Rhymes of the Rockies

by James W. Whilt

MEMORY'S CAMP-FIRE

Come with me to the forest tall,

And spend a few of autumn days,

And study nature at first hand,

Learn how they lived in early days.

Take up your pack and rod and gun,

And once again to seek the wild,

Leave all your sorrows far behind,

And be as carefree as a child.

Then memory's camp-fire kindle bright

And as you feel its friendly blaze,

Just let your mind go back o'er time

To happy scenes of early days.

When you yourself were but a child

That roamed at will the woodland o'er;

Oh! how your heart did exultant leap

Always new country to explore.

Then take your gun from memory's rack

Which for many moons has forgotten hung

And see if you again can sing,

The songs that for years, you've left unsung.

Then tell some tale of early days

Of when you hunted in the glade,

Or when you caught the bear asleep,

Or lured the trout from the alder shade.

And as each spark arises high

From this camp-fire's golden light,

The moon will shed its yellow rays

On distant snow-caps clear and bright.

And should these lines make you recall

Some happy days 'neath skies so fair,

To me this little camp-fire smoke

Will be sweet incense on the air.

INDIAN TRAILS

Creeping along the mountain,

Or winding along the stream,

Each year growing dimmer and dimmer,

Then fading away like a dream—

Almost impossible to follow,

Still in the days long ago,

These trails were the only highways

And whither did they go?

Some lead deep in the forest

Where they hunted the deer and bear,

Where they dried the meat for food

And skins made them clothes to wear.

While some lead to lakes and rivers

Where the loon and wild geese call,

To rice-fields in late October

When the snow commenced to fall,—

While some climbed high on the mountain

Where the huckleberries grew,

And ripened upon the sunny slopes,

Sweetened by mountain dew,—

Others found way to the border tribes

Where the war-whoops loud and shrill,

Echoed along the cliffs and crags,—

Me-thinks I can hear them still.

Now only a scar on some tree remains

Of the trails of the long ago,

The summer comes, the fall appears,

With winter's frost and snow.

And as each season passes,

Leaves dimmer every trace,

I can see the trails a-passing,

The same as the Indian race.

WINTER

Winter has descended o'er mountain and hill,

His mantle of snow has spread;

The grass and flowers are withered and brown,

The leaves on the bushes are dead.

The streams all are silent in icy embrace,

They are held in his bondage so strong:

Not even one faint murmur is heard,

Where they laughed so loud and so long.

The trees are draped in a mantle of snow,

That clings to their boughs like a shroud,

And the mountains cold and still and white

Appear like a light fleecy cloud.

The cattle have come from their good summer range,

The sheep have all entered the fold,

Winter, they know, is starting its slumber,

And the wind is so searching and cold.

The logs in the fire-place crackle and glow—

Our cabin's all cozy and warm,

The dogs are a-sleeping,—content as can be,

So why worry o'er winter's storm.

PASSING OF THE RANGE

Today as I gaze o'er the prairie

That stretches away into space,

I look back only a few short years

At the change that's taken place.

When I was one of the cowboys,

All our time was spent on the range;

Now I don't see even one rider,—

'Tis then I feel lonesome and strange.

No trail-herds with plaintive lowing,

No shouting, or singing to steers,

No sound of horses mad galloping,—

It almost moves me to tears.

For then we rode stirrup to stirrup,

While the jingle of spurs played a tune;

Oh! could I go back to the round-up

For a day at the cow-camp in June.

When the grass was so green on the prairie,

With the cattle all sleek and so fat,

Each rider all dressed for hard riding,

With high heels and chaps and wide hat.

Each with his string of horses,

Some broken and others half wild,

The wilder the better he liked them,

Happy and carefree as a child;—

Wild as the steers that they wrangled,

Hardy as the bronchos they rode,

Ready to take others' troubles,

Or carry another one's load.

Those were the real days I tell you—

Night-herding by light of the stars;

Three weeks drive to the stockyards

Where we loaded the steers in the cars.

Then when the loading was finished

And the cattle were on their way,

The Boss called the bunch together

And gave us our season's pay.

We were just like a bunch of children,

And many an old-timer like me

Recalls being served in his saddle,

When on a periodical spree.

Now, cattle are held in pastures,

They no longer roam wild and free,—

And the cowboys are gone forever,

Leaving only a memory.

And as each one crosses the border

That is over the Great Divide,

I hope the bunk-house is ample

And none will be left outside.

THE CABIN OF MYSTERY

No trail leads to this cabin,

Not even a blaze on a tree,

Hidden beneath the tall dark firs

Is this cabin of mystery.

No one knew its builder

Or when this cabin was made,

Not one of the oldest trappers

Can explain or give any aid.

The stove still stands in the corner,

The table all neat and clean

And the cupboard still holds its grubstake

As fine as ever was seen.

But there are no traps or stretchers

So no trapper was he,

No prospector's pick or shovel,—

All adds to the mystery.

No name upon the door-jamb,

No initials cut in the wall,

No calendar hangs by the window,

Just silence and mystery—that's all.

But the hills hold many a secret,

That the trails and streams never tell,

We can only guess at the answer

And perhaps it's just as well.

Now as I gaze at this cabin,—

Brush almost obscuring the door,—

Many moons have you guarded the secret,

Keep guard for as many more.

But perhaps when we cross the border

And step aboard death's train,

The secrets of hills and mountains,

To us will then be plain.