Part 2

We'd been running fast and steady till a little after two; All the passengers were fast asleep, except, perhaps, a few Who sat a-swapping stories in the smoker, when a sight Met my eyes that fairly froze my blood in terror and affright-- For there, before me, standing in the halo of the light Was a little child outlined against the blackness of the night!

Oh, I could not be mistaken, I would know him anywhere, With his father's mouth and forehead, and his mother's eyes and hair, And little arms outstretched to me that seemed to coax and say, "Come, Daddy, come and kiss me, for I'm going far away." I flung the brake and throttle, and amid the hissing steam The vision grew, and waned away, and vanished as a dream!

My fireman was beside me: "Your nerve is going, Jack; Let's leave the engine here and take a walk along the track. The exercise will do you good." I followed as he led, Until we reached the gorge about a hundred yards ahead: The night wind cooled my temples as we walked the bridge upon, Till we sudden stopped with a sudden gasp-- --THE CENTRE SPAN WAS GONE!

* * * * * * *

You may call it hallucination, as some of the others do, But I know that the Master took my boy that night at half-past two; And the prayers of a hundred passengers had been offered up in vain Had his spirit, clad in his baby dress, not stood before my train. . . . I know I cried in my window-seat, and was otherwise ill-behaved But the life that I lost was more to me than all the lives he saved.

GOING HOME

The village lights grew dim behind, the snow lay vast and white And silent as an icy shroud spread out upon the night; A wan moon struggled with the clouds and through the misty haze The trails that branched to left and right were tangled as a maze; The settler's horses plodded in the soft, uncertain snow; And, stealing cautiously behind, a Thing moved to and fro.

The trail was little travelled, and the pale, sad, sickly light Was hindrance, rather than a help, to read the road aright; A dozen miles lay stretched between the settler and his shack: He thought of many things that night--not once of turning back. Above the crunching of the snow he heard the rising wind, But never looked--and never saw--the Thing that stole behind.

The trail was lost; the horses took their way across the plain; The settler strove to hold the course, but strove, alas, in vain; The fickle wind seemed scarce to stay a moment at a place-- Now howling in a real attack, now snapping at his face; And nearing, leering, peering, in the ghastly, ghostly light, The Thing came softly after as it followed in the night.

A light! a light! a welcome light gleamed friendly from afar: Oh, can it be--it cannot be--'tis surely not a star? Nay, nay, it is more warm and near, a happy farmer's home That beckons to the wanderer, "You need no longer roam." With eager hope they hastened on, and plied across the plain; As often as the horses fell they rose to plunge again.

The hours moved on, the miles moved on, they followed as a dream The waning light, the dying light, of that deceitful gleam, And when at last it seemed the place must almost be in sight, The light went out! Oh, perfidy! Oh, murderous, mocking light! 'Twas well the ears grew deaf before the howling of the wind, Nor heard the ghoulish chuckle of the gloating Thing behind.

The snow lay deep; the horses floundered with the heavy sleigh, Till, plunging in a sudden drift, they tore the tongue away; The sleepy driver knew it not, as through his nerveless hands His hold on life was slipping with the frozen leather bands. The night was calm and beautiful, the frost had ceased to smart. . . . _The Thing had lept upon him and was tearing at his heart!_

* * * * * * * *

The room was warm and cosy, and the light was soft and low, Her presence seemed to radiate a tender, girlish glow, And when she placed her hand in his, the soft, caressing palm Was cure for every trouble, and for every pain a balm: And she whispered, "Sweet, my sweetheart, I'll be faithful, I'll be true; In the springtime, in the springtime, I will cross the sea to you." . . .

A little bed was fashioned in the fitful firelight glow; A little boy was murmuring a prayer of long ago; And mother-hands upon his head, that fondled in his hair, And sense of quiet comfort and respite from every care; And a pillow white and downy, and a bed so soft and deep, And tired lips were lisping, "Now I lay me down to sleep." . . .

Again the scene was changed: A flood of mellow, amber light, That filled the soul with ecstasy of infinite delight; While crystal-cadenced music tinkled through the yellow glow, The lullabies of childhood and the songs of long ago; The sea of God on every hand in silent silver lay: An atom fell: its circles spread through all eternity.

* * * * * * * *

The Thing was gone; its work was done; a lump of lifeless clay Sat crouching, crouching, crouching in the dawning of the day; The frozen eyeballs stared upon a wilderness of snow, And peered into the future, to the Place no man may know. A she-wolf prowled about the spot, and sniffed below the sleigh, And howled a melancholy howl, and slunk in fear away.

JUST BE GLAD

Feelin' kind of all run down? Mighty bad: Sick and tired o' life in town? Don't be sad: What you're needing isn't rest: Square your shoulders, raise your chest; Pack your turkey; go out West-- Just be glad!

