Part 2

There was deep grass in the meadows, There were breezes, sweet and cool, There were trout, so lazy, swimming In each clear and crystal pool.

There the birds were singing sweetly Their sweet, yet plaintive song, That told me of God's great wonders There among their happy throng.

There were deer-trails, without number, Bear-tracks everywhere were seen, And the squirrels were never silent In those forests dark and green.

There the wild ducks they were nesting, There the loon called on the pond, There the snow-caps rose to sky-line In the distance far beyond.

Then I was suddenly wakened, Grabbed by the shoulder so hard, "Roll out now, breakfast is ready!" It was Jack, my "bunkie" and "pard."

*THE OLD FRYING PAN*

You may talk of your broilers, both single and double, Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble; But when out in the hills, just find if you can, Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.

Over a campfire you don't need a stove, Out in the hills, the place we all love, Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man, With many the thanks to the old frying pan.

When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown, I know old epicures would look, with a frown At the meal set before me; dispute it who can, With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.

With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried, Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside, You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can; Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?

Many a miner, in the good days of old, Way back in the foothills a-searching for gold Deep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand, Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.

There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurry Used no other iron, but why should they worry, For many and many and many the brand, That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.

So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high, That you're the best dish, till the day that I die; Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her man With no other club but the old frying pan.

*THE RAINY DAY*

The hills are smothered in a fog, The sky is somber-grey, The rain is coming in a mist, A cheerless rainy day.

To me the trees are weeping, With their branches drooping low, Their tears are steady falling, With heavy drops, yet slow.

The birds they all are silent, And not one sweet silvery note, Re-echoes through the forest, From our feathered songster's throat.

Not one thing to break the silence, Save the rain-drops as they fall, As I watch the clouds roll onward, Or climb the mountain wall.

And somehow I feel so happy, Though the world seems full of pain, So I let my gaze go farther, When the sun will shine again.

The trees and flowers and grasses, They will all the fresher seem, And the laughter will be louder From the rippling mountain stream.

The birds will sing far sweeter Than they did in days gone by, The air will be the fresher, And of bluer tint the sky.

We all do love the sunshine, We love the moonlight, too, We also love the twilight, And the falling of the dew;

But I never growl or grumble, Only this I wish to say;-- That this world would be a desert Without you, oh! Rainy Day!

*THE STREAMLET*

Tell me little streamlet, As you onward flow; Why in such a hurry, Whither do you go?

The stream slowed up a moment Within the alder's shade; "I go to join my brothers, And of us are rivers made.

We water the hills and meadows, We turn the mills' great wheel, We carry logs to the mill-dam, Where they're cut by teeth of steel.

We furnish power for the motor That pulls the railroad train; And after they have used our power, It is given back again.

So you see we enjoy working, That's why we laugh all day, For when one's heart is in one's work, Why! work is greatest play!

And growing broader and deeper, We carry ships on our breasts, 'Till at last we reach the ocean, And there we have time to rest."

*ED ENDERS' GRAVE*

When old Ed Enders first took ill, 'Twas first a fever and then a chill, His respiration was very weak, Throat so clogged he could scarcely speak.

The doctors prescribed all kinds of dope And hotwater bottles, but had no hope. Then old Bill Wallace and old Hank Lee, And old Dad Lyons got on a spree;

And when half full old Bill did cry, And says, "Old Ed is about to die. I ain't no doctor, I can't shoot pills, I've never prescribed for no one's ills

But I do believe we can pull Ed through, If you all will help me;--I mean you two. If old Ed dies, just stop and think, He will never buy us another drink!

He has the money in that there claim, If we let him die it will be a shame. Old Ed is a feller no one can ride, He will always take the other side.

If you say no, why he'll say 'yes' Just to be contrary up to the last. So now we'll try old Ed to save,-- A committee of three to pick his grave.

As we can't agree where to make his bed, We will have to leave it to poor old Ed." "It will work," says Dad, with a tear in his eye, "And I for one am ready to try."

Then up spoke Hank, "This ain't no joke, Fill up the glasses and then we'll smoke." So the three went down to Old Ed's room, Faces as solemn as any tomb.

Old Ed says, "Boys, I'm on my way!" Bill says, "You'll never see the day, And as we were idle, and time to save, We've been picking a place to dig your grave.

Now Hank wants to plant you in the shade, Where the trail climbs up that steepest grade, For you hunted the shade when the sun was hot, And the land is worthless in that there spot.

But Dad wants you laid on that sunny slope, There's a hole all ready in that old stope. You hunted the sun when the weather was cold, And he wants you planted in that old hole.

But I says, 'Boys, it is my wish, To plant him where he liked to fish; For he always fished at the same old hole, Too lazy to walk and carry his pole.'

Now Ed, we as a committee of three, Will leave it to you, we can't agree." Old Ed looked up from his bed of pain, Looked at them over and over again.

What he said to them won't do to tell, At least he said, "You can go to hell! You won't find the likes wherever you roam, Rake the hot place over with a fine-tooth comb.

