The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 30

And the way I broke the sod was a marvel, you can bet, For I fed my "steers" before the dawn of day; And when the sun went under I was plowing prairie yet, Till my Mollie blew the old tin horn for tea.

And the lazy, lousy "Injuns" came a-loafing round the lake, And a-begging for a bone or bit of bread; And the sneaking thieves would steal whatever they could take-- From the very house where they were kindly fed.

O the eastern preachers preach, and the long-haired poets sing Of the "n.o.ble braves" and "dusky maidens fair;"

But if they had pioneered 'twould have been another thing When the "Injuns" got a-hankering for their "hair."

Often when we lay in bed in the middle of the night, How the prairie-wolves would howl their jubilee!

Then Mollie she would waken in a s.h.i.+ver and a fright, Clasp our baby-pet and snuggle up to me.

There were hards.h.i.+ps you may guess, and enough of weary toil For the first few years, but then it was so grand To see the corn and wheat waving o'er the virgin soil, And two stout and loving hearts went hand in hand.

But Mollie took the fever when our second babe was born, And she lay upon the bed as white as snow; And my idle cultivator lay a rusting in the corn; And the doctor said poor Mollie she must go.

Now I never prayed before, but I fell upon my knees, And I prayed as never any preacher prayed; And Mollie always said that it broke the fell disease; And I truly think the Lord He sent us aid:

For the fever it was broken, and she took a bit of food, And O then I went upon my knees again; And I never cried before,--and I never thought I could,-- But my tears they fell upon her hand like rain.

And I think the Lord has blessed us ever since I prayed the prayer, For my crops have never wanted rain or dew: And Mollie often said in the days of debt and care, "Don't you worry, John, the Lord will help us through."

For the "pesky," painted Sioux, in the fall of 'sixty-two, Came a-whooping on their ponies o'er the plain, And they killed my pigs and cattle, and I tell you it looked "blue,"

When they danced around my blazing stacks of grain.

And the settlers mostly fled, but I didn't have a chance, So I caught my hunting-rifle long and true, And Mollie poured the powder while I made the devils dance, To a tune that made 'em jump and tumble, too.

And they fired upon the cabin; 'twas as good as any fort, But the "beauties" wouldn't give us any rest; For they skulked and blazed away, and I didn't call it sport, For I had to do my very "level best."

Now they don't call _me_ a coward, but my Mollie she's a "brick;"

For she chucked the children down the cellar-way, And she never flinched a hair tho' the bullets pattered thick, And we held the "painted beauties" well at bay.

But once when I was aiming, a bullet grazed my head, And it cut the scalp and made the air look blue; Then Mollie straightened up like a soldier and she said: "Never mind it, John, the Lord will help us through."

And you bet it raised my "grit," and I never flinched a bit, And my nerves they got as strong as steel or bra.s.s; And when I fired again I was sure that I had hit, For I saw the skulking devil "claw the gra.s.s."

Well, the fight was long and hot, and I got a charge of shot In the shoulder, but it never broke a bone; And I never stopped to think whether I was. .h.i.t or not Till we found our ammunition almost gone.

But the "Rangers" came at last--just as we were out of lead,-- And I thanked the Lord, and Mollie thanked Him, too; Then she put her arms around my neck and sobbed and cried and said: "Bless the Lord!--I knew that He would help us through."

And yonder on the hooks hangs that same old trusty gun, And above it--I am sorry they're so few-- Hang the black and braided trophies[BX] yet that I and Mollie won In that same old b.l.o.o.d.y battle with the Sioux.

[BX] Scalp-locks.

Fifteen years have rolled away since I laid my knapsack down, And my prairie claim is now one field of grain; And yonder down the lake loom the steeples of a town, And my flocks are feeding out upon the plain.

The old log-house is standing filled with bins of corn and wheat, And the cars they whistle past our cottage-home; But my span of spanking trotters they are "just about" as fleet, And I wouldn't give my farm to rule in Rome.

