custer. Gazing out from this po nt no sight could be more enchanting. Here at our feet is the city, so clean and regular. Yonder is an undulating plain, as charming as the graceful figure of a woman ; on our left winds the road ; on our right, swelling knolls, hillocks, valleys, and just beyond, grand, natural avenues, three hundred feet wide, on either side of which are uplifts of rocks, and on the top of which are trees. Further on are parks, 134 THE POET SCOUT. grottos, rills, vales, streams, valleys, mountains, and every element necessary to make a most imposing scene. These avenues are lined with trees, and ihe small road which winds through them reminds one of the magnificent domain of an English lord rather than nature s handiwork. An artificial park of this charac ter would cost at least ten million dollars. THEKE S a spot in the woodland My heart longs to see, Where streamlets are dancing With laughter and glee ; Where the sweet daffodil And the daisies are seen, And the deer loves to sport On its mantle of green. Chorus. In the valley of Ouster, The park with its cluster Of little log cabins spread out on the green, Tis the valley of Ouster, Where oft we did muster, And drank to the brave from the soldier s canteen. Oh, the flower of that valley, Whose bright name it bears, . Now sleeps near the river, Away from life s cares. But still there s a spot Holds his mem ry most dear, The heart of each comrade Each brave pioneer. Chorus. The pine trees are sighing On hill-tops around ; We hear not his voice, Nor the sweet bugle sound. Our tears wet the sod On that terrible morn, When God called the roll On the " Little Big Horn." Chorus. GOOD-BY. 135 GOOD-BY. To one who had been very kind to me, and watched by my bed?ide night and day until convalescent, after a severe wound. GOOD-BY, my darling, since you must away To other scenes, and other hearts to greet you ; With me I could not longer ask you stay, Besides, my dear, I know not how to treat you. You and I have led a different life You among the best and most refined, While I afloat upon a sea of strife With vulgar men the roughest of mankind. And yet, this heart that beats alone for thee This heart that learned to love blue eyes so well Is just as tender as a child s could be, And you can make it heaven for rne ah ! well. Oh, darling, you can never know. God knows The feelings of a heart so nearly broken. And you, at times, as cold as mountain snows, With not one word of love one little token. If I, deep in my heart, could feel That you were mine and mine alone for life, That you would, trusting to my strong arms, steal, And some day let me call you little wife. Oh, God ! the thought most drives me mad, indeed ! And why ? Your actions merit not the thought, For now you re almost anxious to be freed E en from my sight and will I be forgot ? If so, then say the word. Do say You do not love me, for suspense is pain ; Tell me, darling, ere you go away, If I have loved my blue-eyed girl in vain ? If so, tis better, dear, for you and me Better if the truth to me you tell- Better, though it breaks one heart, that we Should meet no more but say a last farewell ! 136 THE POET SCOUT. THE FIRST THAT DIED. About eight o clock olie evening, in the winter of 1875, while I was washing the dishes after supper in my cabin, two travellers entered, hungry, weary, and foot sore. After preparing supper, and giving them a warm corner by the glowing log fire, they told the following story: The elder man, John A. Byers, for merly captain of a company in a Maryland regiment, started from Sioux City for 1he Hills, and was joined next day by his companion, Charley, a boy about eighteen years of age. They had travelled five hundred miles, carrying their pro visions and blankets, and after escaping a hundred dangers reached Caster City almost exhausted. They stayed at my cabin for nearly a week, when By ers went to Dead wood. Charley remained and went to work building himself a shelter. In company with another boy th y dug a hole in the ground, about two feet and a half deep, and then carried poles on their shoulders with which they made a roof, making their dugout about three logs high all round. After cover ing the roof with boughs, they spaded about, two feet of clay on the top. Two nights after the roof broke through, killing Charley outright, and nearly killing his companion. The saddest point about this affecting incident was that no letters, papers, or even the slightest clew to his home or friends could be found ; all that, we knew was that he had walked all the way from Sioux City to the Black Hills to die and start a graveyard. On that day, while sitting on the green beside his demolished cabin, 1 wrote these lines: POOR Charley braved the wintry storms, And footed it all the way ; And now he is a bleeding corpse- He died at dawn to-day. His is the old, old story He saw bright prospects here ; He left his home, his friends and all Perhaps a mother dear. If so, God pity that mother, Perhaps alone and poor ; When some one breaks the blighting news Her heart will break, I m sure, To think she never, never more Will clasp him to her breast ; Among the peaks in Ouster Park Poor Charley now must rest. THOSE EYES. 137 Comrades here in the golden land Will drop a silent tear For those poor Charley left behind A sister or mother dear. Perhaps some blue-eyed little girl, With sunshine on her brow, Is down upon her bended knees And praying for him now. Down in the glade beside the brook Our boy shall sleep to-morrow ; His weary march of life is o er, Now free from care and sorrow. And while we think of home, and love, And better days in store, We humbly pray to Him above, And bow to Heaven once more. THOSE EYES Written in Cariboo, B. C., on looking at the photo of an old sweetheart. WE meet as strangers now. Those eyes Those dreamy eyes whose love-light shone On me like sunbeams from the skies, And gazed so fondly in mine own, No more have warmth, love, light, no more For me, as in the days of yore. Those witching eyes of heavenly blue, Beneath long silken lashes dreaming, While far from her in Cariboo I oft have tried to solve their meaning ; While something whispers as I sigh Old boy, those flames were all a lie. 138 THE POET SCOUT. THE PICNIC BY THE BKOOK. SONG AND DANCE. Written for Miss Nellie MtHenry, of Saulsbury* s Troubadours. I HAVE wandered o er the prairie When the roses were in bloom ; I have listened to the streamlets In the cheery month of June ; While the mocking-birds were singing I have listened in the dell, But nothing ever cheered me Like the voice of little Nell. Chorus. For she s sweeter than the lilies by the brook, And her voice is like the streamlets in the dell ; It echoes back from every little nook, And the stars are not so bright as little Nell. By the brook she sang so sweetly That my heart was all aglow, And then she danced so neatly, With her light fantastic toe, Can you wonder I was captured ? But I fear it s wrong to tell How I enjoyed that picnic By the brook with little Nell. Chorus. She s as pretty as a picture, And her heart is full of glee, And how my heart was beating When she looked and smiled on me. But, indeed, I ll never whisper How in love with her I fell ; For I hear she s got a lover, This bewitching little Nell. Chorus. AFTER TAPS. 139 Yet, no matter where I wander, Over prairie, land or sea, The rippling of the waters Will repeat her songs to me. Tho she leaves for far Australia, I shall always wish her well Good-by to brookside picnics And the voice of little Nell. Chorus. AFTER TAPS. DEAE comrades, Grant is laid away, Our chief has gone to rest ; What matter where they plant his clay, To you who loved him best ? And since the North and South combine, Twas all he asked from you, Though after taps his deeds will shine Till Gabriel sounds tattoo. And how your thoughts went back again To days of long ago, When near him, at the battle s front, With loyal hearts aglow. And as you marched behind his bier From morn till set of sun, You thought he must be very near To Abe and Washington. And Lee was there to greet him, too, And say, " Friend Grant, just see, The sunny South has sent Fitz-Hugh To say a word for me." There s Gordon too, and Little Phil ; There s Sherman, Buck, and Joe, And Stonewall says tis Heaven s will There s peace and love below. 140 THE POET SCOUT. KIT CAKSON. (Adios, Companero.) ADIOS, dear old hero, in peace may you slumber, Adown near the banks of the old Bio Grande ; We think of thy daring with awe and with wonder, As near to thy tomb now uncovered we stand. A rude, simple tablet, a plain slab of marble, Is all that your comrades have placed o er your grave. Sleep on, loyal heart, while the wild song-birds warble An anthem of praise to the deeds of the brave. The veil of the future thy brave soul hath riven To drink in the sweetest celestial joys ; In advance thou has taken the trail up to heaven To locate a camp for the rest of the boys. TO CHARLEY. 