Songs of the Prairie Part 3

They were running out the try-lines, they were staking out the grade; Through the hills they had to measure, through the sloughs they had to wade; They were piercing unknown regions, they were crossing nameless streams, With the prairie for a pillow and the sky above their dreams, They were mapping unborn cities in the age-long pregnant clay: When they came upon a little mound across the right-of-way.

There were violets growing on it, and a b.u.t.tercup or two, That whispered of affection ever old and ever new, And a little ring of whitewashed stones, bright in the summer sun, But of marble slab or granite pile or pillar there was none; And across the sleeping prairie lay a little, low-built shack, With a garden patch before it and a wheat field at its back.

"Well, boys, we'd better see him, and he hadn't ought to kick, For we'll give him time to move it if he does it pretty quick."

But scarcely had the foreman spoke when straight across the farm They saw the settler coming with a rifle on his arm; Some would ha' hiked for cover but they had no place to run, But most of them decided they would stay and see the fun.

The farmer was the first to speak: "I hate to interfere, And mighty glad I am to see the railway comin' near, But before you drive your pickets across this piece of land You ought to hear the story, or you will not understand: It's the story of a girl who was as true as she was brave, And all that now remains of her is in that little grave.

"I didn't want to bring her when I hit the trail out West, I knew I shouldn't do it, and I did my level best To coax her not to come out for a year or two at least, But to stay and take it easy with her friends down in the East; But while I coaxed and argued I was feelin' mighty glum, And right down in my heart I kep' a-hopin' she would come.

"Well, by rail and boat and saddle we got out here at last, A-livin' in the future, and forgettin' of the past; We built ourselves a little home, and in our work and care It seemed to me she always took what was the lion's share; G.o.d knows just what she suffered, but she hid it with a smile, And made out that she thought I was the only thing worth while.

"She stood it through the summer and the warm, brown days of fall, And of all the voices calling her she would not hear the call; But when the winter settled with its cold, white pall of snow She seemed to whiten with it, but she thought I didn't know; She tried to keep her spirits up and laugh my fears away, But I saw her growing thin and ever weaker day by day.

"At last I couldn't stand it any longer, so I said, 'I think you'd better try and spend a day or two in bed While I go for a doctor. It's only sixty miles.'

She gave a little wistful look, half hidden in her smiles, And said, 'Perhaps you'd better, though I think I'll be all right When the spring comes.' . . . Well, I started out that night.

"I made the trip on horseback, by the guiding Polar star And a dozen times the distance never seemed one half so far.

But the doctor had gone out of town,--just where, no one could say, And a lump rose in my chest that fairly took my breath away.

But I daren't stay there thinking, and my search for him was vain, So I bought some wine and brandy and I started home again.

"Forgetful of my horse, I spent the whole night on the road, Till early in the morning he collapsed beneath his load; I saw the brute was done for, and although it made me cry, I hacked into his jug'lar vein and left him there to die; And then I shouldered the supplies and staggered on alone, And thinking of my wife's distress I quite forgot my own.

"She must ha' watched all night for me, for in the morning grey She saw me stagger in the snow and fall beside the way And G.o.d knows how she did it--she was only skin and bone-- But she came out here and found me and dragged me home alone, And she took the precious liquor that had cost us all so dear, And poured it down this worthless hulk that's standin' blatin'

here. . . .

"I guess you know what happened--I lived, she pa.s.sed away; I robed her in her wedding-dress and laid her in the clay; And every spring I plant the flowers that grow upon her grave, For I hold the spot as sacred as the Arimathn's cave; And when the winter snows have come, and all is white and still, I spread a blanket on the mound to keep out frost and chill.

"Folks say I've got a screw loose, that I've gone to acting queer, But I sometimes hear her speaking, and I know she's always near; And sometimes in the night I feel the pressure of her hand, And for a blessed hour I share with her the Promised Land:-- Let man or devil undertake to desecrate my dead And as sure as G.o.d's in heaven I will pump him full of lead."

They were rough-and-ready railway men who stood about the spot, They were men that lied and gambled they were men that drank and fought, But some of them were sneezing, and some were coughing bad, And some were blowing noses on anything they had; And some of them were swallowing at lumps that shouldn't come, And some were swearing softly, and some were simply dumb.

At last the foreman found his voice: "I guess your claim is sound; I wouldn't care to run a track across that piece of ground. . . .

We'll have to change our lay-out . . . but I hope . . . we have the grace To build a fitting monument to mark that holy place; Put me down for a hundred; now, boys, how much for you?"

And they answered in a chorus, "We'll see the business through."

The pa.s.sengers upon a certain railway o'er the plain See a s.h.i.+ning shaft of marble from the windows of the train, But they do not know the story of the girl-wife in the snow And the broken-hearted farmer with his lonely life of woe, And none of them have guessed that the deflection in the line Is the railway builders' tribute to a prairie heroine.