Gone astray in No-Man's-Land? Silly lad! Ought to have your carcass tanned With a gad: Should ha' kept the narrow track: Never mind, you can't go back; Things may not be quite so black-- Just be glad!

Gone and blown in all your cash On a fad? Livin' now on soup and hash? Writin' Dad? Don't you do it. Here's a tip; Keep a good stiff upper lip; Needn't fall because you slip-- Just be glad!

Friends refuse to help you out? Don't get mad! You would be a lazy lout If they had. Do not envy place or pelf; Praise the Lord, you've got your health; Dig in! Be a man yourself-- Just be glad!

All the world may say or do, Good or bad, Isn't anything to you-- Just be glad! Though you work at book or trade, Though you work with pen or spade, Hump yourself--you'll make the grade-- Just be glad!

THE CANADIAN ROCKIES

(_Lines suggested in the camp of the Alpine Club of Canada, Sherbrooke Lake, B. C., August, 1911._)

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes," Of old the Psalmist sung, And we who clutch the worldly prize, With Earth's distractions wrung, Still turn our fevered fancy's gaze Where snowy summits greet the day, Where Nature guards her mysteries, And Time becomes Eternity

Where, changeless in eternal change, The Rockies clip the clouds, And glacial lakes and granite range Sleep, in their snowy shrouds; Where silence hushes discontent, And petty fears are lost in space, The Builder of the firmament Still meets His people, face to face!

O barren cares that bitter life, O hopes unwisely dear, O fruitless fallacy and strife, O social, sham veneer!-- I to the hills will lift mine eyes, Where mantling cloud or cornice clings, To catch a glimpse of paradise, And turn again--to little things!

A PRAIRIE HEROINE

They were running out the try-lines, they were staking out the grade; Through the hills they had to measure, through the sloughs they had to wade; They were piercing unknown regions, they were crossing nameless streams, With the prairie for a pillow and the sky above their dreams, They were mapping unborn cities in the age-long pregnant clay: When they came upon a little mound across the right-of-way.

There were violets growing on it, and a buttercup or two, That whispered of affection ever old and ever new, And a little ring of whitewashed stones, bright in the summer sun, But of marble slab or granite pile or pillar there was none; And across the sleeping prairie lay a little, low-built shack, With a garden patch before it and a wheat field at its back.

"Well, boys, we'd better see him, and he hadn't ought to kick, For we'll give him time to move it if he does it pretty quick." But scarcely had the foreman spoke when straight across the farm They saw the settler coming with a rifle on his arm; Some would ha' hiked for cover but they had no place to run, But most of them decided they would stay and see the fun.

The farmer was the first to speak: "I hate to interfere, And mighty glad I am to see the railway comin' near, But before you drive your pickets across this piece of land You ought to hear the story, or you will not understand: It's the story of a girl who was as true as she was brave, And all that now remains of her is in that little grave.

"I didn't want to bring her when I hit the trail out West, I knew I shouldn't do it, and I did my level best To coax her not to come out for a year or two at least, But to stay and take it easy with her friends down in the East; But while I coaxed and argued I was feelin' mighty glum, And right down in my heart I kep' a-hopin' she would come.

"Well, by rail and boat and saddle we got out here at last, A-livin' in the future, and forgettin' of the past; We built ourselves a little home, and in our work and care It seemed to me she always took what was the lion's share; God knows just what she suffered, but she hid it with a smile, And made out that she thought I was the only thing worth while.

"She stood it through the summer and the warm, brown days of fall, And of all the voices calling her she would not hear the call; But when the winter settled with its cold, white pall of snow She seemed to whiten with it, but she thought I didn't know; She tried to keep her spirits up and laugh my fears away, But I saw her growing thin and ever weaker day by day.

"At last I couldn't stand it any longer, so I said, 'I think you'd better try and spend a day or two in bed While I go for a doctor. It's only sixty miles.' She gave a little wistful look, half hidden in her smiles, And said, 'Perhaps you'd better, though I think I'll be all right When the spring comes.' . . . Well, I started out that night.

"I made the trip on horseback, by the guiding Polar star And a dozen times the distance never seemed one half so far. But the doctor had gone out of town,--just where, no one could say, And a lump rose in my chest that fairly took my breath away. But I daren't stay there thinking, and my search for him was vain, So I bought some wine and brandy and I started home again.

"Forgetful of my horse, I spent the whole night on the road, Till early in the morning he collapsed beneath his load; I saw the brute was done for, and although it made me cry, I hacked into his jug'lar vein and left him there to die; And then I shouldered the supplies and staggered on alone, And thinking of my wife's distress I quite forgot my own.

