The Snow’Tis thirty miles, you say? Ah, well,Come, mount! I am no hot-house flower.I love the cold and the north wind’s power;Rioting, buffeting, rushing pellmell.Did you think that the colonel’s daughterWas afraid to ride in a little coldBack to the fort? Why, Travers, you ought toDo guard duty till you’re gray and old.Come, mount—Ah, this is life again;Like a mustang in a hunter’s pen,So many months I have fretted soreFor a gallop on Firefly’s back once more.Going to snow?—Well, what do I care?I told you, Travers, I am not afraid.There are few things that I would not dare;You can go back if you’d rather have stayed.There, now, I was but jesting.No need for that flush restingOn your cheek at what I said.Why did they send you to meet me—Oh,You begged the task as a favor!There is about your words a savorOf something that would hardly goUnrebuked if your colonel heard you.As I am the colonel’s daughter,You must know that as fire and waterAre things that must be kept asunder;So I from a common private;Lest the great big world should wonder;I must not for a moment connive atYour treading its dictates under.Your hand from my bridle rein, sir!What is it you say?—the snow?I take no alarm from your answer;Just a big white flake or so.Ride for my life?—Why, Travers,Are you frightened, man? Would you have usRacing for a stray snowflake?Ah, you will hat it—off, then;Though I positively can not takeAlarm, though you tell me so often.It’s no use, Travers, draw rein;Our wonderful ride has been in vain;It was glorious though, for a while.I’m so cold, and the horrid snowGrows deeper with every mile,And my heart grows faint, and every blowOf the icy wind is death,As it catches my breathAnd bears my soul out to the snow.No, no, I will not ride on.My strength and my will are gone;Where is our course, can you tell me?Backward or forward, or where?You can not? Then it were well weStopped here—for, see, in the airComes the snow in eddying waves;What a pure nice fall for our graves.What, Travers, your coat?—No, keep it;I said no! Do I have to repeat it?Do you forget that you are a private?And I—Oh, God, and what am I,To lie—but come; let’s arrive atSome understanding whyI always flout you and scorn you.I’ll speak to the point, and I warn youI will speak my heart’s truth ere I die.I am so sleepy and cold;Is this the maiden boldWho a few hours ago spoke so brave,And claimed such a deal of courage?So dauntless and firm (and saveIn one thing) quite up to her age.I’m freezing, Travers, help me down;Hark! was not that the soundOf church bells? Travers, come quickI’m afraid of this horrible whiteness around.Look up, Travers, into my eyes;Do you see anything in them to prize?The drifts are rising fast around us,Death has come at last and found us.I am the colonel’s daughter, and youAre only—my Jack and the man I loveAnd always have, the long years through.Come, Jack! At last my head finds rest;Draw me closer upon your breast.Has it grown dark? I can not see,But I can feel your dear, strong arm.I am not cold now; it must beThe snow was a dream, and weAre at the barracks. Do not keepMe waiting longer; I must sleep.—W. S. P.(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, February 23, 1896.)
’Tis thirty miles, you say? Ah, well,Come, mount! I am no hot-house flower.I love the cold and the north wind’s power;Rioting, buffeting, rushing pellmell.Did you think that the colonel’s daughterWas afraid to ride in a little coldBack to the fort? Why, Travers, you ought toDo guard duty till you’re gray and old.
Come, mount—Ah, this is life again;Like a mustang in a hunter’s pen,So many months I have fretted soreFor a gallop on Firefly’s back once more.Going to snow?—Well, what do I care?I told you, Travers, I am not afraid.There are few things that I would not dare;You can go back if you’d rather have stayed.
There, now, I was but jesting.No need for that flush restingOn your cheek at what I said.Why did they send you to meet me—Oh,You begged the task as a favor!There is about your words a savorOf something that would hardly goUnrebuked if your colonel heard you.
As I am the colonel’s daughter,You must know that as fire and waterAre things that must be kept asunder;So I from a common private;Lest the great big world should wonder;I must not for a moment connive atYour treading its dictates under.
Your hand from my bridle rein, sir!What is it you say?—the snow?I take no alarm from your answer;Just a big white flake or so.Ride for my life?—Why, Travers,Are you frightened, man? Would you have usRacing for a stray snowflake?Ah, you will hat it—off, then;Though I positively can not takeAlarm, though you tell me so often.
It’s no use, Travers, draw rein;Our wonderful ride has been in vain;It was glorious though, for a while.I’m so cold, and the horrid snowGrows deeper with every mile,And my heart grows faint, and every blowOf the icy wind is death,As it catches my breathAnd bears my soul out to the snow.No, no, I will not ride on.My strength and my will are gone;Where is our course, can you tell me?Backward or forward, or where?You can not? Then it were well weStopped here—for, see, in the airComes the snow in eddying waves;What a pure nice fall for our graves.What, Travers, your coat?—No, keep it;I said no! Do I have to repeat it?Do you forget that you are a private?And I—Oh, God, and what am I,To lie—but come; let’s arrive atSome understanding whyI always flout you and scorn you.I’ll speak to the point, and I warn youI will speak my heart’s truth ere I die.I am so sleepy and cold;Is this the maiden boldWho a few hours ago spoke so brave,And claimed such a deal of courage?So dauntless and firm (and saveIn one thing) quite up to her age.
I’m freezing, Travers, help me down;Hark! was not that the soundOf church bells? Travers, come quickI’m afraid of this horrible whiteness around.Look up, Travers, into my eyes;Do you see anything in them to prize?The drifts are rising fast around us,Death has come at last and found us.I am the colonel’s daughter, and youAre only—my Jack and the man I loveAnd always have, the long years through.Come, Jack! At last my head finds rest;Draw me closer upon your breast.Has it grown dark? I can not see,But I can feel your dear, strong arm.I am not cold now; it must beThe snow was a dream, and weAre at the barracks. Do not keepMe waiting longer; I must sleep.
—W. S. P.
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, February 23, 1896.)