Out on this wild frontier,
Whisper of coming thousands,
Whose hurrying, eager tread
Shall change this mould into kerneled gold
And give to the millions bread.
“Tis now but a dream prophetic;
The plover tilts by the stream,
The coyote calls from the hilltop,
And the——”
Justin got no further. The impossibility of the fulfillment of that dream had come to him as he sought to picture the present.