Dreams and Days: Poems Part 7

Indians caught him; an' they gave him--hail; Cut an' tortured him, till he was bleeding; Yet they found that still they weren't succeeding.

"Where's that squaw?" they asked. "We'll have her blood!

Either that, or grind you into mud; Pick your eyes out, too, if you can't see Where she's gone to. Which, now, shall it be?

Tell us where she's hid."

"I'll show the way,"

Blackmouth says; an' leads toward dawn of day, Till they come straight out beside the brink Of a precipice that seems to sink Into everlasting gulfs below.

"Loose me!" Blackmouth tells 'em. "But go slow."

Then they loosed him; and, with one swift leap, Blackmouth swooped right down into the deep;-- Jumped out into s.p.a.ce beyond the edge, While the Apaches cowered along the ledge.

Seven hundred feet, they say. That's guff!

Seventy foot, I tell you, 's 'bout enough.

Indians called him a dead antelope; But they couldn't touch the bramble-slope Where he, bruised and stabbed, crawled under brush.

_Their_ hand was beat hollow: _he_ held a flush.

Day and night he limped or crawled along: Winds blew hot, yet sang to him a song (So he told me, once) that gave him hope.

Every time he saw a shadow grope Down the hillsides, from a flying cloud, Something touched his heart that made him proud: Seemed to him he saw her dusky face Watching over him, from place to place.

Every time the dry leaves rustled near, Seemed to him she whispered, "Have no fear!"

So at last he found her:--they were married.

But, from those days on, he always carried Marks of madness; actually--yes!-- Trusted the good faith of these U. S.

Indian hate an' deviltry he braved; 'N' scores an' scores of white men's lives he saved.

Just for that, his name should be engraved.

But it won't be! U. S. gov'ment dreads Men who're taller 'n politicians' heads.

All the while, his wife--tho' half despised By the frontier folks that civilized An' converted her--served by his side, Helping faithfully, until she died.

Left alone, he lay awake o' nights, Thinkin' what they'd both done for the whites.

Then he thought of her, and Indian people; Tryin' to measure, by the church's steeple, Just how Christian our great nation's been Toward those native tribes so full of sin.

When he counted all the wrongs we've done To the wild men of the setting sun, Seem'd to him the gov'ment wa'n't quite fair.

When its notes came due, it wa'n't right there.

U. S. gov'ment promised Indians lots, But at last it closed accounts with shots.

Mouth was black, perhaps;--but _he_ was white.

Calling gov'ment black don't seem polite: Yet I'll swear, its actions wouldn't show 'Longside Blackmouth's better 'n soot with snow.

Yes, sir! Blackmouth took the other side: Honestly for years an' years he tried Getting justice for the Indians. He, Risking life an' limb for you an' me;-- He, the man who proved his good intent By his deeds, an' plainly showed he meant He would die for us,--turned round an' said: "White men have been saved. Now, save the red!"

But it didn't pan out. No one would hark.

"Let the prairie-dogs an' Blackmouth bark,"

Said our folks. And--no, he wa'n't resigned, But concluded he had missed his find.

"_Where_ is Blackmouth?" That I can't decide.

Red an' white men, both, he tried to serve; But I guess, at last, he lost his nerve.

Kind o' tired out. See? He had his pride: Gave his life for others, far 's he could, Hoping it would do 'em some small good.

Didn't seem to be much use. An' so-- Well; you see that man, dropped in the snow, Where the crowd is? Suicide, they say.

Looks as though he had quit work, to stay.

Bullet in the breast.--His _body_ 's there; But poor Blackmouth's gone--I don't know where!

THE CHILD YEAR

I

"Dying of hunger and sorrow: I die for my youth I fear!"

Murmured the midnight-haunting Voice of the stricken Year.

There like a child it perished In the stormy thoroughfare: The snow with cruel whiteness Had aged its flowing hair.

Ah, little Year so fruitful, Ah, child that brought us bliss, Must we so early lose you-- Our dear hopes end in this?

II

"Too young am I, too tender, To bear earth's avalanche Of wrong, that grinds down life-hope, And makes my heart's-blood blanch.

"Tell him who soon shall follow Where my tired feet have bled, He must be older, shrewder, Hard, cold, and selfish-bred--

"Or else like me be trampled Under the harsh world's heel.

'Tis weakness to be youthful; 'Tis death to love and feel."

III

Then saw I how the New Year Came like a scheming man, With icy eyes, his forehead Wrinkled by care and plan

For trade and rule and profit.

To him the fading child Looked up and cried, "Oh, brother!"

But died even while it smiled.

Down bent the harsh new-comer To lift with loving arm The wanderer mute and fallen; And lo! his eyes were warm;

All changed he grew; the wrinkles Vanished: he, too, looked young-- As if that lost child's spirit Into his breast had sprung.

So are those lives not wasted, Too frail to bear the fray.

So Years may die, yet leave us Young hearts in a world grown gray.

CHRISTENING

To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,-- Where soft lights rippled and the shadows tarried Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,-- Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried;

White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower; White as the daisies that adorned the chancel; Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower, Offered to G.o.d as her most precious hansel.

Then ceased the music, and the little one Was silent, with the mult.i.tude a.s.sembled Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and trembled.