141 TO CHARLEY. MY DEAR OLD PARD. LONELY to-night in my little log cabin, I am thinking of you and the days long ago, When together we sat on the peak of old Harney, Drinking the grandeur of nature below. True, it was grand, and well I remember The rapture that beamed in your bright sunny eyes As you looked through the glass tow rd the valley of Custer, With her thousands of peaks towering up to the skies. Then did we picture the great Eastern cities, Comparing the grandeur of nature and art, While you said no art can compare with this picture ; And I acquiesced from the depths of my heart ; For e en when a boy I loved the wild mountains, The green, flowery valleys, the laughter of rills ; And often in fancy and dreamland I wander Back to my boyhood among the wild hills. My comrades, the brave pioneers of the mountains, Loved their young chieftain, and I loved him too ; The reason was fully explained at your cabin, The day that I borrowed that bronco* from you. And when we returned from the chase the next morning, Your welcoming shout and your honest embrace Was more to me then than the laurels of glory, Won by the proudest of all Adam s race. * Charley W. was the special correspondent of the Kansas City Times for the Black Hills. When Charley first made my acquaintance I was sitting astride of a half-cut log on my half-built cabin We had many hunts together, and on one occasion the Indians got our whole camp outfit, together with my saddle, field- glasses, and my saddle bags, containing my scrap-book, which contained copies of scraps I had saved for over six years. One morning the Indiana ran off with sixteen head of horses, and my white charger among the rest. I rushed down to Charley s tent, aud he gave me his bronco to go after the reds. Twelve of our boys starred, and we returned next day with eight of the stolen horses, which the Indians were forced to drop. 142 THE POET SCOUT. Oh, what a life away from temptation Away from the snares of life s busy throng, Singing in chorus those odes of the woodland In notes that were tuned by the mocking-bird s song. In ignorant bliss, and oh, how much better Than knowledge that s only acquired to deceive, By hypocrites robbing the widow and orphan, And crimes that are almost too vile to believe. And yet how I yearned for the knowledge you gave me, For you were the first who had taken my hand You were the first to encourage me onward, And picture my future in language most grand ; And since then my verses, the fruit of my nature, These unpolished roughs, the impulse of my heart, Have found some admirers e en among critics Well versed in literature, science and art. Thus while the bright star of hope is before me I still shall continue to work with a will ; Determined to scale all the heights of misfortune, And slowly creep over adversity s hill. Then, my dear friend, when the height of ambition Is mine and way up on the summit I stand I shall think of the comrade who first gave me courage Who gave me new life and a brother s right hand. IN THE MOUNTAINS, February 28, 1879. ODE TO CAKIBOO FKIENDS. AT last I must leave you, dear home in the mountains, At last say farewell to your dear Cariboo ! No longer to sip from its bright pearly fountains The cool draught of water distilled from the dew. Oh, Barker, fair village, adown by the brook-side, Where millions have sprang from thy watery breast, Fear not for thy future, fair queen of the mountains, For millions and millions are still neath each crest. 143 I feel it, believe it, God knows I speak truly, And would that some others might speak as they believe ; But when experts grow zealous, Oh, Lord, how unruly ! And in their excitement don t care to deceive. But Time is a worker much better than experts, Though slowly, yet surely, he makes all things right ; And so when some experts are dead and forgotten, Your dear Cariboo will be prosperous and bright. Farewell, dear old comrades, you old Forty-niners, God bless you, dear boys, till I meet you again ! Which will be ere the snowflakes have covered your cabins, So sure as the sunshine which follows the rain. Leave you forever ? How could you believe it Leave all the home I have got in this world ? No ! and returning I never will leave it Till justice is done and the truth is unfurled. BAEKEEVILLE, B. C. OUR "JACK." IN MEMOBIAM. Lines written on the death of John Bilsland, who was killed by a slide of snow while attempting to get it off the shaft-house on Burns s Creek, Cariboo, March 13th, 1879. AND still they go, the very beat, Cut down in their youth and bloom. There s something amiss in this region of ours, I reckon we must have offended the powers, For the Lord is culling our favorite flowers, And another is laid in the tomb ; Another is laid neath the sod to rest Killed before life had its noon. I have seen, sometimes, on the battle field, The pride of our company fall, But I never felt as I did that day "When they told me that Jack had passed away 144 THE POET SCOUT. Jack, who was always happy and gay, And one who would spend his all. Prospecting deep, taking chances of yield, He would stand with his boys or fall. Escaping the perils of land and sea, Unharmed for many a year, And standing now by the shaft house door, As oft he stood in the days of yore ; Then up the ladder, on roof once more, A man who knew no fear. Then down with the cruel snow went he No friend, no comrade near. A good yet peculiar man was Jack, And a thoroughbred mountaineer ; No matter what hurt, he would never squeal His name was honor, and true as steel And his comrades say he could build a wheel You could turn with a single tear ; You smile but I reckon I m on the track, Which to look at his work would appear. One characteristic I want to note, Though he had no child of his own, How the children all to Jack would come And say : " Uncle Jat, has oou dot some dum ? " No, but you bet I ll get you some." And his eyes with rapture shone, And voice like a chime of bells afloat, With music in each tone. The best mechanic without a doubt (And I believe I can see it now), Perhaps they have struck it rich up there ; And hunting in vain, they could not scare A man who could build a wheel to compare With Jack. So, to show them how, The angel of death put his light right out, And I reckon he s there with them now. UNDER THE SOD. 145 All I can say, I must wish him well, If he s taken some heavenly stock, For a prospect there on the heavenly shore Js better than millions of gold in store. And they say there are chances for millions more, Who can find (if they try) the bed rock That rock of ages, which yields so well, And Christ is the key to the lock. UNDER THE SOD. TO JOHN P. Lines on ihe Death of Edwin L. Jones. UNDER the sod he is sleeping to-day, Close by the sea-girdled shore ; Under the sod and the dew and the clay, We can look on his face nevermore. Jovial, kind-hearted, good-natured and free In peace let him sleep neath the shade of the tree In the land that he loved. Under the sod they have laid him to rest, The lover of right and the hater of wrong ; As honest a man as ever God blest, His love for a friend everlasting and strong. And if for the wise and the good there is rest, Then Edwin is surely at home with the blest, For the heavenly gates were ajar. Under the sod near the murmuring sea, So far from the home of his childhood ; So far from the cabin and old mountain tree, Where he sported with Sam in the wildwocd. His trials are over, his good deeds are done, His battles are fought and the victory is won, And Edwin has gone to his God. 146 THE POET SCOUT. THE OLD MINER. To the Boys of Cariboo. I s a miner, I ar t an a good un. It s nigh onto forty year Since first I landed at Frisco, A youngster with lots o good cheer ; I waltzed right inter the placer, An struck it you bet yer boots. But I dropped it a-buckin the tiger, Along with some other galoots. But that didn t dampen my ardor. Ye see I war hearty an strong, An I know d by exertin my muscle, I d fetch it agin afore long ; So back to the diggin s I travelled, But somehow about that time There war heaps of the boys sick with fever, While I took ague in mine. Wall, I thinned right down to a wafer, My clothes war too big for my chest, I could made a respectable great-coat By jist tuckin sleeves in my vest ; But the diggin s war very onhealthy, An so for a permanent cure I struck for high ground on the mountains For pastures not greener, but newer. Now here s where I thought that I struck it, This time it war quartz as I found, An so I kept pokin an gaddin Till one day a stranger come round. An told me as how he war huntin A permanent place to reside ; An so I sez, " Here ar my fortin, And plenty for you, pard, beside." MY OWN MOUNTAIN JTREE. 