Cactus and pine: Songs of the Southwest

by Sharlot Mabridth Hall

Oh, the black bear on the mountain!
Oh, the trout in stream and fountain!
Oh, the bloodhound’s bay that echoes loud and clear!
Oh, the buck, his proud head shaking,
From the leafy covert breaking,
As he scents the air that tells of danger near!
Oh, the sunlight softly streaming,
On the polished rifle gleaming
As we follow on the trail with stealthy tread!
Oh, the camp-fire dimly glowing,
Dusky, flickering shadows throwing
O’er the piney boughs that form the hunter’s bed!
Oh, the woodland life enchanting,
Memory’s farthest chamber haunting
With the mountain air and odor of the pine!
Though a palace door stood waiting,
I would pass its golden grating
With a smile and never wish its splendors mine.
For the forests with their shadows,
Hidden springs and sunny meadows,
And the mountains in their glory are my own:
In the breeze the fir trees whisper
Music like a solemn vesper,
And the pines take up the song in fuller tone.
Life is freer here and fuller;
All beside of earth grows duller;
And the one whose soul this strong enchantment fills
Leaves all other things when dying,
And like a homing pigeon flying
Turns him back to lie and rest among the hills.

JUAN OF THE SLAG POTS

A “Run-away” in the smelter, at Jerome, Arizona.

Juan of the slag pots, sullen and grim,
Scarred of jaw and crooked of limb;
May the Mother of Christ have thought of him!
Ay! Juan, lame Juan; no saint indeed,
But a better thing—a man, at need.
Night long where the reek of the sulphur smoke
Rolls up till the heart is like to choke;
Till the ears are sick with the clang and whirr,
And the eyeballs ache with the fiery blur,
Juan rolled the slag pots, huge and black,
And poured them out in a burning track
Down the slippery dump like a lava flow,
To cool in the cañon depths below.
Behind in the smelter vast and dim
The beat of the great blasts called to him,
And deep in the throat of the furnace glowed
The molten ore on its fiery road;
Soon to flow in a golden stream,
With rainbow shimmer and jeweled gleam
Into the pots like some strange wine.
“Tap!” the foreman gave the sign.
Juan poised the bar on his arm at rest
And swung it straight for the clay-cloaked “breast”;
A touch; a fury of blinding light;
A sweep of the swirling mass flame-white;
Hot drops flung like scorching hail
As the swift flood leaped from its narrow trail
Like a hungry hound on a blood-stained track.
“Back!” the frightened men surged back;
Reeled and ran—but the hindmost fell
Straight in the path of that molten hell.
Cheeks that were black with the stinging smoke
Went white beneath, and a hoarse shout broke
From the swaying crowd—but no man moved;
And the hot flood crept and crawled and shoved
Its flame-tongues out. Then straight and swift
Juan leaped, and they saw him stoop and lift
A fear-dazed burden, and turn and call
On the saints for mercy. Ay! that’s all.
Where the great blasts beat and the smoke drifts low,
Like ragged veils swung to and fro,
Shifting, shimmering, dun and gray,
Juan sits in the sunshine day by day;
Juan of the slag pots, sullen and grim,
Scarred of jaw and crooked of limb—
May the Mother of Christ have thought of him!

OVER THE RANGE

“L—— died at Chilikoot Pass: ‘Good-bye boys,’ he said; ‘I’m going over the range too—but I’ve got to blaze my own trail.’”

Letter from the Klondyke.

Open the door of the tent, boys,
And turn my face to the snow;
Let me look once more on the grand old peaks
Ere my summons comes to go;
For I start tonight on a stranger trail
Than any our feet have trod—
With never a blaze to mark the way,
Nor a footstep pressed on the sod.
’Tis an old, old road, but who passes there
Goes out in the dark alone;
With no hail from the comrades gone before,
And the camping-grounds unknown;
There’s never a guide for love or gold
Would lead you along that track,
And you needn’t tighten your cartridge belt,
Nor diamond hitch the pack.
What foes may lurk in the shadows dark
No mortal hand can stay;
And the wealth you have heaped with a lifetime’s toil
Is as dust beside the way;
For empty-handed we strike Life’s trail
When the dawn wind sings of hope,—
And empty-handed we turn at last
On the brink of its utmost slope.
I set my face to the stars tonight,
My heart to the Silent Call;
And fearlessly follow the unknown path
That leads to the fate of all.—
Be it rest or work or peace or strife—
Be rust or growth the change—
Here’s one who goes with a joyous soul,
Nor shrinks to cross the range.

A SADDLE SONG

“The jingle of spur and rattle of rein; the musical squeak of good saddle leather.”