For Mollie and I are young yet, and monarchs, too, are we-- Of a "section" just as good as lies out-doors; And the children are so happy (and Mollie and I have three) And we think that we can "lie upon our oars."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PIONEER]

So this summer we went back to the old home by the hill: O the hills they were so rugged and so tall!

And the lofty pines were gone but the rocks were all there still, And the valleys looked so crowded and so small;

And the dear familiar faces that I longed so much to see, Looked so strangely unfamiliar and so old, That the land of hills and valleys was no more a home to me, And the river seemed a rivulet as it rolled.

So I gladly hastened back to the prairies of the West-- To the boundless fields of waving gra.s.s and corn; And I love the lake-gemmed land where the wild-goose builds her nest, Far better than the land where I was born.

And I mean to lay my bones over yonder by the lake-- By and by when I have nothing else to do-- And I'll give the "chicks" the farm, and I know for Mollie's sake, That the good and gracious Lord will help 'em through.

NIGHT THOUGHTS

"_Le notte e madre dipensien_."

I tumble and toss on my pillow, As a s.h.i.+p without rudder or spars Is tumbled and tossed on the billow, 'Neath the glint and the glory of stars.

'Tis midnight and moonlight, and slumber Has hushed every heart but my own; O why are these thoughts without number Sent to me by the man in the moon?

Thoughts of the Here and Hereafter,-- Thoughts all unbidden to come,-- Thoughts that are echoes of laughter-- Thoughts that are ghosts from the tomb,-- Thoughts that are sweet as wild honey,-- Thoughts that are bitter as gall,-- Thoughts to be coined into money,-- Thoughts of no value at all.

Dreams that are tangled like wild-wood, A hint creeping in like a hare; Visions of innocent childhood,-- Glimpses of pleasure and care; Brave thoughts that flash like a saber,-- Cowards that crouch as they come,-- Thoughts of sweet love and sweet labor In the fields at the old cottage-home.

Visions of maize and of meadow, Songs of the birds and the brooks, Glimpses of suns.h.i.+ne and shadow, Of hills and the vine-covered nooks; Dreams that were dreams of a lover,-- A face like the blus.h.i.+ng of morn,-- Hum of bees and the sweet scent of clover And a bare-headed girl in the corn.

Hopes that went down in the battle, Apples that crumbled to dust,-- Manna for rogues, and the rattle Of hail-storms that fall on the just.

The "shoddy" that lolls in her chariot,-- Maud Muller at work in the gra.s.s: Here a silver-bribed Judas Iscariot,-- There--Leonidas dead in the pa.s.s.

Commingled the good and the evil; Sown together the wheat and the tares; In the heart of the wheat is the weevil; There is joy in the midst of our cares.

The past,--shall we stop to regret it?

What is,--shall we falter and fall?

If the envious wrong thee, forget it; Let thy charity cover them all.

The c.o.c.k hails the morn, and the rumble Of wheels is abroad in the streets, Still I tumble and mumble and grumble At the fleas in my ears and--the sheets; Mumble and grumble and tumble Till the buzz of the bees is no more; In a jumble I mumble and drumble And tumble off--into a snore.

DANIEL

[Written at the grave of an old friend.]

Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last; Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,-- Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest: Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?

Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?

Joy was there in the spring-time and hope like a blossoming rose, When the wine-blood of youth ran tingling and throbbing in every vein; Chirrup of robin and blue-bird in the white-blossomed apple and pear; Carpets of green on the meadows spangled with dandelions; Lowing of kine in the valleys, bleating of lambs on the hills; Babble of brooks and the prattle of fountains that flashed in the sun; Glad, merry voices, ripples of laughter, s.n.a.t.c.hes of music and song, And blue-eyed girls in the gardens that blushed like the roses they wore.

And life was a pleasure unvexed, unmingled with sorrow and pain?

A round of delight from the blink of morn till the moon rose laughing at night?