147 He stayed with me two weeks, then wilted ; Said he, pard, I ve bin thar afore ; It tain t no use workin for nothin , An for grub we war nigh run ashore ; So he left me ; an bout a week after . Another come joggin along, With plenty o grub. So I sold out ; He bought me for well, just a song. Now I never did swar, Hain t my iiater, But, Lord ! when I heerd o their game, I reckin the air smelt o brimstone Wall, swarin ar too mild a name. This rooster (who d bin thar afore, mind) War an expert from Frisco, ye see ; So he skinned out, and sent his stool pigeon To work that bonanza for me. Since then I ve been down on these experts, Like him as has been here with you ; He comad like the rest do from Frisco, An hark ye condemned Cariboo. Now, pards, I s an old veteran miner, My ha rs have grown gray in the biz, Don t go a cent on this expert, My pinion 11 stand agin his. MY OWN MOUNTAIN TREE. Written on the back of a photograph, under a palm tree, in Los Angeles, California. UNDER a palm tree reclining, Away from the turmoil and strife, The sun in his glory is shining- All nature seems grafted with life ; The birds sing as sweetly above me, So happy are they in their glee ; But give me the dear friends who love me, And birds on my own mountain tree. 148 THE POET SCOUT. MOTHER S PRAYERS. Ix the dreary hours of midnight, When the camp s asleep and still, Not a sound, save rippling streamlets, Or the voice of the whippoorwill, Then I think of dear, loved faces, As I steal around my beat Think of other scenes and places, And a mother s voice so sweet. Mother, who, in days of childhood, Prayed as only mothers pray : Guard his footsteps in the wild wood, Let him not be led astray ; And when dangers hovered o er me, When my life was full of cares, Then a sweet form passed before me, And I thought of mother s prayers. Mother s prayers ! Ah ! sacred memory, I can hear her sweet voice now, As, upon her death-bed lying, With her hand upon my brow, Calling on a Saviour s blessing, Ere she climbed the Golden Stairs. There s a sting in all transgressing, When I think of mother s prayers. And I made her one dear promise- Thank the Lord, I ve kept it, too ; Yes, I promised God and mother To the pledge I would be true. Though a hundred times the tempter Every day throws out his snares, I can boldly answer, "No, sir ! " When I think of mother s prayers. 150 THE POET SCOUT. And while here, I tell the story Why my boyhood s days were sad ; Is there not some one before me Who will make a mother glad? Swell her heart with fond emotion- Drive away life s bitter cares ; Sign and keep the pledge for mother Heed thy mother s earnest prayers. There is no one on the prairie Who must say it more than I No I never drink. I thank you, 1 can never take your rye ; And there s not in many hundreds Not a man who ever dares Ask me drink when I have told him How I thought of mother s prayers. Oh, my brother, do not drink it, Think of all your mother said ; While upon her death-bed laying, Or perhaps she is not dead ; Don t you kill her, then, I pray you, She has got enough of cares. Sign the pledge, and God will help you, If you think of mother s prayers. "COHPOKAL BILL." A CAMP in the mountains. The pine-knot fire Drove the gloomy shadows up higher and higher, Till trees, and rocks, and the purling stream, And the sun-tanned faces were all agleam With the ruddy glow of the dancing light, That shone like a gem in a setting of night. Around the fire sat a picturesque group A small detail from a cavalry troop : "COKPOKAL BILL." 151 Bronzed old soldiers, who knew no fear, Who had served as vets on that wild frontier ; Who were used to the fray and the night alarms From painted demons, who came in swarms. Near by their horses were cropping the grass That grew up wild in the mountain pass, And near to the saddle-pillowed head Of each grass-cushioned, blanketed bed Lay carbines and pistols, near at hand, In easy reach of the scouting band, If the picket, who up on a cliff laid low, Should give the alarm of a coming foe. Around the carnp fire the warrior throng Enlivened the hours with story and song, And merry laughter, borne out on the breeze, Went rippling, echoing up through the trees. Hark ! The sound of a horse s hoofs were heard Coming up the gulch like a fleeting bird, And the soldiers grasped their arms, and stood With eager eyes peering into the wood. From the sombre shadows came dashing out A steaming horse and a buckskinned scout. A scout from the fort ! The blue-clad men Laid down their trusty rifles again, And stood and waited with eager ear The news from the busy world to hear. The scout dismounted, and, bowing his head, But four words whispered " Boys, Grant is dead !" There were trembling lips and pain-marked eyes, And tears, and mutterings of surprise, But not a word was spoken until, In a trembling voice, old Corporal Bill Cried out, "Jack, boy, don t say it is true ! Don t say it is taps it may be tattoo ! Maybe he is waiting for orders to go But tell us oh, tell us it is not so ! Grant dead ! Oh, no come, come, old Jack, Jes say it s a joke, an take it back 1 152 THE POET SCOUT. Yes, please do, comrade - jes crack a smile, An tell us you ve galloped many a mile To have a little fun with the boys, An check fur a while their camp-fire joys ; Do this, ol pard, an we ll laugh an sing Till the echo comes back with a merry ring ! Too true? Ah ! yes ; I know by yer look It s as true as the word in the holy book, An it cuts my heart like a knife ! Why, men, I ve fought under Grant again an again ; My ol commander, back in the days When the South with the flames o war was ablaze. I ve followed him over many a field Whar smoke-blackened columns quivered an reeled With the dreadful shock of an iron hail That would make the face of the stoutest pale ! I have followed him through the lead-blazed wood Whar the leaves war speckled with hero blood, An out over many a battle plain Whar the ground war heaped with the warriors slain 3 An the piercin rays o the sun \var broke An held in check bj T the clouds o smoke That poured from many an iron throat, An hung overhead, an seemed to gloat, Like black-faced demons, from realms of woe, O er the fearful carnage an death below ! The upturned faces, in death so pale ! f he dreadful song o the leaden hail ! The quivering, mutilated flesh ! The piercin yells o the mad secesh ! The shriekin , howlin , screamin shell ! Why, men, it must a-looked like hell, With a million devils, in impish glee, Turned loose on a holiday jamboree ! An right on the field, ridin here an there, His horse a-sweatin from every hair, Rode Grant, as cool as a drippin spring, His keen eye watchin the front an wing, THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON. 153 A cigar half smoked in his teeth, his face Bearin stern resolution in every trace. Wharever he rode the men would cheer, Fur it nerved em to feel that he war near, Fur they all knowed Grant, an loved him, too, An the general loved his boys in blue. An now he is dead ! The grand ol* chief Has resigned his post to the last relief, An it chokes me up fur to think that he Should be taken, an such ol cusses as me Are left, sort o useless, here below, In the land that loved the general so, . Well, pards, it war God as took him away He musters the blue an He musters the gray An I reckon He needed that warrior grim To serve as aid on the staff with Him An , comrades, who knows, in that better land, But God may give him his old command ? THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON. Dedicated to Corporal James Tanner. HOLD on ! Hold on ! My goodness, you take my breath, my son,. A-firin questions at me, like shots from a Gatlin gun Why do I wear this eagle an flag an brazen star. An why do my old eyes glisten when somebody mentions war? An why do I call men " comrade," an why do my eyes grow bright, When you hear me tell your grandma I m goin to post to-night? Come here, you inquisitive rascal, an set on your grandpa s knee. An I ll try an answer the broadsides you ve been a-firin at me. Away back there in the sixties, and long afore you were born, The news come a-nashin to us, one bright an sunny morn, 154 THE POET SCOUT. That some of our Southern brothers, a-thinkin , no doubt, twar right, Had trailed their guns on our banner, an opened a nasty fight. The great big guns war a-boomin , an the shot flyin thick and fast, An troops all over the southland war rapidly bein massed, An a thrill went through the nation, a fear that our glorious land Might be split an divided an ruined by mistaken brothers hand. Lord ! but wa n t there excitement, an didn t the boys eyes flash ? An didn t we curse our brothers fur bein so foolish an rash ? An didn t we raise the neighbors with loud an continued cheers, When Abe sent out a dockyment a-callin fur volunteers? An didn t we flock to the colors when the drums began to beat, An didn t we march with proud step along this village street ? An didn t the people cheer us when we got aboard the cars, With the flag a-wavin o er us, and went away to the wars? I ll never forgit your grandma as she stood outside o the train, Her face as white as a snowdrift, her tears a-fallin like rain She stood there quiet an deathlike, mid all o the rush an noise, Fur the war war a takin from her her husband an three brave boys Bill, Charley, and little Tommy just turned eighteen, but as true .An gallant a little soldier as ever wore the blue. It seemed almost like murder for to tear her poor heart so, But your granddad couldn t stay, baby, an the boys war determined to go. The evenin afore we started she called the boys to her side, An told em as how they war always their mother s joy an pride, An though her soul was in torture, an her poor heart bleedin an sore, An though she needed her darlings, their country needed em more. She told em to do their duty wherever their feet might roam, An to never forgit in battle their mother war prayin at home, An if (an the tears nigh choked her) they should fall in front o the foe, She d go to her blessed Saviour an ax Him to lighten the blow. Bill lays an awaits the summons neath Spottsylvania s sod, An on the field of Antietam Charley s spirit went back to God ; An Tommy, our baby Tommy, we buried one starlit night Along with his fallen comrades, just after the Wilderness fight. The lightnin struck our family tree, an stripped it of every limb, A-leavin only this bare old trunk, a-standin alone an