Part 1
Produced by Al Haines.
*RHYMES*
*of the*
*ROCKIES*
BY
JAMES W. WHILT
SECOND EDITION
COPYRIGHT, 1922 BY JAMES W. WHILT JERRY G. MASEK
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY CHICAGO THE HAMMOND PRESS
_Printed in the United States of America_
*PREFACE*
Having spent the major part of my life in the Rocky Mountains as timber cruiser, packer, trapper and guide, I have learned to love their beauty and grandeur; enjoy their solitude and feel that they are a part of me.
It is there one can breathe the air of the Great Out Doors and gaze on mountains and glaciers whose never ending chain stretches into space and to listen to the waterfall's laughter. Where the denizens of the wild roam unmolested as they did for ages past, when man first came to this Virgin Paradise. Where camp-fires still glow at eventide,--their smoke wreaths adding incense to the freshness of the air.
While my words cannot express even in one detail the beauty as I see it, I truly and sincerely hope these few humble rhymes will paint in your mind a mental picture that time itself may impair but not erase.
With these thoughts ever vividly before me, I dedicate this book to the Rocky Mountains and their "wonder child"--the Glacier National Park.
JAMES W. WHILT.
Eureka, Montana May 25, 1922
*CONTENTS*
Adventurer's Luck Au Revoir Cabin of Mystery, The Call of Nature, The Chinook Wind, The Ed Enders' Grave Indian Trails Lark Song, The Memory's Camp-Fire Moonlight My Blanket-Roll My Dream My Garden My Jewels My Request My Rhymes Old Frying Pan, The Pack Train, The Pale Horse, The Passing of the Range Place Where I Was Born, The Rainy Day, The Rainstorm, The Silent Voices of the Night Snowstorm, The Springtime Streamlet, The To the Robin Trapper's Story, The Trapper's Trail, The When the Leaves Commence to Fall Winter
*RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES*
*MY RHYMES*
*THE TRAPPER'S TRAIL*
Only a scar on a sapling That is almost overgrown; A withered snag far up the stream Where the ax marks still are shown.
This tells 'tis the trail of a trapper Made many years ago, So I take up the trail and follow, And I care not where I go.
I follow the trail through the foothills, To me 'tis as plain as a road, For I've spent many years in the forest And know me the trappers' code.
And I read as I follow this trapper, That whoever trapped this line Was a tried and true knight of the hills, And I call him a friend of mine.
I knew where to look for his lynx sets, And I found them, every one; I found where he'd slept in his lean-to When his day's long hike was done.
Then the trail led far up the mountain Where the spruce grew dark and tall; And there were his sets for the martin, Using the old dead-fall:
For the traps were too heavy to carry So far up that mountain's deep snow; Then the trail dipped over the summit And into the basin below.
Then my mind began to ponder On this unknown friend of mine, Who had sought the peace of the forest And the whisp'rings of the pine.
Perhaps 'twas fate that led him To seek a trapper's trade; Perchance 'twas his love for the silence, For a trapper is born--not made.
It takes men with hearts of iron Who dare to face the wild; Men with the hearts of warriors bold, And the faith of an innocent child.
At last I came to his cabin, Now mouldering to decay, And there on some poles in a corner The bones of the trapper lay;
His rusted gun beside him, Reclined upon a log, And there on a moulded deer-skin Were the bones of his faithful dog.
Pals they had lived together And pals together had died; Let us hope they're still pals together, Across on the other side.
*MY GARDEN*
I have seen many beautiful gardens, Gardens that were tended with care, With roses, violets and tulips,-- They each have their fragrance so rare.
But the garden most lovely to me Is one where few men have trod; 'Tis a meadow high up in the mountains, And I call it the Garden of God.
Fenced in by mighty rock-walls And forests of evergreen pine, There is no one else to claim it, So I call this garden mine.
There are hair-bells, oh! so dainty Suspended on thread-life stem, And the blossoms full of mountain dew Makes each a perfect gem.
And such tiny lady-slippers, The kind the Fairies wear,-- Me-thinks 'tis a sacred garden, There is such sweet incense there.
There the bear-grass plumes are waving In the cool and fragrant breeze, And the wood's orchestra is playing Close by in the tall larch trees.
The partridges' drum is beating On a log so very near, And shy violets are peeping,-- Me-thinks they came up to hear.
'Tis then I often wonder As I gaze on this garden so fair, How many a blossom's growing To be wasted upon the air.
But I see that the beautiful flowers That bloom on this mountain so high, Are far too sacred for us below And are beloved by those in the sky.
So I fain would pluck one blossom, From this sacred garden so sweet, But I leave them in all their beauty To bloom at the Maker's feet.