THE SEER

In the dingy dust of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race, And the lake that lapt at his wigwam door threw back a frowning face, And a sightless squaw at the centre-pole crooned low in a hybrid speech, When a man of G.o.d swept round the point and landed on the beach.

The heavy eyes grew bright with fire, the lips shaped to a sneer-- "Welcome, my paleface brother, what good news brings you here?

Are you come with the voice of healing, with the book of your blameless breed, To soothe my soul with comfort while my body gnaws with need?

"Welcome, O paleface brother; come, what have you to fear?

Mayhap the redskin chieftain can teach as well as hear; And while we sing your sacred songs and breathe your mystic prayer, Who knows what inspiration may come on the ev'ning air? . . .

"Listen; you are a scholar, schooled in the paleface lore: 'Tis said a dying saint may sometimes see the s.h.i.+ning sh.o.r.e; That closing eyes peer far beyond the realm of mortal sight,-- Who knows but that a dying race may read the road aright?

"A dying race! We know it; the land is ours no more, No more we roam the prairies as in the days of yore; The brave, free spirit that was ours is crushed and pa.s.sed away, And bodies without spirits are predestined to decay.

"No matter. In the summertime the flowers bloom in the gra.s.s, The startled insects flood the fields and chirrup as you pa.s.s, The birds sing in the bushes; but before the wintry blast The flowers and the insects and the little birds are past.

"Yet once again the spring will come, the flowers will bloom again, And insects chirrup blithely where the former ones are lain; The white snows of the wintertime will vanish in the heat, And out-door life and color will follow their defeat.

"Can the paleface read the riddle? Has he eyes to see the signs?

Or thinketh he that snow will lie forever on the pines?

That housed-up life can triumph for the mastery of state, Or cus.h.i.+oned chairs produce a race destined to dominate?

"Behold, the things your hands have done, the power your arts have won-- Behold, those things shall vanish as the snow before the sun; The snow that smothered out the red--ah, hear it if you can-- Shall leave the earth as suddenly, _and leave it brown and tan_.

"Hear ye a little lesson--surely ye know its worth-- Only an out-door nation can be master of the earth; Soon as ye seek your couches, soft with the spoils of trade-- See well to your outer trenches before the mines are laid!

"Hear ye a little lesson--can ye the truth divine?

Milk ye may mix with water, and water will mix with wine; Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your hope, and toil, But know in all your mixing that water won't mix with oil!"

In the dingy dusk of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race, And the glow of holy prophecy lit up his rugged face, And the foremost light of the setting sun fell far on an eastern land,-- _And who shall save the paleface if he will not understand?_

THE SON OF MARQUIS NODDLE

He is brand-new out from England and he thinks he knows it all-- (There's a bloomin' bit o' goggle in his eye) The "colonial" that crosses him is going to get a fall-- (There's a seven-pound revolver on his thigh).

He's a son of Marquis Noddle, he's a nephew of an earl, In the social swim of England he's got 'em all awhirl.

He's as confident as Csar and as pretty as a girl-- Oh, he's out in deadly earnest, do or die.

They will spot him in the cities by the cowhide on his feet-- (They were built for crus.h.i.+ng cobblestones at 'ome) And the giddy girls will giggle when they see him on the street-- (There's a brand-new cowboy hat upon his dome).

He has come from home and kindred to the land beyond the sea, To the far-famed land of plenty, to the country of the free, But he can't forget he owns it from Cape Race to Behring Sea-- He is coming just as Csar would to Rome.

When his pile is getting slender he'll go looking for a job, (And he thinks he ought to get it, don't-cher-know) But he finds that he must mingle with the common city mob (How _can_ they think that he would stoop so low?).

So he hikes him to the country, where the rustics will be proud To salute him when they meet him, and to whisper, nice and loud, "He's the son of Marquis Noddle,--you would know him in a crowd"-- They will pay him there the homage that they owe.

In the little country village he will manufacture mirth-- (For it's there they take the measure of a swell) They will soon proceed to teach him that he doesn't own the earth (With a quit-claim on the sun and moon as well).

They will show him that the country isn't altogether slow, And that they can travel any pace that he's a mind to go; He will be a right good fellow till they run him out of dough-- Oh, it is a tale of merriment they tell!

So to keep his bones together he goes working on a farm, (Where they get up at a little after two) Where they think to take him down a peg will not do him any harm, (And they sleep when there is nothing else to do).

Where they work him like a n.i.g.g.e.r nearly twenty hours a day, And they don't disguise the fact that they consider him a jay, And he eats so much and sleeps so much he isn't worth his pay-- Oh, it doesn't matter that his blood is blue.