grim. THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON. 155 My boy, that s why your grandma, when you kneel to the God you love, Makes you ax Him to watch your uncles, an make em happy above. That s why you sometimes see her with tear-drops in her eyes ; That s why you sometimes catch her a-tryin to hide her sighs ; That s why at our great reunions she looks so solemn an sad ; That s why her heart seems a-breakin when the boys are so jolly an glad ; That s why you sometimes find her in the bedroom overhead, Down on her knees a-prayin , with their pictures laid out on the bed ; That s why the old-time brightness will light up her face no more, Till she meets her hero warriors in the camp on the other shore. An when the great war was over, back came the veterans true, With not one star a-missin from that azure field of blue ; An the boys who on field o battle had stood the fiery test Formed posts o the great Grand Army in the North, South, East, an the West. Fraternity, Charity, Loyalty, is the motto neath which they train Their object to care for the helpless, an banish sorrow an pain From the homes o the widows an orphans o the boys who have gone before, To answer their names at roll-call in that great Grand Army Corps. An that s why we wear these badges, the eagle an flag an star, Worn only by veteran heroes who fought in that bloody war ; An that s why my old eyes glisten while talkin about the fray, An that s why I call men " comrade " when I meet em every day ; An that s why I tell your grandma, "I m goin to post to-night," For there s where I meet the old boys who stood with me in the fight, And, my child, that s why I ve taught you to love an revere the men Who come here a-wearin badges to fight those battles again. They are the gallant heroes who stood mid the shot an shell, An follered the flyin colors right into the mouth o hell They are the men whose valor saved the land from disgrace an shame, An lifted her back in triumph to her perch on the dome o fame ; An as long as you live, my darling, till your pale lips in death are mute, When you see that badge on a bosom, take off your hat an salute ; An if any ol vet should halt you, an question why you do, Just tell him you ve got a right to, fur your granddad s a comrade too. 156 THE POET SCOUT. LILLIE. 41 Last evening, at the Bush Street Theatre, a beautiful incident occuired, not down on the bills, however, yet which was highly appreciated by the large audience present. It is well kuown that Captain Jack Crawford, the hardy mountaineer, scout, poet, and actor, has an especial predilection for children, and he is in the zenith of his joy when he has a bevy of them around him, spinning his extravagant stories, and otherwise amusing them. Last evening the captain was sitting in the orchestra circle, when he was espied by a four-year-old flaxen- haired beauty across the theatre. Quick as thought she left her mother s side. ran clear around the circle, and without the sligh-est ceremony seated herself on the captain s lap, not only to his surprise, but, from appearances, to his delight, for he entertained the little waif the balance of the evening. The incident was a very pleasing one." San Francisco FootligH. SHE left her loving mother s side And climbed upon my knee A lovely little blue-eyed child, Who spoke her love for me. I gazed upon the throng around, On fashion s daughters fair. But not one tress in all that throng Could match sweet Lillie s hair. God bless her ! Just a little while I held her to my breast ; Forgetting all life s cares at once, I waited her request. And then in whispers soft and low, And pointing over there, Said she, " My mamma told me once That oou had till d a bear." I never saw the play not I Indeed I did not care, For I was happy spinning yarns For little golden-hair ; And how her little blue eyes shone Each time a story ended, And how she almost shouted out, " Oh my, but dat was sp endid !" MY BIRTHDAY. 157 " Oh, dear ! and must we really do? I wish it wasn t out ; I feel so very dood, I wish dat I tood shout." Sweet angel ! you have brougnt me joy, And filled me with delight ; May angels guard you all through life God bless you, child, good-night ! MY BIRTHDAY. MY birthday ! yet twas accidental That I found it came to-day ; Lonely in my cabin musing, How the time does pass away Not a soul to wish me gladness, Not a friend to pull my ears ; While my heart is filled with sadness, Thinking of the passing years. Once I had an angel mother How she used to bring me joy ! . Birthdays one upon the other, I was still her favorite boy. But the angels took her from me Dead and gone these many years She who was my guardian angel In this thorny vale of tears. How she used to pray, " God bless him ! While the tear-drops filled her eyes, With a mother s tender pleading, Looking upward toward the skies. Oh, my mother ! if thy spirit Hovers near me while alone, Bless once more thy wayward offspring In this little cabin home. IN THE MOUNTAINS, CARIBOO, March 4. 158 THE POET SCOUT. (Taken from " Tic Tacs," by permission of Homer Lee Bank-Note Co.) LITTLE KEVILEE. I HAIN T much love fur an Injun, Take Injuns as they go, An for many a year on this wild frontier, I ve been their bitterest foe ; An I reckon as you uns know me, An I ain t much given to boast, But listen to me I wouldn t be Unjust to an Injun s ghost. So jest let up on that redskin, At least fur a minute or two, An I ll tell you why he ain t goin to die, If you b lieve w at I say is true. LITTLE REVILEE. 159 Let rne attend to his talkin , Fur you see he is off n the track, An I ll try to tell how he went through hell, With me but a kid on his back. Make no mistake ; I know him, But I reckon he don t know me Leastwise he don t know I m little Joe, As they called Little Revilee ; But, pards, can t you all remember, When only a little kid, Some kind word said by a friend now dead, That remains in your heart deep hid ? Wai, so it was with Scar Face That ugly one-eyed red, An you all kin bet I won t forget Till gratitude is dead. That uncouth face was handsome That morn in Fifty-three, When mother lay dead an father had fled From his Little Revilee. They had sent me fur ammunition, Just after the reds had struck Twas a desperate trip, but I had to skip- Fur a kid I had lots o 1 pluck ; An I lost no time in reachin The camp, ten miles away. But when I got back to our little shack I had a lone hand to play. Thar lay my father an mother, An as over their bodies I stood An Injun came an called me his game, But I made him w at we calls good. Then a dozen more came on me, An with mother s head on my knee, I fired my last shot then all was a blot To Little Revilee. 160 THE POET SCOUT. When I cum to myself an Injun War bathin my achin head, While all around, piled up on the ground, Laid the hostiles thick an dead, While the one with me war a-bleedin , His face hacked up with knives . In the dreadful strife he had saved my life At the cost o a dozen lives. Now, I hain t much love fur an Injun, Take Injuns as they go ; But angels fell to a place called hell, An thar s angels here below. An look ye, boys, that s the Injun As kept the red niggers from me, An you hear me toot, if he hangs I shoot, Fur I m still Little Eevilee. You hain t got nuthin agin him But prowlin around the camp, So you all made a lope for a lariat rope To hang him right up for a scamp. But I say he s goin to travel Safe out o this chapparel, An the very fust one makes a play with a gun, Will land in a minute in hell. DECOKAT10N DAY. COMRADES, our nation is thinking to-day Of her glorious salvation, and counting the cost Of the men who are sleeping beneath the cold clay The noble, the gallant, and brave that we lost That we lost ! Yet how fondly we cherish their names How eager to tell of the deeds they have done, Their actions so brave, that their glory and fame Are pictured and told in the battles they won ! DECORATION DAY. 161 Let our nation rejoice, then, mid sorrow to-day Let our hearts beat with love for the flag of the free ; While the widows and orphans are kneeling to pray, Great God of the Universe, humbly to Thee, And we who have safely returned from the fight, Would ask Thee, most humbly, dear Father, again To watch o er our actions, that we, by Thy might, May show that our comrades have not died in vain. Dear comrades, the widow has come ; stand aside Let her kneel by the tomb, iinresponsive forever, Where moulders the arm of the true and the tried : Her guard and protector, till war bid them sever. Stand aside, boys, she comes, as she s come all these years, With a wreath, lovely wreath, all bespangled with tears, And a prayer, Heavenly Father, when this life is done, Reunite us in heaven with loved Washington. The orphan has come, boys ; let him have a place To look at the orator straight in the face, To listen once more, hear recounted the story, For his sire was a soldier, and shared in the glory ; And he, too, has vowed, on each thirtieth of May, His love for our Union ; God bless him ! we say. The patriot is here and the statesman has come, The actor, the student, yea, every one ; The dwellers in palace, and hovel so plain- All all have done honor to the slain. Let the blossoms of May bow their heads o er each grave, And breathe bairns of sweetness all over the brave, And lilies, pure lilies, with roses so red, Be strewn with a wreath on the graves of the