*ADVENTURER'S LUCK*
Did you ever go a-trapping Where you knew the fur was plenty, Where a year ago you could have Made a bunch of "jack"? Next fall you got in early, Built your cabin in a hurry,-- Then didn't even find a weasel track?
Did you ever go prospecting Where the gold was found in millions, And even every musher Had made a pile of wealth? And you worked just like a beaver Cause you felt you couldn't leave 'er, And all you got was badly broken health?
Did you ever go a-fishing When the weather,--it was perfect! And you gathered up your tackle And had it fixed just right: And you whipped the streams and bait-fished And maybe swore a little, And then you never even got a bite?
Did you ever go a-hunting When the woods were damp and gloomy, Where everything was stillness And everywhere a trail, And you traveled over ridges, Through the hollows, round the ledges And then you never even glimpsed a tail?
But such is luck I find it, And the fellow who stays by it Will at last succeed and win the day: Be he trapper, or prospector, Be he fisherman, or hunter, I have always found it That it's pluck that wins the day.
*THE LARK SONG*
This morn at dawn I woke, The rain beat its tattoo, And through the dewy, fragrant air A lark's song whistled through:
And while he sang his song so true, Then sang my soul's refrain; "Oh! may my heart, like yours, dear bird, Sing ever through the rain."
And when the sky of life seems grey, The sun itself seems very dark, And all ahead is black despair, I bethink me of the lark.
And always have I found this fact; However low the clouds may drop-- The sun is always shining clear Upon the highest mountain top:
So we should look away beyond The things upon this world below, And sing our praises unto Him Who makes the rain and snow:
And ever as I travel on Upon this life's uncertain road, I meet with fellows every day Who carry just as big a load.
No matter if the sky is dark, Or if it rains the whole day long, God's messenger from out the sky Is pouring forth his little song.
*THE TRAPPER'S STORY*
The trapper sat in his cabin With grizzled beard and hair, Yet straight as any soldier's Were his massive shoulders square. Eyes as clear as a mountain spring That could pierce you at a glance, Sharp as a pointed arrow Or Indian warrior's lance.
"Pard, will you kindly tell me Why you seek the hills, Why you love the solitude The lakes and crystal rills? I don't want to be inquisitive, Or pry into your life, But;--did you ever have a sweetheart, Did you ever have a wife?"
The trapper turned his eyes on me, 'Twas with a friendly smile:-- "Yes, Pal, I had a sweetheart, Also a wife and child. We had a little cabin, With plenty to wear and eat; We were richer far than any king, 'Twas love so pure and sweet.
And Oh! how she loved the forest, And how she would sing all day; Happier far than the spotted fawns That on yonder hillside play. Then she told me the news one evening, That made me feel so proud; A child was soon to crown our joy; Say;--I walked along a cloud!
Now, Pard, I can't explain to you,-- How am I going to tell Of the joy within our cabin That we both had loved so well? But God loves the best and purest,-- Say, my eyes are growing dim-- He took her up to Heaven Along with Little Jim!
So now I seek the forest For I know her Spirit is here, For very often on the trail I feel her presence near. And as long as the Creator Will let me cruise around, It will always be the woods for me, I think them sacred ground."
*TO THE ROBIN*
Dear little, sweet little robin Dressed in nice grey coat With your warm red sweater about you Drawn close around your throat.
With your bright pink stockings, That you keep so clean; Don't you ever stain them In the grass so green?
Eyes so dark and beautiful, Bright as they can be, Can spy a worm upon the ground, And you high in a tree.
And the songs you sing me! I remember every note, All so sweet and silver pure, Warbled from your throat.
When you sing at break of dawn Heralding the day, Tell of hearts so young and true With your sweetest lay.
Then again at eventide When the sun is low You sing your sweetest lullaby Crooning, soft and low.
Then it starts me thinking Of the One above Who put you here to sing to us Telling of His love.
*THE PLACE WHERE I WAS BORN*
There's a little old log cabin, And its walls have fallen down, Snow has broken down its rafters, Not one log that's left is sound.
The brush obscures the doorway, Everything looks so forlorn, 'Tis the little old log cabin, The place where I was born--
Briers o'errun the pathway Which leads to the crystal spring, That cradled the tiny brooklet Where the oriole used to sing.
The hills are fields and pastures Where I roamed when but a child; It was all unbroken forest, And it stretched out far and wild.
The meadows ran in wavelets, When the wind so wild and free Blew o'er their level surface Like a green and billowy sea.
There was childhood's shout and laughter Within that cabin small; But to me it was a palace, With wide and stately hall.
Our pleasures there were sweeter Than a rose without a thorn, In that little old log cabin,-- The place where I was born.
Oh!--the little old log cabin! Where the air was sweet and cool, Where our school-house was the forest, And we went to Nature's school;
Could I but re-trace my footsteps Over life's uncertain road, Could I go back to that cabin, Lighter far would be my load.
