There they are! above the green trees shining—
Old towers that top the castles of our dreams,
Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining—
A painted glory on the window gleams.
But, oh, the messages to travellers weary
They signal through the ether in the dark!
The years are long, the path is steep and dreary,
But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood—hark!
The note is faint—but ghosts are gayly trooping
From ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees.
Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping—
Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!
They’re gone in dusk,—the towers and dreams are faded,—
But something lingers of eternal Youth;
We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded;
We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!
ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING
TOLD BY A GUIDE—1899[1]
Do you know Yancey’s? Where the winding trail
From Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road,
And wagons from Cooke City and the mail
Unhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?
A handy bunch of men are round the stove
At Yancey’s—hunters back from Jackson’s Hole,
And Ed Hough telling of a mighty drove
Of elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.
And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there,
Can tell a hunting yarn or two—beside,
He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bear
And six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”
But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag;
He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said:
“I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag,
For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.