Rhymes of the Rockies

by James W. Whilt

THE STREAMLET

Tell me little streamlet,

As you onward flow;

Why in such a hurry,

Whither do you go?

The stream slowed up a moment

Within the alder's shade;

"I go to join my brothers,

And of us are rivers made.

We water the hills and meadows,

We turn the mills' great wheel,

We carry logs to the mill-dam,

Where they're cut by teeth of steel.

We furnish power for the motor

That pulls the railroad train;

And after they have used our power,

It is given back again.

So you see we enjoy working,

That's why we laugh all day,

For when one's heart is in one's work,

Why! work is greatest play!

And growing broader and deeper,

We carry ships on our breasts,

'Till at last we reach the ocean,

And there we have time to rest."

ED ENDERS' GRAVE

When old Ed Enders first took ill,

'Twas first a fever and then a chill,

His respiration was very weak,

Throat so clogged he could scarcely speak.

The doctors prescribed all kinds of dope

And hotwater bottles, but had no hope.

Then old Bill Wallace and old Hank Lee,

And old Dad Lyons got on a spree;

And when half full old Bill did cry,

And says, "Old Ed is about to die.

I ain't no doctor, I can't shoot pills,

I've never prescribed for no one's ills

But I do believe we can pull Ed through,

If you all will help me;—I mean you two.

If old Ed dies, just stop and think,

He will never buy us another drink!

He has the money in that there claim,

If we let him die it will be a shame.

Old Ed is a feller no one can ride,

He will always take the other side.

If you say no, why he'll say 'yes'

Just to be contrary up to the last.

So now we'll try old Ed to save,—

A committee of three to pick his grave.

As we can't agree where to make his bed,

We will have to leave it to poor old Ed."

"It will work," says Dad, with a tear in his eye,

"And I for one am ready to try."

Then up spoke Hank, "This ain't no joke,

Fill up the glasses and then we'll smoke."

So the three went down to Old Ed's room,

Faces as solemn as any tomb.

Old Ed says, "Boys, I'm on my way!"

Bill says, "You'll never see the day,

And as we were idle, and time to save,

We've been picking a place to dig your grave.

Now Hank wants to plant you in the shade,

Where the trail climbs up that steepest grade,

For you hunted the shade when the sun was hot,

And the land is worthless in that there spot.

But Dad wants you laid on that sunny slope,

There's a hole all ready in that old stope.

You hunted the sun when the weather was cold,

And he wants you planted in that old hole.

But I says, 'Boys, it is my wish,

To plant him where he liked to fish;

For he always fished at the same old hole,

Too lazy to walk and carry his pole.'

Now Ed, we as a committee of three,

Will leave it to you, we can't agree."

Old Ed looked up from his bed of pain,

Looked at them over and over again.

What he said to them won't do to tell,

At least he said, "You can go to hell!

You won't find the likes wherever you roam,

Rake the hot place over with a fine-tooth comb.

Such a bunch as you,—right here I swear,

Pick what you damn please, I won't be there."

Now listen, dear folks, I am here to tell,

In just three days old Ed got well.

SPRINGTIME

When sun begins to melt the snow

And the birds commence to sing,

And the days are getting longer,

Then we know 'tis surely spring.

It is then you get a fever,

But your temp'ture does not raise,

It's a kind of lazy feeling

On those balmy warm spring days.

And it starts your mind to working,

While your thoughts commence to stray,

To the hills and lakes and rivers,

And green woodlands far away.

And it makes you feel so drowsy

That you long to go to sleep,

Out beneath some tall green pine tree,

Where the shadows cool and deep

Just seem to be a-calling,

While the stream beneath the hill

Is chuckling with glad laughter,

And I seem to hear it still.

'Tis then memory breaks its halter

And stampedes and starts to go,

Till it stops in childhood's pasture

In the days of long ago;

Where the birds were all a-singing,

Songs so rare and pure and sweet,

Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,—

Flowers blooming at your feet.

Then the city seems a prison,

While brick walls like prison bars,

Seem to reach clear up to heaven,

Till they mingle with the stars.

Still I do not call a doctor,

For he cannot ease, I know,

Any longings for the wildwood

Of the days of long ago.

THE CALL OF NATURE

My traps are getting rusty

Here upon my cabin wall;

The leaves are turning golden,

'Tis already early fall.

My snow-shoes need repairing,

And so does my canoe;

My dogs are begging, coaxing,

And there's just one thing to do.

I'll have to quit this cruising,

And a-looking over land,

And lay aside my compass,

They can get another man.

For a section-line can't hold me,

I despise a "bearing" tree,

When I hear the wild geese honking,

And I know they're calling me.

I'll go back into the mountains,

Back of Uncle Sam's survey,

Where the only line's a trap-line,

And I'm going there to stay;

Where the only trails are game-trails,

Where the moose unchallenged roam,

There I'll build for me a cabin

And I'll call that cabin "home."

In the wildest, greenest forest,

That no man has come to spoil,

With his sawmills and his railroads,

And his many slaves of toil—

Where the streams are not polluted,

Stopped by dams of mine or mill,

Where everything is Nature's

And the rush of life is still.

So I'll send my resignation,

And I know the Boss will say,

"Won't you stay until the winter,

And of course, we'll raise your pay."

But no salary can hold me,

I have heard that line before;—

So here's good-bye to cruising

From today for evermore.

MY REQUEST

When I leave this old dreary world

To cross to the Great Unknown;

Don't bury me in a costly tomb

Or raise a shaft of stone—

But lay me on some hill-side,

Mid the forest that I love;

Where the wild flowers bloom around me

And the eagle soars above:

With an ancient ledge above me,

One that is all moss-grown;

These words inscribed upon it,

"He is one of Nature's own.

One who loved the forest,

One who loved the hills,

Although his soul has taken flight,

His foot-steps echo still."