*MY JEWELS*
The jewels of life are many, But the jewel most sacred to me And the one that I prize the highest, Is the jewel of memory.
My jewel of love that I cherished, And cared for day by day, Faded just like a flower And finally passed away.
My jewel of hope lost its lustre. It sparkles for me no more, Yet it tells me that I will meet her, Across on the other shore.
My jewel of faith was the smallest, Yet it's growing year by year, And as I gaze upon it, I can feel some presence near.
When I am alone in the twilight, And weary with cares of the day, I look out upon the meadows, Where the fire-flies are at play,--
And I open this cherished casket, Where I keep these jewels rare, And when I gaze upon them My troubles pass into the air.
I like to look up at the stars That sparkle up above, And wonder if she is up there, The one that I fondly love.
Then this jewel I call memory, So crystal-clear and deep, I clasp to my breast and hold it, Till at last I fall asleep.
*THE RAINSTORM*
Here in the deep tangled forest All is quiet and still, While far to the west the thunder, Re-echoes from hill to hill.
And the lightning's flash, ever vivid, In great gashes knives the air; The rain comes down in torrents, A deluge everywhere!
Bathing the heat-sick flowers That they may bloom once more; Painting the grass a greener hue, That grows by our cabin door;
Making the pastures fresher, For the cows and shepherd's herds, Making the pools by the road-side,-- Bath tubs for the birds.
Then the thunder peals louder and louder, Firing its shrapnel of rain. The clouds charge after each other, And the drouth is defeated again.
Then through a rent in the clouds The sun's searchlight casts its ray, And the Rain-God looks over the valley And sees the result of the fray.
And as He sees his conquest, His victory's flag is unfurled, In a beautiful colored rainbow,-- He is telling all of the world,
What a victory was his, what a triumph! It's flashed down the milky way, Then the sentinel stars dot the heavens, And the dew-drops sound taps for the day.
*MY BLANKET-ROLL*
A warm old friend is my blanket-roll We've been pals for many a year; And when I look back at the days gone by I almost drop a tear.
A warmer friend I never had Than you! old roll of a bed, And after I've sung all your praises I can, Not half enough has been said.
You were a friend in summer heat, A friend in winter's snow; And whenever the wanderlust seized me, You were always ready to go.
From the sunny South to the Hudson Bay Or the land of the Western Sea; Then to Alaska's frozen shores You have traveled along with me.
Now you're getting worn, and your tarp is torn, You have stood too much hard weather; But I am the same, and it seems a shame, Yet,--we are growing old together!
You're a good old friend, I will say again, And you, I will not discard. And as long as the Lord will let me roam I will keep you for my pard.
But some day I'll cross to the other side, Where we all some day must go; Where there is no wind, or no more rain, And unheard of is the snow;
And when I take that last long trip To that eternal goal; My dying wish is to snuggle up In you,--my blanket-roll.
*THE CHINOOK WIND*
There's a soft warm breeze upon the air, 'Tis moaning soft and low, 'Tis cold and chill upon the hill, Yet it's melting all the snow.
The Indians all tell us, That many moons gone by Right here within the mountains, The North wind it did cry.
The Chinook wind made answer, And said, "I'm not afraid," And then there raged a battle, For a beautiful Indian Maid.
The Chinook wind was the victor, The North wind went away, But the Maiden fair had died of despair, And deep in her grave she lay.
So every year his voice we hear, Calling so soft and sweet, Searching the grave of the one he would save, Melting the snow at our feet.
'Tis the lover's wind, so the Indians say, And his heart is ever sad, But they welcome his coming, every one, For the North wind is gone and they're glad.
*THE PALE HORSE*
When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride, To the home ranch, over the Great Divide, Will I find the trail blazed all the way, A place to camp, at the close of day?
Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair? (For no one has ever come back from there) But the good book says, if we shoot square, "Have no fear of the trails over there!"
An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight, O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate, Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme, And all will be one pleasant dream.
No herding of dogies on frost night, Or wild stampede in the morning's light. No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers. No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.
But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow, Over a range ever free from snow; And for those who lived as He who died To save us riders--that Great Divide
Will be only a foothill, so very low; That on its summit sweet flowers do grow, And the trail itself will be smooth all the way, With a place to camp at the close of day.
When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate, Peter will say, "You sure shot straight," And the gate will open for me, I know, Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"
*THE SNOWSTORM*
The snow has started falling, 'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain, The trees bend under their burden, Shake free, and are draped again.
While I sit here safe in my cabin Where all is cozy and warm, I can peer into the future, And view the woods after the storm.
I can see the deer seeking the low-lands, In search of their daily food, I can see the hunter's eyes glisten, For he knows that the tracking is good.
