INDIAN TRAILSCreeping 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 highwaysAnd whither did they go?Some lead deep in the forestWhere they hunted the deer and bear,Where they dried the meat for foodAnd skins made them clothes to wear.While some lead to lakes and riversWhere the loon and wild geese call,To rice-fields in late OctoberWhen the snow commenced to fall,—While some climbed high on the mountainWhere the huckleberries grew,And ripened upon the sunny slopes,Sweetened by mountain dew,—Others found way to the border tribesWhere 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 remainsOf 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.WINTERWinter 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 whiteAppear 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 RANGEToday as I gaze o'er the prairieThat stretches away into space,I look back only a few short yearsAt 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-upFor 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 stockyardsWhere we loaded the steers in the cars.Then when the loading was finishedAnd the cattle were on their way,The Boss called the bunch togetherAnd gave us our season's pay.We were just like a bunch of children,And many an old-timer like meRecalls 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 borderThat is over the Great Divide,I hope the bunk-house is ampleAnd none will be left outside.THE CABIN OF MYSTERYNo trail leads to this cabin,Not even a blaze on a tree,Hidden beneath the tall dark firsIs this cabin of mystery.No one knew its builderOr when this cabin was made,Not one of the oldest trappersCan explain or give any aid.The stove still stands in the corner,The table all neat and cleanAnd the cupboard still holds its grubstakeAs fine as ever was seen.But there are no traps or stretchersSo 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 answerAnd 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 borderAnd step aboard death's train,The secrets of hills and mountains,To us will then be plain.WHEN THE LEAVES COMMENCE TO FALLWhen the days commence to shortenAnd the nights are getting long,And we miss the flies and skeetersAnd 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 frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.You get up in the morningAnd the air is crisp and cold,The hills have on their war paint,Crimson, orange, brown and gold;And to me they have a messageThat I can't forget at all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.I can easily foreseeThat 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 boyWhose red-top boots are new.And I work both late and earlyAnd don't want to stop at all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.Now the north wind is a-blowingBut, then little do I care,For I know a little cabinHolds all my grubstake there.And that very self-same cabinIs dearer to me than all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.And so I will soon be startingTo where the deer on meadows play,And the wondrous Northern lightsMake 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 frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.AU REVOIRNow here's my pack of trail-told rhymes,Written by me at varying times;Some when the flowers were fresh with bloomAnd 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 deepHad told the flowers to go to sleep;And ever as I took my pen in handTo picture God's wonders so noble and grand,I felt if I was able to even phaseOne thing correctly, I would sing His praiseTo 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 timesWhen 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.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKRHYMES OF THE ROCKIES***
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 highwaysAnd whither did they go?Some lead deep in the forestWhere they hunted the deer and bear,Where they dried the meat for foodAnd skins made them clothes to wear.While some lead to lakes and riversWhere the loon and wild geese call,To rice-fields in late OctoberWhen the snow commenced to fall,—While some climbed high on the mountainWhere the huckleberries grew,And ripened upon the sunny slopes,Sweetened by mountain dew,—Others found way to the border tribesWhere 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 remainsOf 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.
Creeping along the mountain,Or winding along the stream,Each year growing dimmer and dimmer,Then fading away like a dream—
Creeping along the mountain,
Or winding along the stream,
Or winding along the stream,
Each year growing dimmer and dimmer,
Then fading away like a dream—
Then fading away like a dream—
Almost impossible to follow,Still in the days long ago,These trails were the only highwaysAnd whither did they go?
Almost impossible to follow,
Still in the days long ago,
Still in the days long ago,
These trails were the only highways
And whither did they go?
And whither did they go?
Some lead deep in the forestWhere they hunted the deer and bear,Where they dried the meat for foodAnd skins made them clothes to wear.
Some lead deep in the forest
Where they hunted the deer and bear,
Where they hunted the deer and bear,
Where they dried the meat for food
And skins made them clothes to wear.
And skins made them clothes to wear.
While some lead to lakes and riversWhere the loon and wild geese call,To rice-fields in late OctoberWhen the snow commenced to fall,—
While some lead to lakes and rivers
Where the loon and wild geese call,
Where the loon and wild geese call,
To rice-fields in late October
When the snow commenced to fall,—
When the snow commenced to fall,—
While some climbed high on the mountainWhere the huckleberries grew,And ripened upon the sunny slopes,Sweetened by mountain dew,—
While some climbed high on the mountain
Where the huckleberries grew,
Where the huckleberries grew,
And ripened upon the sunny slopes,
Sweetened by mountain dew,—
Sweetened by mountain dew,—
Others found way to the border tribesWhere the war-whoops loud and shrill,Echoed along the cliffs and crags,—Me-thinks I can hear them still.
Others found way to the border tribes
Where the war-whoops loud and shrill,
Where the war-whoops loud and shrill,
Echoed along the cliffs and crags,—
Me-thinks I can hear them still.
Me-thinks I can hear them still.
Now only a scar on some tree remainsOf the trails of the long ago,The summer comes, the fall appears,With winter's frost and snow.
Now only a scar on some tree remains
Of the trails of the long ago,
Of the trails of the long ago,
The summer comes, the fall appears,
With winter's frost and snow.