Such a bunch as you,--right here I swear, Pick what you damn please, I won't be there." Now listen, dear folks, I am here to tell, In just three days old Ed got well.

*SPRINGTIME*

When sun begins to melt the snow And the birds commence to sing, And the days are getting longer, Then we know 'tis surely spring.

It is then you get a fever, But your temp'ture does not raise, It's a kind of lazy feeling On those balmy warm spring days.

And it starts your mind to working, While your thoughts commence to stray, To the hills and lakes and rivers, And green woodlands far away.

And it makes you feel so drowsy That you long to go to sleep, Out beneath some tall green pine tree, Where the shadows cool and deep

Just seem to be a-calling, While the stream beneath the hill Is chuckling with glad laughter, And I seem to hear it still.

'Tis then memory breaks its halter And stampedes and starts to go, Till it stops in childhood's pasture In the days of long ago;

Where the birds were all a-singing, Songs so rare and pure and sweet, Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,-- Flowers blooming at your feet.

Then the city seems a prison, While brick walls like prison bars, Seem to reach clear up to heaven, Till they mingle with the stars.

Still I do not call a doctor, For he cannot ease, I know, Any longings for the wildwood Of the days of long ago.

*THE CALL OF NATURE*

My traps are getting rusty Here upon my cabin wall; The leaves are turning golden, 'Tis already early fall.

My snow-shoes need repairing, And so does my canoe; My dogs are begging, coaxing, And there's just one thing to do.

I'll have to quit this cruising, And a-looking over land, And lay aside my compass, They can get another man.

For a section-line can't hold me, I despise a "bearing" tree, When I hear the wild geese honking, And I know they're calling me.

I'll go back into the mountains, Back of Uncle Sam's survey, Where the only line's a trap-line, And I'm going there to stay;

Where the only trails are game-trails, Where the moose unchallenged roam, There I'll build for me a cabin And I'll call that cabin "home."

In the wildest, greenest forest, That no man has come to spoil, With his sawmills and his railroads, And his many slaves of toil--

Where the streams are not polluted, Stopped by dams of mine or mill, Where everything is Nature's And the rush of life is still.

So I'll send my resignation, And I know the Boss will say, "Won't you stay until the winter, And of course, we'll raise your pay."

But no salary can hold me, I have heard that line before;-- So here's good-bye to cruising From today for evermore.

*MY REQUEST*

When I leave this old dreary world To cross to the Great Unknown; Don't bury me in a costly tomb Or raise a shaft of stone--

But lay me on some hill-side, Mid the forest that I love; Where the wild flowers bloom around me And the eagle soars above:

With an ancient ledge above me, One that is all moss-grown; These words inscribed upon it, "He is one of Nature's own.

One who loved the forest, One who loved the hills, Although his soul has taken flight, His foot-steps echo still."

*MEMORY'S CAMP-FIRE*

Come with me to the forest tall, And spend a few of autumn days, And study nature at first hand, Learn how they lived in early days. Take up your pack and rod and gun, And once again to seek the wild, Leave all your sorrows far behind, And be as carefree as a child.

Then memory's camp-fire kindle bright And as you feel its friendly blaze, Just let your mind go back o'er time To happy scenes of early days. When you yourself were but a child That roamed at will the woodland o'er; Oh! how your heart did exultant leap Always new country to explore.

Then take your gun from memory's rack Which for many moons has forgotten hung And see if you again can sing, The songs that for years, you've left unsung. Then tell some tale of early days Of when you hunted in the glade, Or when you caught the bear asleep, Or lured the trout from the alder shade.

And as each spark arises high From this camp-fire's golden light, The moon will shed its yellow rays On distant snow-caps clear and bright. And should these lines make you recall Some happy days 'neath skies so fair, To me this little camp-fire smoke Will be sweet incense on the air.

*INDIAN TRAILS*

Creeping along the mountain, Or winding along the stream, Each year growing dimmer and dimmer, Then fading away like a dream--

Almost impossible to follow, Still in the days long ago, These trails were the only highways And whither did they go?

Some lead deep in the forest Where they hunted the deer and bear, Where they dried the meat for food And skins made them clothes to wear.

While some lead to lakes and rivers Where the loon and wild geese call, To rice-fields in late October When the snow commenced to fall,--

While some climbed high on the mountain Where the huckleberries grew, And ripened upon the sunny slopes, Sweetened by mountain dew,--

Others found way to the border tribes Where the war-whoops loud and shrill, Echoed along the cliffs and crags,-- Me-thinks I can hear them still.

Now only a scar on some tree remains Of the trails of the long ago, The summer comes, the fall appears, With winter's frost and snow.

And as each season passes, Leaves dimmer every trace, I can see the trails a-passing, The same as the Indian race.

*WINTER*

Winter has descended o'er mountain and hill, His mantle of snow has spread; The grass and flowers are withered and brown, The leaves on the bushes are dead.

The streams all are silent in icy embrace, They are held in his bondage so strong: Not even one faint murmur is heard, Where they laughed so loud and so long.

The trees are draped in a mantle of snow, That clings to their boughs like a shroud, And the mountains cold and still and white Appear like a light fleecy cloud.