dead ; While tears of the widows and orphans like dew Are mingled with flow rets of red, white, and blue. And now as these heroes lie sleeping beneath The Stars and the Stripes, the flowers and the wreath, 162 THE POET SCOUT. We think of the trenches dug after the fight, When wrapt in their blankets at dead of the night, We buried in hundreds, yea, thousands, the brave, Embracing each other ; no mark o er their grave, Save that simple inscription, one word alone, You read it with awe, and pronounce it " Unknown." And to-day of the four hundred thousand who fell, The wife, and the mother, and sister, will tell, Oh, how generous, how loyal, how noble and true, They died for our Union, for me and for you ! Our Union still lives. They have not died in vain, And to-day we ve adorned their graves once again ; But those flowers, and the hands that have strewn them to-day, In death will soon languish, and all pass away. And these monuments, too, so majestic and grand, Will crumble to dust. Yet our Union will stand And that is their monument, ours, too, as well, Who fought by the side of the noble who fell ; Who suffered in cabin, in camp, and in field, And swore by yon flag that we never would yield Till that flag, lovely flag, dearest flag of the free, Should float, boys, in triumph, for you and for me. And here as we gather to-day neath its stars, And look upon comrades with crutches and scars, And sleeves, empty sleeves, hanging loose by their side, The boys who survived mid the thousands who died And yet do they murmur ? No, no ! nor complain. "Each man owes a part," say the wounded and maim, " And we have but acted our part in the strife, And gave but a limb, while the dead gave their life. " Oh, comrades, how hallowed the ground where they sleep Where the widows and orphans are kneeling to weep O er the brave who have fallen in skirmish and fight, Protecting that flag and the cause that was right ! And yet we have still a great duty to do Work on, loyal hearts, until death s last tattoo OUR MAKTYRED DEAD. 163 Shall lull us to rest neath the flag of the free, Till awakened by angels, a sweet reveille, From the boys who have gone, and whose marching is o er, They are watching on picket, on Canaan s bright shore. OUR MARTYRED DEAD. GENERAL E. D. BAKER. The following poem was read by me at the tomb of General E. D. Baker, on Decoration Day, 1879. The three first verses are mine; those following by M. P. Griffis, General E. D. Baker Post, Philadelphia. SOLDIERS, comrades, gather round nie, List the story I will tell Of a noble, gallant soldier- One who loved our flag so well. Here he sleeps beneath the daisies, Here, beneath the mossy sod, Near the broad Pacific s murmur, He is mouldering with the clod. Oh, how brave methinks I see him Charging leading, sword in hand, With the courage of our Custer, At the head of his command. Onward ! upward ! rally ! comrades, See ! the rebels giving way ! Ah ! Ball s Bluff, you had a martyr When our Baker fell that day. While we gather round his ashes, Comrades far beyond the plain Send a tribute to hismem ry From the Post that bears his name. Baker Post, in Philadelphia Boys who joined him in the fray Bade me tell you how they loved him, And I speak for them to-day. 164 THE POET SCOUT. IN MEMOBIAM. Eighteen years have passed, dear comrades, Since the man whose name we bear Bade farewell to rank and station, But a soldier s lot to share Onward marching with the army Onward fighting for the free By a pure and holy purpose He was guided to the sea. Oh, my comrades, over yonder, In the far Pacific State, Sleeps our brave commander, Baker, Close beside the Golden Gate. % Heaven s dew will wet the laurels, Comrades hands will strew sweet flowers, Some brave boy will read this tribute O er that martyred brave of ours. Tell the friends who gather round you How he fought to gain the day ; How, when cruel death had marked him, Faint and bleeding in the fray. Tell them, comrades, how, when dying, " Charge !" he said : " Boys, take the hill ! Yes, thank God ! I see it waving ! See ! our flag is floating still ! Thus he died a gallant hero, Soldier, statesman none more grand. Strew his grave with sweetest flowers. Comrades of the sunny land. And when death has claimed our army, When life s pilgrimage is o er, May we meet our martyred Baker, Now at peace for evermore. OFF TO THE PICNIC. 165 OFF TO THE PICNIC. To ye Sons o Caledonia. AWA , ye brawny sons o Scotland ! Up the banks and doon the braes, Through the Hielands o Nevada, Sing yo r songs o ither days ; Yet it s no rich gowrey s valley, Nor the Forth s dear sunny side ; Nor the wild and mossy mountain, Father of the placid Clyde. Yet just for the while imagine Ye are back on Scotia s shore, Mang the braes and grouse and heather Where the Highland waters roar ; Mang the groves o sweetest myrtle, Or perhaps aside the Doon, Thinking o young Bobbie s courtship By the light o bonnie moon. Noble, brave, unselfish poet ! Don t forget him mid yo r joys ; Fill and drink to him a bumper He was nature s bard, my boys. One o Scotland s noblest freemen, Spurning lords and lairds and crown ! Here s to Scotia s bard and poet Bobbie Burns boys, drink her down. Up in Heaven wi Highland Mary, Burns now sings a sweeter song ; He is wearing brighter laurels Than the men who did him wrong. " Scots wha hae," methinks I hear it " Bonnie Doon," ah ! how sublime ; At yo r picnic drink this bumper " Bobbie Burns and Auld Lang Syne !" GOLD HILL, NEV. 166 THE POET SCOUT. CATO S IDEAS ON THE NEW CHURCH DOCTRINE. I WENT to church last Sunday, Which I allers want to do, To hea dat same old story, But I hea ub sumfin new ; An , wife, old Deacon Johnson, Who allers preached so well, Come out an tol us darkeys Dar wasn t any hell. Wharfor he tol dat story Is sumfin I don t know, Kase if dar ain t no debil, Whar will dem wicked go ? Kase tain t no use in preachin If Adam nebber fell, An tain t no use in pray in If cussin does as well. Now, dis chile ain t no angel, But 3 ou hea Cato talk Dar s sumfin gwine to happen If gainst de Lord we balk ; Kase if der was no Mighty, Dat sun he nebber shine, An you jest bet sich preachin* Ain t gwine to win dis time. I can t jest understan it, Kase jest two weeks ago He tol us how ole Satan Was roamin to an fro ; An now dar ain t no debil, An no sich place of fire ; Dis chile don t take no chances I s gwine to clim up higher. MY HEKO. 167 MY HEKO. MY Hero ! The wealth of the world could not purchase the noble fel low. IJe is a grand specimen of the Albino St. Bernard, white as the driven snow, with large hazel eyes that beam with almost human intel ligence, and he weighs one hundred and forty-seven pounds. But for his love and devotion my body would to-day be buried in the treacher ous quicksand over which the Rio Grande flows on its ceaseless journey to the sea. Captain S. C. Plummer, of the regular army, witnessed my rescue by my noble Hero, and telegraphed the following account of it to the Denver Tribune : "Last Monday a number of soldiers went from Fort Craig to the Rio Grande for a bath. Among them was Captain Jack Crawford. After being in the water about three quarters of an hour Captain Jack started to cross toward the other side over a sand-bar, on which the water was only from six inches to a foot deep. Several of the others followed Jack, and they had considerable fun, tripping each other and rolling over in the water, while two of the boys got Jack down in the shallow water and tickled him in the ribs until he was nearly exhausted with laughter, he being very ticklish. In order to get away from his tormentors, Jack rolled over toward the deep water at the edge of the bar, and when he got upon his feet he kept backing down strerm, and although there was not over two feet of water where he stood, yet the current was so strong that it would carry him down should he lose his footing. He kept splashing water on those who had been tickling him, and bantering them to come on after him, when suddenly he made two or three desperate efforts to get back, but failed. Yet he said not a word, or the others might have joined hands and reached him. No one dreamed for a moment that he was trying to extricate himself from the quicksand. All at once he went down like a piece of lead. Even then we thought he had taken a dive, until he was under water longer than a man would willingly stay, and, indeed, no one would have noticed this particularly, had we not heard a peculiar pound, more like the roar of a lion than anything else, and the next instant Jack s dog Hero, a beautiful St. Bernard, was seen swimming toward his master, while he set up a howl that seemed to say, I m coming. Jack came up about twenty-five yards below where he went down, and right in the centre of a terribly swift current, near where the river would make a quick, sharp turn. He was nearly exhausted when the sand broke from under him, and, striking a whirl pool, he could make little or no headway, and had to use all his strength to keep from being caught in the suction. Hill, a soldier, orderly for General Hatch, 168 THE POET SCOUT. soon as he saw the dog go for Jack, also sprang in the current, but Hero got to Jack first, just as he was going down a second time, and taking him by the hair of the head, brought him above witer. Jack, who never lost his presence of mind, caught the dog by the back, just above the hip, and