"She must ha' watched all night for me, for in the morning grey She saw me stagger in the snow and fall beside the way And God knows how she did it--she was only skin and bone-- But she came out here and found me and dragged me home alone, And she took the precious liquor that had cost us all so dear, And poured it down this worthless hulk that's standin' blatin' here. . . .

"I guess you know what happened--I lived, she passed away; I robed her in her wedding-dress and laid her in the clay; And every spring I plant the flowers that grow upon her grave, For I hold the spot as sacred as the Arimathaen's cave; And when the winter snows have come, and all is white and still, I spread a blanket on the mound to keep out frost and chill.

"Folks say I've got a screw loose, that I've gone to acting queer, But I sometimes hear her speaking, and I know she's always near; And sometimes in the night I feel the pressure of her hand, And for a blessed hour I share with her the Promised Land:-- Let man or devil undertake to desecrate my dead And as sure as God's in heaven I will pump him full of lead."

They were rough-and-ready railway men who stood about the spot, They were men that lied and gambled they were men that drank and fought, But some of them were sneezing, and some were coughing bad, And some were blowing noses on anything they had; And some of them were swallowing at lumps that shouldn't come, And some were swearing softly, and some were simply dumb.

At last the foreman found his voice: "I guess your claim is sound; I wouldn't care to run a track across that piece of ground. . . . We'll have to change our lay-out . . . but I hope . . . we have the grace To build a fitting monument to mark that holy place; Put me down for a hundred; now, boys, how much for you?" And they answered in a chorus, "We'll see the business through."

* * * * * * *

The passengers upon a certain railway o'er the plain See a shining shaft of marble from the windows of the train, But they do not know the story of the girl-wife in the snow And the broken-hearted farmer with his lonely life of woe, And none of them have guessed that the deflection in the line Is the railway builders' tribute to a prairie heroine.

THE SEER

In the dingy dust of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race, And the lake that lapt at his wigwam door threw back a frowning face, And a sightless squaw at the centre-pole crooned low in a hybrid speech, When a man of God swept round the point and landed on the beach.

The heavy eyes grew bright with fire, the lips shaped to a sneer-- "Welcome, my paleface brother, what good news brings you here? Are you come with the voice of healing, with the book of your blameless breed, To soothe my soul with comfort while my body gnaws with need?

"Welcome, O paleface brother; come, what have you to fear? Mayhap the redskin chieftain can teach as well as hear; And while we sing your sacred songs and breathe your mystic prayer, Who knows what inspiration may come on the ev'ning air? . . .

"Listen; you are a scholar, schooled in the paleface lore: 'Tis said a dying saint may sometimes see the shining shore; That closing eyes peer far beyond the realm of mortal sight,-- Who knows but that a dying race may read the road aright?

"A dying race! We know it; the land is ours no more, No more we roam the prairies as in the days of yore; The brave, free spirit that was ours is crushed and passed away, And bodies without spirits are predestined to decay.

"No matter. In the summertime the flowers bloom in the grass, The startled insects flood the fields and chirrup as you pass, The birds sing in the bushes; but before the wintry blast The flowers and the insects and the little birds are past.

"Yet once again the spring will come, the flowers will bloom again, And insects chirrup blithely where the former ones are lain; The white snows of the wintertime will vanish in the heat, And out-door life and color will follow their defeat.

"Can the paleface read the riddle? Has he eyes to see the signs? Or thinketh he that snow will lie forever on the pines? That housed-up life can triumph for the mastery of state, Or cushioned chairs produce a race destined to dominate?

"Behold, the things your hands have done, the power your arts have won-- Behold, those things shall vanish as the snow before the sun; The snow that smothered out the red--ah, hear it if you can-- Shall leave the earth as suddenly, _and leave it brown and tan_.

"Hear ye a little lesson--surely ye know its worth-- Only an out-door nation can be master of the earth; Soon as ye seek your couches, soft with the spoils of trade-- See well to your outer trenches before the mines are laid!

"Hear ye a little lesson--can ye the truth divine? Milk ye may mix with water, and water will mix with wine; Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your hope, and toil, But know in all your mixing that water won't mix with oil!"

In the dingy dusk of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race, And the glow of holy prophecy lit up his rugged face, And the foremost light of the setting sun fell far on an eastern land,-- _And who shall save the paleface if he will not understand?_

THE SON OF MARQUIS NODDLE

He is brand-new out from England and he thinks he knows it all-- (There's a bloomin' bit o' goggle in his eye) The "colonial" that crosses him is going to get a fall-- (There's a seven-pound revolver on his thigh). He's a son of Marquis Noddle, he's a nephew of an earl, In the social swim of England he's got 'em all awhirl. He's as confident as Caesar and as pretty as a girl-- Oh, he's out in deadly earnest, do or die.

