Rhymes of the Rockies

by James W. Whilt

RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES

MY RHYMES

THE TRAPPER'S TRAIL

Only a scar on a sapling

That is almost overgrown;

A withered snag far up the stream

Where the ax marks still are shown.

This tells 'tis the trail of a trapper

Made many years ago,

So I take up the trail and follow,

And I care not where I go.

I follow the trail through the foothills,

To me 'tis as plain as a road,

For I've spent many years in the forest

And know me the trappers' code.

And I read as I follow this trapper,

That whoever trapped this line

Was a tried and true knight of the hills,

And I call him a friend of mine.

I knew where to look for his lynx sets,

And I found them, every one;

I found where he'd slept in his lean-to

When his day's long hike was done.

Then the trail led far up the mountain

Where the spruce grew dark and tall;

And there were his sets for the martin,

Using the old dead-fall:

For the traps were too heavy to carry

So far up that mountain's deep snow;

Then the trail dipped over the summit

And into the basin below.

Then my mind began to ponder

On this unknown friend of mine,

Who had sought the peace of the forest

And the whisp'rings of the pine.

Perhaps 'twas fate that led him

To seek a trapper's trade;

Perchance 'twas his love for the silence,

For a trapper is born—not made.

It takes men with hearts of iron

Who dare to face the wild;

Men with the hearts of warriors bold,

And the faith of an innocent child.

At last I came to his cabin,

Now mouldering to decay,

And there on some poles in a corner

The bones of the trapper lay;

His rusted gun beside him,

Reclined upon a log,

And there on a moulded deer-skin

Were the bones of his faithful dog.

Pals they had lived together

And pals together had died;

Let us hope they're still pals together,

Across on the other side.

MY GARDEN

I have seen many beautiful gardens,

Gardens that were tended with care,

With roses, violets and tulips,—

They each have their fragrance so rare.

But the garden most lovely to me

Is one where few men have trod;

'Tis a meadow high up in the mountains,

And I call it the Garden of God.

Fenced in by mighty rock-walls

And forests of evergreen pine,

There is no one else to claim it,

So I call this garden mine.

There are hair-bells, oh! so dainty

Suspended on thread-life stem,

And the blossoms full of mountain dew

Makes each a perfect gem.

And such tiny lady-slippers,

The kind the Fairies wear,—

Me-thinks 'tis a sacred garden,

There is such sweet incense there.

There the bear-grass plumes are waving

In the cool and fragrant breeze,

And the wood's orchestra is playing

Close by in the tall larch trees.

The partridges' drum is beating

On a log so very near,

And shy violets are peeping,—

Me-thinks they came up to hear.

'Tis then I often wonder

As I gaze on this garden so fair,

How many a blossom's growing

To be wasted upon the air.

But I see that the beautiful flowers

That bloom on this mountain so high,

Are far too sacred for us below

And are beloved by those in the sky.

So I fain would pluck one blossom,

From this sacred garden so sweet,

But I leave them in all their beauty

To bloom at the Maker's feet.

ADVENTURER'S LUCK

Did you ever go a-trapping

Where you knew the fur was plenty,

Where a year ago you could have

Made a bunch of "jack"?

Next fall you got in early,

Built your cabin in a hurry,—

Then didn't even find a weasel track?

Did you ever go prospecting

Where the gold was found in millions,

And even every musher

Had made a pile of wealth?

And you worked just like a beaver

Cause you felt you couldn't leave 'er,

And all you got was badly broken health?

Did you ever go a-fishing

When the weather,—it was perfect!

And you gathered up your tackle

And had it fixed just right:

And you whipped the streams and bait-fished

And maybe swore a little,

And then you never even got a bite?

Did you ever go a-hunting

When the woods were damp and gloomy,

Where everything was stillness

And everywhere a trail,

And you traveled over ridges,

Through the hollows, round the ledges

And then you never even glimpsed a tail?

But such is luck I find it,

And the fellow who stays by it

Will at last succeed and win the day:

Be he trapper, or prospector,

Be he fisherman, or hunter,

I have always found it

That it's pluck that wins the day.

THE LARK SONG

This morn at dawn I woke,

The rain beat its tattoo,

And through the dewy, fragrant air

A lark's song whistled through:

And while he sang his song so true,

Then sang my soul's refrain;

"Oh! may my heart, like yours, dear bird,

Sing ever through the rain."

And when the sky of life seems grey,

The sun itself seems very dark,

And all ahead is black despair,

I bethink me of the lark.

And always have I found this fact;

However low the clouds may drop—

The sun is always shining clear

Upon the highest mountain top:

So we should look away beyond

The things upon this world below,

And sing our praises unto Him

Who makes the rain and snow:

And ever as I travel on

Upon this life's uncertain road,

I meet with fellows every day

Who carry just as big a load.

No matter if the sky is dark,

Or if it rains the whole day long,

God's messenger from out the sky

Is pouring forth his little song.