the faithful Hero brought him safe to shore, nearly a mile below where he first went down. This was really a narrow escape, as an officer and five soldiers went down nearly in the same place a few years ago, and were never seen. A wagon and team of mules disappeared in the river a year ago, and have not turned up yet." Can you wonder that I love my dog my noble, faithful Hero ? Can you wonder that I hold him above all price that the riches of the world could not induce me to part with him ? But a few months since a New York millionaire was at my ranch at Fort Craig, New Mexico, and asked me to fix a price on the dog, and in response I wrote for him the follow ing poem : HERO. To my Friend H. K. WHAT LL I take fur that handsome dorg? Wai, mister, how much are you worth ? A million ! Ge whiz ! That s a heap o scads. Wai, I ain t got a dollar on airth, An I reckon as how ye 11 believe me, pard, When I tell you I never struck ile ; But Hero s a great big bonanza to me, An he couldn t be bought fur yer pile. Wai, no, he s never been trained, cause you see He s a kind of a self-made dog, An even when only a bit of a purp He wouldn t be seen with a hog. An he jest grow d up with our blue-eyed May, An they sported out thar on the lee, An one day I found hat the noble ol boy Had a load of affection fur me. An you d like the story? Wai, tain t very long Jest look at them big, honest eyes ; He knows as how I m talkin bout him, An that s why he s lookin so wise, 170 THE POET SCOUT. Cause he knows purty much every word as I say He s corralled as much sense as some men An , pard, if I hadn t a squar meal on earth, He wouldn t go back on me then. No, friendship like that you don t see every day It s as pure as the daisies that grow; My Hero has no selfish motives, except He expects all the love I bestow ; An if through misfortune the wolf hangs around, Or if sickness should knock at my door, You can bet yer whole pile he will stay at my side, Fur he s faithful an true to the core. But why do I love him? Wai, now, let me see It war just about five year ago, . I war caught in an eddy the old Rio Grande, If she clutches you, ha<es to let go. Wai, Hero jest lay on the bank over thar, An when others war deaf to my call My Hero cum to me, an why I m alive Is jest cause he saved me, that s all. An I reckon as how you will pardon me, sir, If I tell you that gold cannot buy The friend as has proved himself loyal to me, Since I ve told you the wherefore an why ; Fur even a dog has a heart, don t yp know, An sometimes it s loyal an true; An somehow I think, when I look in his eyes, As thar must be a dog-heaven, too. When I return to my home Hero will be the first to bound down the Kio Grande hill to meet and welcome me with a joyful bark a bark that will notify the loved ones up in the ranch that I am again at home. His noble white head will be the first to receive my caresses after my absence, and his will be the first lovelit eyes to look into mine with touching eloquence. He will lead me with joyful bounds up the hill to wife and children up to the door of my humble but cherished home on the banks of the old Rio Grande. THE GRAVE OF MY MOTHER. 171 THE GRAVE OF MY MOTHER. A SONG. To Mrs. Emily Pitt Stevens, San Francisco. THEBE s a green grassy mound in the valley I love, Where angels their vigils are keeping ; The pine trees are singing a dirge far above, The sky pearly tear drops is weeping, And cooing on high is a bright turtle dove O er the grave where my mother is sleeping. Chorus. Peacefully sleeping, she sleeps neath the clay, This world cannot give me another ; No one to guide me, and no one to pray, While I weep o er the grave of my mother. The dew-drops are falling, the evening is here, And o er me night s shadows are stealing ; All nature is silent, good angels are near, And hushed is the harvester s reaping, While fondly I linger mid memories dear, Near the grave where my mother is sleeping. Chorus. Oh, here let me linger in silence and bliss, While only the starlets are peeping, And mix with the dewdrops a tear and a kiss, O er the grave where my mother is sleeping ; For no spot on earth is so sacred as this This spot where my dear mother s sleeping. Chorus. 172 THE POET SCOUT. NOKA LEE. A SONG. I HAVE watched the roses blooming And the violets lovely hue, And daisies like the starlight As they sparkled with the dew ; I have looked upon the lilies And the flowers of every tree, But none were half so pretty As my blue-eyed Nora Lee. Chorus. She is sweeter than the violets, She is fairer than the rose ; Her eyes are soft and tender, And her cheek with beauty glows. Oh, I never can forget her, Though she never thinks of me ; I love that blue-eyed beauty Little darling, Nora Lee. To my prairie home I m going, With my comrades brave and free, And yet where er I wander Those blue eyes will follow me. I shall see them in the camp fire, They will sparkle in the dell, And in the rippling streamlets I shall hear that last farewell. Chorus. God bless you, Jack ! God bless you ! Were the words she whispered low ; I thought twas heavenly music From her throat as white as snow. OUR FIRST REUNION AND CAMP-FIRE. 173 And my heart beat in a tremor, So she spake kind words to me. I wish I did not love her Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee. Chorus. I have gazed upon the streamlets When the moon was shining bright, The rippling of the waters In the summer noon of night. I have looked on nature s grandeur, On the prairie, land, and sea, But none of them could charm me Like the voice of Nora Lee. Chorus. Oh, no matter where I wander, Her sweet image will be there ; Her blue eyes shine upon me, And her voice be everywhere. And though I pine in sorrow, She is all the world to me ; May angels guard my fairy Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee ! Chorus. OUR FIRST REUNION AND CAMP-FIRE. Respectfully dedicated to F. B. Gowan, brother of my brave colonel, who fell while leading us in storming the rebel post at Petersburg, April 2d, 1865. WITH love which time can never change We grasp each other s hands, And think of battles fought and won Of Burnside s stern commands ; Bright memories of the hallowed past Are stealing through our souls, While thinking of the noble dead Now mustered from our rolls. 174 THE POET SCOUT. At times our hearts would almost bleed, And angels seemed to frown ; But God was on the ramparts, boys, "While the mortars tumbled down ; And though at times a boy was hit "With a fragment of a shell, We stood it did we not, comrades ? In the ramparts of Fort Hell. . And when we went on picket, With our blankets on our arm, And each a stick of wood, comrades, To try and keep us warm ; How oft we thought of happy homes, Of friends and parents, too, And lovely little blue-eyed girls Who d die for me and you ! And often, when we shouted Across to Johnny Reb, To throw us some tobacco, And we would throw them bread, How quickly they responded ! And the plugs came thick and fast, And we shared them with each other And shared them to the last. But though they gave tobacco, And though we gave them bread, Between the lines we soon must see The dying and the dead ! And though Mahone defied us, And though her strength was great, Who would dare to charge them, boys, If not our Forty-eight ? And when our greatest generals Defied our boys alone, To charge the enemy in front And capture Fort Mahone OUR FIRST REUNION AND CAMP-FIRE. 175 Oh, can you e er forget it, boys? The answer Gowan sent : " We ll take it, with the help of God, Or die in the attempt !" And nobly on that fatal day He led us on so well, Till fairly on their ramparts, boys, Our noble colonel fell. And did you mark the change, comrades ? Where was the leader now Who dared to lead us on like he Who fell with shattered brow ? I need not speak of others deeds Who led us on before Of Nagle and of Siegfried, too, Brave Pleasants and Gilmore. Oh, no ! their names are written On a grateful nation s shrine, And nothing can erase them, boys, Until the end of time. Another word each comrade s heart Is filled with gratitude To Siegfried, Pleasants, Bosbyshell, Who were so kind and good To offer us a banquet, boys, Such as we never saw Much better than the hard-tack, boys Hurrah ! then, boys, hurrah ! But don t forget, another year Will soon pass o er our head, And then we hope to meet again If living ; but, if dead, May we not meet in heaven, boys, And see upon the shore A picket guard of angels With Gowan and Gilmore ? 176 THE POET SCOUT. X THE BANGERS RETREAT. A SONG. Tis a dear little spot in the valley I love, And the pine trees are waving above it ; The home of the lark, the blackbird and dove I never can tell how I love it. I ve roamed through its grandeur with rifle in hand, O er beautiful streamlets and fountains ; From Calamity Bar the scene was most grand, With its moss-covered rocks and its mountains. GJiorus. Tis cosy, tis cheerful, that moss-covered dell That dear little Eden where I used to dwell ; The flowers when in bloom cast a fragrance so sweet Through that dear little valley, the Rangers Retreat. Oh, tis speckled with daisies and covered with dew ; There s no spot so dear as that valley, Where brothers met brotners, the brave and the true, And in danger round each other rally. The deer and the antelope roam in the dell, The mocking-bird sings in the bushes, While under the daisies the jack-rabbits dwell, And the water-snipe hides in the rushes. Chorus. And, though I m far from that valley to-day, The scenes are all pictured before me : The deer are at water, the birds are at play, And the skylarks are all singing o er me. I think I can see my dear comrades of old, The sound of each rifle seems ringing ; The echo comes back from that valley of gold, While the boys round the camp-fires are singing. Chorus. THE POOR MAN S SOLILOQUY. 