They will spot him in the cities by the cowhide on his feet-- (They were built for crushing cobblestones at 'ome) And the giddy girls will giggle when they see him on the street-- (There's a brand-new cowboy hat upon his dome). He has come from home and kindred to the land beyond the sea, To the far-famed land of plenty, to the country of the free, But he can't forget he owns it from Cape Race to Behring Sea-- He is coming just as Caesar would to Rome.

When his pile is getting slender he'll go looking for a job, (And he thinks he ought to get it, don't-cher-know) But he finds that he must mingle with the common city mob (How _can_ they think that he would stoop so low?). So he hikes him to the country, where the rustics will be proud To salute him when they meet him, and to whisper, nice and loud, "He's the son of Marquis Noddle,--you would know him in a crowd"-- They will pay him there the homage that they owe.

In the little country village he will manufacture mirth-- (For it's there they take the measure of a swell) They will soon proceed to teach him that he doesn't own the earth (With a quit-claim on the sun and moon as well). They will show him that the country isn't altogether slow, And that they can travel any pace that he's a mind to go; He will be a right good fellow till they run him out of dough-- Oh, it is a tale of merriment they tell!

So to keep his bones together he goes working on a farm, (Where they get up at a little after two) Where they think to take him down a peg will not do him any harm, (And they sleep when there is nothing else to do). Where they work him like a nigger nearly twenty hours a day, And they don't disguise the fact that they consider him a jay, And he eats so much and sleeps so much he isn't worth his pay-- Oh, it doesn't matter that his blood is blue.

He decides to do a season as a cowboy in the West, (Where they call a man a boy until he's dead) And he tries to walk a-swagger with a military chest, (And he isn't overslept or overfed). They will set him breaking bronchos, though it's little to his mind; With many new-learned epithets he'll perforate the wind-- How can he know the boys have stuck a thistle on behind? He will end the exhibition on his head.

They will fill him full of liquor that'll frizzle his inside, (In the cooler he can square it with his God). He will spend his nights in places where the _demi-monde_ reside, (In the morning he'll be minus watch and wad). They'll abuse him as a youngster, they will mock him as a man, They'll make his life a thorny path in every way they can, Till he curses his existence and the day that it began, And he wishes he was rotting in the sod.

He will write long tales to England, tales of bitterness and woe, (They will print 'em in the papers over there). He will tell them pretty nearly everything he doesn't know, (And they'll take it all for gospel over there). He will tell them that the country isn't fit for gentlemen, That any who escape from it do not come back again, He is handy with his language and he wields a bitter pen-- To the truth of each assertion he would swear.

He's a growler, he's a growser, he's a nuisance, he's a bum, (And the country hasn't any room for such) And they class him in the papers as "European scum," (They would rather have the Irish or the Dutch). He's the butt of every jester, he's the mark of every joke, He is wearing borrowed trousers--he has put his own in soak-- He's a useless good-for-nothing, beaten, buffeted, and broke, And of sympathy he won't get over-much.

* * * * * * *

In a dozen years you'll find him with a section of his own, (He had to learn his lesson at the start) With a happy wife and children he is trying to atone-- (For he loves the country now with all his heart). He's a son of dear old England, he's a hero, he's a brick; He's the kind you may annihilate but you can never lick, For he played and lost, and played and lost, and stayed and took the trick; In a world of men he'll play a manly part.

THE PRODIGALS

Knee-deep our prairies link the seas, Flood-full our voiceless rivers wend; We hold unturned the larder keys On which the future years depend: And shall we suffer alien throngs Usurp the land to us belongs?

What though we are to fortune born And all our paths are paved with gold? We flaunt our folly up to scorn, Because we keep not what we hold: Why should we rob our right of birth To foster all the breeds of earth?

We picture with unfeigned dismay Man-glutted lands of other flags, They multiply but to decay, And rot in pestilence and rags; Why hasten we to emulate These helpless tragedies of Fate?

The land our children's sons will need, That land we have wide open thrown To heathen knaves of other breed And paunchy pirates of our own: We give away earth's greatest prize, And pat ourselves, and call us wise.

No father he who to the slums For husband to his child would send, And no one worthy of her comes She lives a maiden to the end: Yet we have placed our virgin trust In spawn of Continental lust.

If dumb we be to Reason's cries-- Our children's cause she pleads in vain-- Our outraged sons at length will rise And seize their heritage again; And fools, who prate of vested right, Will either cease to prate--or fight.

The land is ours, the land will keep, And Time is nowise near its end; We hold our birthright all too cheap Its sacredness to comprehend; In after years our sons will say, "Why frittered ye the land away?"

THE SQUAD OF ONE