The lion dogs leap in their kennels, There is barking and wagging of tails, The hunter examines his snow-shoes, And dreams of "kills" and of trails.
The bear trails lead far up the mountain Where the cliffs are rugged and steep, And there is some cave in the ledges, They're beginning their winter's sleep.
They will sleep till the wild geese awaken them, As they take their Northern flight, Then again they will seek the hill-sides Where the sun shines clear and bright.
Now the wild geese honk as they leave us, Followed close by wind-driven snow; They are telling all of us trappers, But, of course, all us trappers know
That whenever the wild geese go homing, It is time that our traps are set;-- Snow, I have been waiting for you! You are a welcome visitor--you bet.
*SILENT VOICES OF THE NIGHT*
When the shades of evening gather, And night's curtain's dropping low, And the stars they dot the heavens With their candles, all aglow;--
Then to me there come the voices On each cool and fragrant breeze, Stealing in from every quarter, Creeping through among the trees.
And these voices, ever silent, Scarcely heard, their steps so light; Yet, to me are ever welcome; Silent voices of the night.
When within the noisy city, With its surging, busy crowd, The voices keep a-calling, And they seem to call so loud.
I can hear them pleading, coaxing, And to me they call so plain, And they have the self-same message, "Yes, we want you back again."
Voices of my little camp-fire, Voices of the woods and hills, Voices from the snow-capped mountains, Voices from the crystal-rills;
And I ever hear them calling, 'Till I feel like taking flight, Back to where the voices whisper,-- Silent voices of the night.
Oh! those voices, how I love them! Whether near or far away, And they ask me not to leave them, "Won't you please come back and stay?"
"Come and we will try to please you," Calling from their wildwood home, "Yes, my loved ones, I am coming, And from you no more will roam."
*THE PACK TRAIN*
Did you hear that far off tinkle In the canyon far below? Listen! can't you hear it? It is ringing very slow.
'Tis the bell upon the lead-mare, As she's winding up the trail, Guiding all the other horses, Hitched to one another's tail.
They are headed for the camps, Where they've lately made a find; And the pack trains are all busy Carrying grubstake to the mine.
Every horse is heavy loaded; Ask me how that I can tell? That is easy for the packer, 'Tis the tinkle of the bell.
Away back in the eighties When they made the Wild Horse strike;-- We were in there with a pack train, Me and old Pack Saddle Mike.
Mike could throw more knots and hitches Than an expert sailor's crew, Was a wizard with a lash-rope, Knew what every horse could do.
Well, we packed for them there miners, 'Till the weather got so cold It would freeze the lash-ropes solid, And 'twas hard to make them hold;
It was hard to cinch a saddle, Harder still to cinch a pack, But the cold we never heeded; We were making piles of "jack."
We left camp one frosty morning, Started for our winter range; Two hard days to reach the summit, Then the weather took a change,
Hurled the snow into our faces, Cut our eyes like broken glass, And we had to stop the horses, While the snow fell thick and fast.
For two days we held the horses On that mountain in the snow, While the mercury was flirting Close to forty or more below.
Well, we had to shoot the horses, Better far that, than let them die, Made us snow-shoes from the saddles And climbed o'er the summit high.
When at last we reached the ranches, Almost dead from wind and snow; Mike took down with the pneumonia, And the next day had to go.
While he lay upon his pillow, All his body racked with pain, He'd keep talking of his horses, Calling each one by its name.
Then he called me to his bedside, And he said, "I'm going to ride, And I know I'll find the horses Over on the other side."
*MOONLIGHT*
When the moon has climbed the heavens, And the sun has gone to rest, And the evening shadows gather, That's the time I love the best.
Seated by our little camp-fire, In the forest dark and tall, With the silence all around us, Save the roar of water-fall--
Then the deer steal in the meadows, Velvet shod, so still are they, While among the waving grass-tops Spotted fawns are there at play.
Then to me there comes a memory, Of the days, now past and gone, When my life was just in blossom, I was young and life was dawn.
When I roamed the virgin forest, Just as free as birds that fly, With the moonbeams for a candle, And my cover was the sky.
Still the moon shines just as brightly, And the stars are just as clear, But I see I'm growing older Like the ending of the year.
Frost is gathering on my temple, Soon my hair will be like snow, But His will we all must follow And some day we all must go.
Yet, I'm ever, ever hoping That upon those shores of gold, We will have the self-same moonlight As we had in the days of old.
*MY DREAM*
I dreamed of a beautiful forest That lies back in the hills, With lakes of crystal clearness And such noisy mountain rills.
Where there are no trails of trappers, Where the game unchallenged roam-- Could I only find that forest, That's the place I'd call my home.
There were beaver, lynx and marten, Elk so stately, and so tall, And such sunlit open hillsides, And such lovely water-fall.