177 THE POOR MAN S SOLILOQUY. AFTEK POE. To the Toiling Millions. ONCE, when I was weak and weary, And the day was cold and dreary, I was famished, almost starving Ragged were the clothes I wore, I was thinking of suspensions, And the railroad king s intentions, For they were then in convention, Planning as they planned before ; Tis monopoly, I whispered, And the wolf is at our door This it is and nothing more. Thus for hours I sat and pondered, Sat and closed my eyes and wondered Wondered why these men of millions Were not like the men of yore ; But the answer came tis fashion, Hoarding gold to please their passion, With fancy teams forever dashing- Dashing past the poor man s door ; Scornfully they look and mutter, As they pass the poor man s door : " Our slaves and nothing more." Your slaves ? Aye, chained and fettered, " Slave" on every brow is lettered ; You will sign to our conditions, Or we ll grind you to the floor ; You have, with a weak subjection, Severed every free connection. U. S. troops are our protection ; You have signed your names ye swore To obey and nothing more. 178 THE POET SCOUT,, Oh, ye gods ! And must we languish, In our poverty and anguish ? Starve while money kings are planning How to keep their gold in store ? Is our country not enlightened, Or its heads like cowards frightened, That the reins should not be tightened On these robbers of the poor ? Yes ! The toiling mass can do it ! We have changed such things before ; Give them power never more. While corruption reigns in office, Every knave and fool and novice, For a sum of filthy lucre Will betray his trust and more : They will legislate to press you, And in every way distress you ; Yet they ll meet you and caress you, But they re traitors to the core. They will swear by all that s holy For your vote but nothing more. Look toward the broad Atlantic, See a million starving, frantic Bread or blood is what they re asking- Blood or bread to feed the poor, Begging bread for which they re slaving- Dangers on the railroad braving, Want and hunger ever craving, Gnawing deep into the core, While the railroad gods are basking On the Long Branch sunny shore : These are facts and nothing more. Must we beg to be in fetters ? Are these railroad kings our betters, That we must like slaves approach them, While our wants they still ignore ? THE POOR MAN S SOLILOQUY. 179 No ! There must be some reaction ; Something done to crush this faction Labor must have satisfaction, Though grim death stood at our door. Shall I tell you how to get it How to strike corruption s core ? Vote for tricksters never more. Oh, ye sons of toil and danger, Christ was cradled in a manger He was poor and weak and lowly, Yet for us the cross He bore ; But the rich-robed fiends they tried Him, Persecuted and denied Him, And with robbers crucified Him, Just for being Christ and poor ; Just because he killed corruption, Jesus died and nothing more. Can such beings ask for pardon, While their hearts they ever harden ? Can they ask for peace from Heaven, While its laws they still ignore ? No, by all the hosts above us By the broken hearts that love us By the tears of many millions Of the wronged, down-trodden poor They can never reach that heaven Until hell is frozen o er, Which the Keverend Mr. Moody Tells us will be never more. 180 THE POET SCOUT. THE FIRST FLOWEK OF MAY. In May, 1876, a band of Sioux drove off fourteen head of our horses, and after two days chase we regained seven of them ; but, owing to the Indians having a change of horses, we failed to secure any scalps. Oa the first evening, after a hard day s ride, we camped in a pleasant valley near a cooling spring of water. Frank Smith (Antelope Frank, as we called him) and myself had ridden about three miles further, in hopes of getting a sight of the Indian camp, and it was on our return to the valley mentioned above, and a v^ni^on supper, that we laid down to rest under a spreading pine, when the incidents occurred which called forth the following verses. A DAISY ! the first I had seen in the spring, Was peeping from under the sod ; The air was so chilly, the wind was so cold, That I fear d the fair daisy had made rather bold To ascend from the earth s warmer clod. Just then a fair skylark flew heavenward to sing Sweet anthems, in praise to his God. How sweet to the traveller those soul-stirring notes, When weary with riding all day ! Indeed, it was joy to my comrade and me The lark in the sky, and the flower on the lea, And our weariness soon passed away. That night round the camp-fire we tuned up our throats And sang of the first flower of May. FAREWELL. 181 DEAR reader, farewell, the affliction is o er Your powers of endurance astound rne ; With my horse I am off for the trail once more, Whore the wandering muse first found me. A NEW BOOK BY JO SI AH ALLEN S WIFE. SWEET CICELY. A temperance story of the Josiah Allen s Wife s Series. Of thrilling interest. Over 100 illustrations, 12mo, cloth $2.00. (Ready Oct. 85.) "Josiah Allen s Wife " has always been a shrewd observer of human nature as it reveals itself in the round of homely, every day life, and the keen sarcasm and adroit humor with which she lays bear its fo.bles, its weaknesses and its grotesque out- crop pings has rarely, if ever, been equaled. The strong feature of all Miss HoUey s humor, is its moral tone. The present work will treat the " temperance sentiment " in new phase that of a semi-humorous novel. SOME OPINIONS OF "JOSIAH ALLEN S WIFE": The Woman s Journal, Boston: "The keen sarcasm, cheerful wit and cogent arguments of her books have convinced thous ands of the folly of their ways, for wit can pierce where grave counsel fails." The Herald, New York: " Her fun is not far-fetched, but easy and spontaneous. She is now witty, now pathetic, yet ever strikingly original." The Home Journal, New York: " She is one of the most origi nal humorists of the day." The, New Era, Lancaster, Pa.: "Undoubtedly one of the truest humorists. Nothing short of a cast-iron man can resist the exquisite, droll and contagious mirth of her writings." FUNK & WAGNALLS, 10-12 Dey Street, New York. ARCHIBALD MALMAISON. A New Novel. By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. i2mo, paper, 15 cts.; cloth, extra paper, 75 cts. INDEPENDENT, N. Y. " Mr. Julian Hawthorne can choose no better compliment upon his new romance, ARCHIBALD MALMAI SON, than the assurance that he has at last put forth astory which reads as if the manuscript, written in his father s indecipherable handwriting and signed Nathaniel Hawthorne, had lain shut into a desk for twenty-five years, to be only just now pulled out and printed. It is a masterful romance ; short, compressed, terribly dramatic in its important situations, based upon a psychologic idea as weird and susceptible of startling treatment as possible. It is a book to be read through in two hours, but to dwell in the memory forever. The employment of the central theme and the literary conduct of the plot is nearly beyond criticism." X. H. STODDARD, 7A T NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS. " ! he climax is so terrible, as the London Times has pointed out, and so dramatic in its intensity, that it is impossible to class it with any situation of moderji fiction. . . Mr. Hawthorne is clearly and easily the first of living romancers." THE LONDON TIMES. " After perusal of this weird, fantastic tale (Archibald Malmaison), it must be admitted that upon the shoulders of Julian Hawthorne has descended in no small degree the mantle of his more illustrious father. The climax is so terrible, and so dramatic in its intensity, that it is impossible to cla?s it with any situation of modern fiction. There is much psychologi cal ingenuity shown in some of the more subtle touches that lend an air of reality to this wild romance." THE LONDON GLOBE. " Archibald Malmaison is one of the most daring attempts to set the wildest fancy masquerading in the cloak of science, which has ever, perhaps been made. Mr. Haw thorne has managed to combine the almost perfect construction of a typical French novelist, with a more than typically German power of conception." THE ACADEMY, Mr. Hawthorne has a more powerful imagin ation than any contemporary writer of fiction. He has the very uncommon gift of taking hold of the reader s attention at once, and the still more uncommon gift of maintaining his grasp when it is fixed." FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., N. Y. THE FORTUNES OF RACHEL. A New Novel. By EDWARD EVERETT HALE. i2mo, paper, 250.; cloth, $i. CHRISTIAN UNION, N. Y. " Probably no American has a more devoted constituency of readers than Mr. Edward Everett Hale, and to all these his latest s:ory, The Fortunes of Rachel, will bring genuine pleasure. Mr. Hale is emphatically a natural writer; he loves to interpret common things and to deal with aver age persons. He does this with such insight, with such noble conception