One night, when lying in nay blankets under the spreading bows of a pine tree, thinking of those lonely graves that are scattered here and there through the west, in which lay the “unknown,” the following lines occurred to me:
Slain by Indians a pioneer was found,
His home or his kindred nobody knew;
Over his cold form bendeth
The grasses in tears of dew.
A fellow pioneer, as best he could,
Laid the body in a newly made grave;
And after the task was done, he said:
Here’s where lies one that was brave.
Many memorial days have passed;
But no mother, no sister has ever come,
To lay beautiful flowers
On the grave of the unknown one.
There is a broken heart somewhere,
Bleeding from a terrible wound;
A hope that has nearly perished,
For the dear one that cannot be found.
There is a grave—in those grasses,
A pioneer’s grave—and lo!
Him whom those green sods cover;
His name no one knows.
But the name of the unknown
In the Great Book is recorded,
As well as those of the world’s rulers,
Kings, princes and potentates.
And, when comes the last day,
They, too, will be gathered
The same as those rulers—
Not one neglected.
Some people, after reading this letter, may say that it was wrong for those daring men and brave women to go into such a country, occupied only by savages. Well, that may be so, but the unexplored West never would be developed were it not for the immigrants, miners and prospectors who had the ambition, courage and pluck to commence to conquer. They are the “John the Baptists” of civilization, and the founders of states that are represented by stars in our banner and of those yet to come.