Rhymes of the Rockies

by James W. Whilt

MY BLANKET-ROLL

A warm old friend is my blanket-roll

We've been pals for many a year;

And when I look back at the days gone by

I almost drop a tear.

A warmer friend I never had

Than you! old roll of a bed,

And after I've sung all your praises I can,

Not half enough has been said.

You were a friend in summer heat,

A friend in winter's snow;

And whenever the wanderlust seized me,

You were always ready to go.

From the sunny South to the Hudson Bay

Or the land of the Western Sea;

Then to Alaska's frozen shores

You have traveled along with me.

Now you're getting worn, and your tarp is torn,

You have stood too much hard weather;

But I am the same, and it seems a shame,

Yet,—we are growing old together!

You're a good old friend, I will say again,

And you, I will not discard.

And as long as the Lord will let me roam

I will keep you for my pard.

But some day I'll cross to the other side,

Where we all some day must go;

Where there is no wind, or no more rain,

And unheard of is the snow;

And when I take that last long trip

To that eternal goal;

My dying wish is to snuggle up

In you,—my blanket-roll.

THE CHINOOK WIND

There's a soft warm breeze upon the air,

'Tis moaning soft and low,

'Tis cold and chill upon the hill,

Yet it's melting all the snow.

The Indians all tell us,

That many moons gone by

Right here within the mountains,

The North wind it did cry.

The Chinook wind made answer,

And said, "I'm not afraid,"

And then there raged a battle,

For a beautiful Indian Maid.

The Chinook wind was the victor,

The North wind went away,

But the Maiden fair had died of despair,

And deep in her grave she lay.

So every year his voice we hear,

Calling so soft and sweet,

Searching the grave of the one he would save,

Melting the snow at our feet.

'Tis the lover's wind, so the Indians say,

And his heart is ever sad,

But they welcome his coming, every one,

For the North wind is gone and they're glad.

THE PALE HORSE

When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride,

To the home ranch, over the Great Divide,

Will I find the trail blazed all the way,

A place to camp, at the close of day?

Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair?

(For no one has ever come back from there)

But the good book says, if we shoot square,

"Have no fear of the trails over there!"

An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight,

O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate,

Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme,

And all will be one pleasant dream.

No herding of dogies on frost night,

Or wild stampede in the morning's light.

No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers.

No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.

But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow,

Over a range ever free from snow;

And for those who lived as He who died

To save us riders—that Great Divide

Will be only a foothill, so very low;

That on its summit sweet flowers do grow,

And the trail itself will be smooth all the way,

With a place to camp at the close of day.

When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate,

Peter will say, "You sure shot straight,"

And the gate will open for me, I know,

Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"

THE SNOWSTORM

The snow has started falling,

'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain,

The trees bend under their burden,

Shake free, and are draped again.

While I sit here safe in my cabin

Where all is cozy and warm,

I can peer into the future,

And view the woods after the storm.

I can see the deer seeking the low-lands,

In search of their daily food,

I can see the hunter's eyes glisten,

For he knows that the tracking is good.

The lion dogs leap in their kennels,

There is barking and wagging of tails,

The hunter examines his snow-shoes,

And dreams of "kills" and of trails.

The bear trails lead far up the mountain

Where the cliffs are rugged and steep,

And there is some cave in the ledges,

They're beginning their winter's sleep.

They will sleep till the wild geese awaken them,

As they take their Northern flight,

Then again they will seek the hill-sides

Where the sun shines clear and bright.

Now the wild geese honk as they leave us,

Followed close by wind-driven snow;

They are telling all of us trappers,

But, of course, all us trappers know

That whenever the wild geese go homing,

It is time that our traps are set;—

Snow, I have been waiting for you!

You are a welcome visitor—you bet.

SILENT VOICES OF THE NIGHT

When the shades of evening gather,

And night's curtain's dropping low,

And the stars they dot the heavens

With their candles, all aglow;—

Then to me there come the voices

On each cool and fragrant breeze,

Stealing in from every quarter,

Creeping through among the trees.

And these voices, ever silent,

Scarcely heard, their steps so light;

Yet, to me are ever welcome;

Silent voices of the night.

When within the noisy city,

With its surging, busy crowd,

The voices keep a-calling,

And they seem to call so loud.

I can hear them pleading, coaxing,

And to me they call so plain,

And they have the self-same message,

"Yes, we want you back again."

Voices of my little camp-fire,

Voices of the woods and hills,

Voices from the snow-capped mountains,

Voices from the crystal-rills;

And I ever hear them calling,

'Till I feel like taking flight,

Back to where the voices whisper,—

Silent voices of the night.

Oh! those voices, how I love them!

Whether near or far away,

And they ask me not to leave them,

"Won't you please come back and stay?"

"Come and we will try to please you,"

Calling from their wildwood home,

"Yes, my loved ones, I am coming,

And from you no more will roam."