of life and of his work, that he discovers that profound interest which belongs to the humblest as truly as to the most brilliant forms of life. . . . This story is a thoroughly Ameri can novel, fuM of incident, rich in strong traits of character, and full of stimulating thought; it is wholesome and elevating. BOSTON JOURNAL, " The virtue of the book is the healthful, encouraging, kindly spirit which prevades it, and which will help one to battle with adverse circumstances, as indeed, all Mr. Hale s stories have helped." NEW YORK JOURNAL OF COMMERCE. "A pnre y American story, original all through, and Rachel is one of the pleasantest and most satisfactory of heroines. She is a girl of the soil, unspoiled by foreign travels and conventionalites. After suneiiing on romances whose =cenes are laid abroad, it is delight ful to come across a healthy home product like this." RUTHERFORD. A New Novel. By EDGAR FAWCETT. Author rf An Ambitious Woman," "A Gentleman of Leisure," A Hopeless Case," " Tinkling Cymbals" etc. i2mo, paper, 25 cts; cloth, extra paper, $1.00. BOSTON GLOBE, " Truly Mr. Fawcett has here wrought with skill in producing some original and beautiful characters. The motive and plan are those of a better book than he has ever writ ten. . . Rutherford is powerful and will contribute much to the reputation of its clever author." SAT. EVENING GAZETTE, Boston. "This story evinces grace as well as facility of style, is effectively told throughout, and in its plot and character*, is decidedly interesting. The sympathies of the reader are keenly enlisted for two of the characters who have been reduced from wealth to poverty, and the relation of their ex periences in the latter form of life affords opportunity for a very effective exhibition of this p^ase of New York experience. The book is one of the most elaborate of Mr. Fawcett s novels." NEW YORK TRIBUNE. " Mr. Fawcett s story. Rutherford, is more serious in plan than most of his society novel.-; it has a motive which is not only tragical, but impressive. . . . It is well constructed, and contains i-ome excellent sketches of fash ion- able life and touches of satire." FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., N. Y. MEMORIE AND RIME. A Book of Poems, Sketches, Reminiscences. By JOAQUIN MILLER. 121110 paper, 25 cts.; cloth, $1.00. A series of charming sketches of travel, stories of Western life, poems, and reminiscences of famous men the author has known. Mr. Miller has a great advantage over most writers, in that his material has been furnished by his own romantic and adventurous life. There is a glow of poetic fervor in all his writings that kindles the reader s interest irresistably. ST. LOUIS OBSERVER. Full of the flavor and freshness of the West. . . Thoroughly American in spirit and tone. His verse is distinctly national; it has all the breadth and sweep of the immense prairies and rugged uplands of the west ern half of the continent. It is strong in thought, powerful in diction." BOSTON GAZETTE. " The volume in its humor, its pathos, and its satire, is in Mr. Miller s best vein and the poems are as spirited as any he has written." CHRISTIAN INTELLIGENCER (N. K). "The author is widely known as one of the most entertaining writers of the present day. This volume is bright and breezy; humor and pathos being happily blended, 49; or, THE GOLD SEEKER of the SIERRAS. A volume of Western Stories. By JOAQUIN MILLER, aamopaper, 15 cts.; cloth, 75 cts. INTER-OCEAN, CHICAGO. "No writer has so vividly and truthfully pictured the wild Western life upon the plains and in the mining camps, as has Mr. Miller. He hns studied its char acters and learned well his lessons, and when they stc-.nd out upon the canvass they seem to be real, and not fancy sketches. This book abounds in life-like incidents and escapades, such as every miner s boy has seen. It abounds in strong dramatic situations, swift alternations between pathos and humor, and delicate poetic interpretations of nature." SATURDA Y EVENING GAZETTE, BOSTON. The vigor, picturesqueness, strength and genuine feeling with which the story is told, impresses upon the reader an irresistable charm." THE LONDON GLOBE. "To follow him is like following a keen, swift rider, who rides eagerly, it matters not whither, and who attracts us by a wild grace and a beautiful skill as he rushes through scenes of luxuriant loveliness that would cause a less impetuous horseman to pause and linger." FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & la Dey St., N. Y. MUMU, AND THE DIAR Y OF A SUPER- FLUOUS MAN. Two powerful Novels, descriptive of Serf and upper-class life in Russia. By IVAN TURGENIEFF. In one volume. 12010, paper, 15 cts.; cloth, extra paper, 75 cts. N. Y. TRIBUNE. "His characters are vital ; they suffer with a pathos that irresistably touches the reader to sympathy. Those who would write in the same vein get merely his admirable man ner, full of reserve, of self-restraint, of joyless patience; but while under this surface with Turgenieff lie throbbing arteries and quivering fleh, his imitators offer us nothing more than lay figures in whose fortunes it is impossible totake any lively interest. They represent before us only poor phases of modern society, while Turgenieff has explained to us a nation and shown the play of emotions that are as old as the world and as new as the hour in which they were born." LITERARY WORLD, Boston. "These two stories are unques tionably to be ranked among their author s masterpieces. Mumu will bear a great amount of study ; it marks out a whole method in fiction. * LIPPINCOTT S MAGAZINE, Phila. "There are some half dozen of Turgenieff s short stories absolutely perfect each in its way, but none, perhaps, quite so exquisitely as Mumu shows the great artist s power to transfigure to our eyes the tenderness, passion, agonies, which lie beyond speech and almost beyond sign, in tl.e silent heart of a strong, simple man." HIMSELF AGAIN. A New Novel. By J. C. GOLDSMITH. i2mo, paper, 25 cts.; cloth, extra paper, $1.00. THE BOSTON GLOBE. " Its peculiar qualities are its delinea tions of eccentric character which is notably free and bold, and its familiarity with many kinds of present American life and man ners, and its original realistic treatment. . . Beneath the sprightly dash with which the story is outlined and filled, there is conscious strong power. It is finely written, and of decided merit." THE EVENING POST, HARTFORD. Unlike most novels, the first chapters of this remarkable story are the weakest. But let the reader persevere and he will find opened to him a wonderful world of novel and interesting characters, a valuable and unique philosophy, and an almost unsurpassed background of American city and country scenery." BOSTON AD VERTISER. " The writer displays more than aver age insight into the workings of human nature, and the naturalness of his character-drawing is no doubt the secret of the special attraction that lies in the book." FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., N. Y. THE HO YT- WARD CYCLOPEDIA OF PRAC TICAL QUOTATIONS. Prose and Poetry. Nearly 20,000 Quotations and 50,000 lines of Concordance. It contains the celebrated quotations and all the useful Proverbs and Mottoes from the English, Latin, French, German, Italian, Spanish and Portuguese, classified according to subjects. Latin Law Terms and Phrases, Legal Maxims, etc. (all with translations). It has a vast concordance of nearly 50,000 lines, by which any quotation of note may at once be four* d and traced to its source. It is to quotations what Young s or (Jruden s Concordance is to the Bible. Its Table of Contents: Index of Authors, giving date of birth, nativity, etc.; Topical Index with Cross References, Index of Sub . jects, Index of Translation, together with its immense Concordance and many other features desirable in a work of reference, combine to make this Cyclopaedia what it is, THE ONLY STANDARD BOOK OF QUOTATIONS. Invaluable to the Statesman, Lawyer Editor, Public Speaker, Teacher or General Reader. NOAH PORTER, D.D., LL.D., Pres. Yale College. "It will be a help and a pleasure to m^ny." HON. SAMUEL % RANDALL, WASHINGTON. "The best book of quotations which I have seen." GEO. F. EDMUNDS, U. S. SENATOR. It is the most com plete and best work of the kind w.ih which I am acquainted." HON. ABRAM S. HEWITT. " The completeness of its indices is simply astonishing." HON. F. T. FRELINGHUYSEN, Secretary of State. " Am much pl-eased with the Cyclopaedia of Quotations." HENRY WARD B EEC HER. "Good all the way through, especially the proverbs of all nations." HENR Y W. LONGFELLO W. " Can hardly fail to be a very successful and favorite volume." WENDELL PHILLIPS. "Its variety and fullness and the completeness of its index gives it rare value to the scholar." Poyal octavo, over 900 pp, Cloth, $5.00; Sheep, $6.50: Fancy Cloth, Extra Gilt, $7.50; Half Morocco, Gilt, $8.00; Full Morocco, Extra Finish and Gilt, $10.00. FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & la Dey St., N. Y. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. LD INTER-LIBRARY LOAN ftUG 1 9 1965 SEP 27 1939 AUTODiSC.9fjr27<l PFCTg (JNl\i BEI LD 21A-60m.4, 64 (E4555slO)476B Goeral Library Inivetsity of California Berkeley YC M654 U.C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES I M41942 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY .