Red the pasture ridges gleamed
Where the sun was sinking.
Slow the windmill rasped and wheezed
Where the herd was drinking.
On the kitchen doorstep low
Sat a Swedish mother;
In her arms one baby slept,
By her sat another.
“All time, ’way back in old countree,
Your grandpa, he been good to me.
Your grandpa, he been young man, too,
And I been yust li’l’ girl, like you.
All time in spring, when evening come,
We go bring sheep an’ li’l’ lambs home.
We go big field, ’way up on hill,
Ten times high like our windmill.
One time your grandpa leave me wait
While he call sheep down. By de gate
I sit still till night come dark;
Rabbits run an’ strange dogs bark,
Old owl hoot, an’ your modder cry,
She been so ’fraid big bear come by.
Last, ’way off, she hear de sheep,
Li’l’ bells ring and li’l’ lambs bleat.
Then all sheep come over de hills,
Big white dust, an’ old dog Nils.
Then come grandpa, in his arm
Li’l’ sick lamb dat somet’ing harm.
He so young then, big and strong,
Pick li’l’ girl up, take her ’long,—
Poor li’l’ tired girl, yust like you,—
Lift her up an’ take her too.
Hold her tight an’ carry her far,—
’Ain’t no light but yust one star.
Sheep go ‘bah-h,’ an’ road so steep;
Li’l’ girl she go fast asleep.”
Every night the red-haired child
Begs to hear the story,
When the pasture ridges burn
With the sunset glory.
She can never understand,
Since the tale ends gladly,
Why her mother, telling it,
Always smiles so sadly.
Wonderingly she looks away
Where her mother’s gazing;
Only sees the drifting herd,
In the sunset grazing.
SPANISH JOHNNY
The old West, the old time,
The old wind singing through
The red, red grass a thousand miles,
And, Spanish Johnny, you!
He’d sit beside the water-ditch
When all his herd was in,
And never mind a child, but sing
To his mandolin.
The big stars, the blue night,
The moon-enchanted plain:
The olive man who never spoke,
But sang the songs of Spain.
His speech with men was wicked talk—
To hear it was a sin;
But those were golden things he said
To his mandolin.
The gold songs, the gold stars,
The world so golden then:
And the hand so tender to a child
Had killed so many men.
He died a hard death long ago
Before the Road came in;
The night before he swung, he sang
To his mandolin.