The cattle have come from their good summer range, The sheep have all entered the fold, Winter, they know, is starting its slumber, And the wind is so searching and cold.

The logs in the fire-place crackle and glow-- Our cabin's all cozy and warm, The dogs are a-sleeping,--content as can be, So why worry o'er winter's storm.

*PASSING OF THE RANGE*

Today as I gaze o'er the prairie That stretches away into space, I look back only a few short years At the change that's taken place.

When I was one of the cowboys, All our time was spent on the range; Now I don't see even one rider,-- 'Tis then I feel lonesome and strange.

No trail-herds with plaintive lowing, No shouting, or singing to steers, No sound of horses mad galloping,-- It almost moves me to tears.

For then we rode stirrup to stirrup, While the jingle of spurs played a tune; Oh! could I go back to the round-up For a day at the cow-camp in June.

When the grass was so green on the prairie, With the cattle all sleek and so fat, Each rider all dressed for hard riding, With high heels and chaps and wide hat.

Each with his string of horses, Some broken and others half wild, The wilder the better he liked them, Happy and carefree as a child;--

Wild as the steers that they wrangled, Hardy as the bronchos they rode, Ready to take others' troubles, Or carry another one's load.

Those were the real days I tell you-- Night-herding by light of the stars; Three weeks drive to the stockyards Where we loaded the steers in the cars.

Then when the loading was finished And the cattle were on their way, The Boss called the bunch together And gave us our season's pay.

We were just like a bunch of children, And many an old-timer like me Recalls being served in his saddle, When on a periodical spree.

Now, cattle are held in pastures, They no longer roam wild and free,-- And the cowboys are gone forever, Leaving only a memory.

And as each one crosses the border That is over the Great Divide, I hope the bunk-house is ample And none will be left outside.

*THE CABIN OF MYSTERY*

No trail leads to this cabin, Not even a blaze on a tree, Hidden beneath the tall dark firs Is this cabin of mystery.

No one knew its builder Or when this cabin was made, Not one of the oldest trappers Can explain or give any aid.

The stove still stands in the corner, The table all neat and clean And the cupboard still holds its grubstake As fine as ever was seen.

But there are no traps or stretchers So no trapper was he, No prospector's pick or shovel,-- All adds to the mystery.

No name upon the door-jamb, No initials cut in the wall, No calendar hangs by the window, Just silence and mystery--that's all.

But the hills hold many a secret, That the trails and streams never tell, We can only guess at the answer And perhaps it's just as well.

Now as I gaze at this cabin,-- Brush almost obscuring the door,-- Many moons have you guarded the secret, Keep guard for as many more.

But perhaps when we cross the border And step aboard death's train, The secrets of hills and mountains, To us will then be plain.

*WHEN THE LEAVES COMMENCE TO FALL*

When the days commence to shorten And the nights are getting long, And we miss the flies and skeeters And the song birds' sweetest song,-- To some the summer's passing, Leaves the world a darker hue, But to me it makes it brighter, Just the same as if 'twas new. As I say, some people hate it, But I love it best of all; When the nights are getting frosty And the leaves commence to fall.

You get up in the morning And the air is crisp and cold, The hills have on their war paint, Crimson, orange, brown and gold; And to me they have a message That I can't forget at all, When the nights are getting frosty And the leaves commence to fall.

I can easily foresee That I cannot tarry long, So I at once get busy, And my heart is full of song; As I look my snow-shoes over, And patch up my canoe; As happy as a little boy Whose red-top boots are new. And I work both late and early And don't want to stop at all, When the nights are getting frosty And the leaves commence to fall.

Now the north wind is a-blowing But, then little do I care, For I know a little cabin Holds all my grubstake there. And that very self-same cabin Is dearer to me than all, When the nights are getting frosty And the leaves commence to fall.

And so I will soon be starting To where the deer on meadows play, And the wondrous Northern lights Make the forest light as day. Back to the lakes and rivers, As straight as a laden bee, Back to the forest primeval, That's where I long to be! Trapping on creeks and marshes, Back where the bull-moose call. When the nights are getting frosty And the leaves commence to fall.

*AU REVOIR*

Now here's my pack of trail-told rhymes, Written by me at varying times; Some when the flowers were fresh with bloom And the air was fragrant with sweet perfume.

And others when forests were dark and drear, And the meadows all were brown and sear; The trees were leafless that the wind moaned through, And frost in the morning replaced the dew.

And some when the snow through his mantle deep Had told the flowers to go to sleep; And ever as I took my pen in hand To picture God's wonders so noble and grand,

I felt if I was able to even phase One thing correctly, I would sing His praise To the long trail's end where e'er I tramp, Till I drop my pack at the last home camp.

And so dear friends, when you gaze on these lines, Should they take you back to some former times When you, yourself, were a knight of the hills, And these lines cause your heart some thrills;

And cause you to say, "He's a friend of mine, He's a son of Nature, at Nature's shrine!" Then the world will be sweet as the new mown hay, Or the blossoms that bloom in the month of May.