Rhymes of the Rockies

by James W. Whilt

THE PACK TRAIN

Did you hear that far off tinkle

In the canyon far below?

Listen! can't you hear it?

It is ringing very slow.

'Tis the bell upon the lead-mare,

As she's winding up the trail,

Guiding all the other horses,

Hitched to one another's tail.

They are headed for the camps,

Where they've lately made a find;

And the pack trains are all busy

Carrying grubstake to the mine.

Every horse is heavy loaded;

Ask me how that I can tell?

That is easy for the packer,

'Tis the tinkle of the bell.

Away back in the eighties

When they made the Wild Horse strike;—

We were in there with a pack train,

Me and old Pack Saddle Mike.

Mike could throw more knots and hitches

Than an expert sailor's crew,

Was a wizard with a lash-rope,

Knew what every horse could do.

Well, we packed for them there miners,

'Till the weather got so cold

It would freeze the lash-ropes solid,

And 'twas hard to make them hold;

It was hard to cinch a saddle,

Harder still to cinch a pack,

But the cold we never heeded;

We were making piles of "jack."

We left camp one frosty morning,

Started for our winter range;

Two hard days to reach the summit,

Then the weather took a change,

Hurled the snow into our faces,

Cut our eyes like broken glass,

And we had to stop the horses,

While the snow fell thick and fast.

For two days we held the horses

On that mountain in the snow,

While the mercury was flirting

Close to forty or more below.

Well, we had to shoot the horses,

Better far that, than let them die,

Made us snow-shoes from the saddles

And climbed o'er the summit high.

When at last we reached the ranches,

Almost dead from wind and snow;

Mike took down with the pneumonia,

And the next day had to go.

While he lay upon his pillow,

All his body racked with pain,

He'd keep talking of his horses,

Calling each one by its name.

Then he called me to his bedside,

And he said, "I'm going to ride,

And I know I'll find the horses

Over on the other side."

MOONLIGHT

When the moon has climbed the heavens,

And the sun has gone to rest,

And the evening shadows gather,

That's the time I love the best.

Seated by our little camp-fire,

In the forest dark and tall,

With the silence all around us,

Save the roar of water-fall—

Then the deer steal in the meadows,

Velvet shod, so still are they,

While among the waving grass-tops

Spotted fawns are there at play.

Then to me there comes a memory,

Of the days, now past and gone,

When my life was just in blossom,

I was young and life was dawn.

When I roamed the virgin forest,

Just as free as birds that fly,

With the moonbeams for a candle,

And my cover was the sky.

Still the moon shines just as brightly,

And the stars are just as clear,

But I see I'm growing older

Like the ending of the year.

Frost is gathering on my temple,

Soon my hair will be like snow,

But His will we all must follow

And some day we all must go.

Yet, I'm ever, ever hoping

That upon those shores of gold,

We will have the self-same moonlight

As we had in the days of old.

MY DREAM

I dreamed of a beautiful forest

That lies back in the hills,

With lakes of crystal clearness

And such noisy mountain rills.

Where there are no trails of trappers,

Where the game unchallenged roam—

Could I only find that forest,

That's the place I'd call my home.

There were beaver, lynx and marten,

Elk so stately, and so tall,

And such sunlit open hillsides,

And such lovely water-fall.

There was deep grass in the meadows,

There were breezes, sweet and cool,

There were trout, so lazy, swimming

In each clear and crystal pool.

There the birds were singing sweetly

Their sweet, yet plaintive song,

That told me of God's great wonders

There among their happy throng.

There were deer-trails, without number,

Bear-tracks everywhere were seen,

And the squirrels were never silent

In those forests dark and green.

There the wild ducks they were nesting,

There the loon called on the pond,

There the snow-caps rose to sky-line

In the distance far beyond.

Then I was suddenly wakened,

Grabbed by the shoulder so hard,

"Roll out now, breakfast is ready!"

It was Jack, my "bunkie" and "pard."

THE OLD FRYING PAN

You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,

Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble;

But when out in the hills, just find if you can,

Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.

Over a campfire you don't need a stove,

Out in the hills, the place we all love,

Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,

With many the thanks to the old frying pan.

When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,

I know old epicures would look, with a frown

At the meal set before me; dispute it who can,

With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.

With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,

Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,

You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;

Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?

Many a miner, in the good days of old,

Way back in the foothills a-searching for gold

Deep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,

Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.

There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurry

Used no other iron, but why should they worry,

For many and many and many the brand,

That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.

So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high,

That you're the best dish, till the day that I die;

Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her man

With no other club but the old frying pan.

THE RAINY DAY

The hills are smothered in a fog,

The sky is somber-grey,

The rain is coming in a mist,

A cheerless rainy day.

To me the trees are weeping,

With their branches drooping low,

Their tears are steady falling,

With heavy drops, yet slow.

The birds they all are silent,

And not one sweet silvery note,

Re-echoes through the forest,

From our feathered songster's throat.

Not one thing to break the silence,

Save the rain-drops as they fall,

As I watch the clouds roll onward,

Or climb the mountain wall.

And somehow I feel so happy,

Though the world seems full of pain,

So I let my gaze go farther,

When the sun will shine again.

The trees and flowers and grasses,

They will all the fresher seem,

And the laughter will be louder

From the rippling mountain stream.

The birds will sing far sweeter

Than they did in days gone by,

The air will be the fresher,

And of bluer tint the sky.

We all do love the sunshine,

We love the moonlight, too,

We also love the twilight,

And the falling of the dew;

But I never growl or grumble,

Only this I wish to say;—

That this world would be a desert

Without you, oh! Rainy Day!