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.
And as each season passes,
Leaves dimmer every trace,
Leaves dimmer every trace,
I can see the trails a-passing,
The same as the Indian race.
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 whiteAppear 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.
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.
Winter has descended o'er mountain and hill,
His mantle of snow has spread;
His mantle of snow has spread;
The grass and flowers are withered and brown,
The leaves on the bushes are dead.
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 streams all are silent in icy embrace,
They are held in his bondage so strong:
They are held in his bondage so strong:
Not even one faint murmur is heard,
Where they laughed so loud and so long.
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 whiteAppear like a light fleecy cloud.
The trees are draped in a mantle of snow,
That clings to their boughs like a shroud,
That clings to their boughs like a shroud,
And the mountains cold and still and white
Appear like a light fleecy cloud.
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 cattle have come from their good summer range,
The sheep have all entered the fold,
The sheep have all entered the fold,
Winter, they know, is starting its slumber,
And the wind is so searching and cold.
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.
The logs in the fire-place crackle and glow—
Our cabin's all cozy and warm,
Our cabin's all cozy and warm,
The dogs are a-sleeping,—content as can be,
So why worry o'er winter's storm.
So why worry o'er winter's storm.
PASSING OF THE RANGE
Today as I gaze o'er the prairieThat stretches away into space,I look back only a few short yearsAt 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-upFor 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 stockyardsWhere we loaded the steers in the cars.Then when the loading was finishedAnd the cattle were on their way,The Boss called the bunch togetherAnd gave us our season's pay.We were just like a bunch of children,And many an old-timer like meRecalls 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 borderThat is over the Great Divide,I hope the bunk-house is ampleAnd none will be left outside.
Today as I gaze o'er the prairieThat stretches away into space,I look back only a few short yearsAt the change that's taken place.
Today as I gaze o'er the prairie
That stretches away into space,
That stretches away into space,
I look back only a few short years
At the change that's taken place.
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.
When I was one of the cowboys,
All our time was spent on the range;
All our time was spent on the range;
Now I don't see even one rider,—
'Tis then I feel lonesome and strange.
'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.
No trail-herds with plaintive lowing,
No shouting, or singing to steers,
No shouting, or singing to steers,
No sound of horses mad galloping,—
It almost moves me to tears.
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-upFor a day at the cow-camp in June.
For then we rode stirrup to stirrup,
While the jingle of spurs played a tune;
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.
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.
When the grass was so green on the prairie,
With the cattle all sleek and so fat,
With the cattle all sleek and so fat,
Each rider all dressed for hard riding,
With high heels and chaps and wide hat.
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;—
Each with his string of horses,
Some broken and others half wild,
Some broken and others half wild,
The wilder the better he liked them,
Happy and carefree as a child;—
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.
Wild as the steers that they wrangled,
Hardy as the bronchos they rode,
Hardy as the bronchos they rode,
Ready to take others' troubles,
Or carry another one's load.
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 stockyardsWhere we loaded the steers in the cars.
Those were the real days I tell you—
Night-herding by light of the stars;
Night-herding by light of the stars;
Three weeks drive to the stockyards
Where we loaded the steers in the cars.
Where we loaded the steers in the cars.
Then when the loading was finishedAnd the cattle were on their way,The Boss called the bunch togetherAnd gave us our season's pay.
Then when the loading was finished
And the cattle were on their way,
And the cattle were on their way,
The Boss called the bunch together
And gave us our season's pay.
And gave us our season's pay.
We were just like a bunch of children,And many an old-timer like meRecalls being served in his saddle,When on a periodical spree.
We were just like a bunch of children,
And many an old-timer like me
And many an old-timer like me
Recalls being served in his saddle,
When on a periodical spree.
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.
Now, cattle are held in pastures,
They no longer roam wild and free,—
They no longer roam wild and free,—
And the cowboys are gone forever,
Leaving only a memory.
Leaving only a memory.
And as each one crosses the borderThat is over the Great Divide,I hope the bunk-house is ampleAnd none will be left outside.
And as each one crosses the border
That is over the Great Divide,
That is over the Great Divide,
I hope the bunk-house is ample
And none will be left outside.
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 firsIs this cabin of mystery.No one knew its builderOr when this cabin was made,Not one of the oldest trappersCan explain or give any aid.The stove still stands in the corner,The table all neat and cleanAnd the cupboard still holds its grubstakeAs fine as ever was seen.But there are no traps or stretchersSo 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 answerAnd 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 borderAnd step aboard death's train,The secrets of hills and mountains,To us will then be plain.
No trail leads to this cabin,Not even a blaze on a tree,Hidden beneath the tall dark firsIs this cabin of mystery.
No trail leads to this cabin,
Not even a blaze on a tree,
Not even a blaze on a tree,
Hidden beneath the tall dark firs
Is this cabin of mystery.
Is this cabin of mystery.
No one knew its builderOr when this cabin was made,Not one of the oldest trappersCan explain or give any aid.
No one knew its builder
Or when this cabin was made,
Or when this cabin was made,
Not one of the oldest trappers
Can explain or give any aid.
Can explain or give any aid.
The stove still stands in the corner,The table all neat and cleanAnd the cupboard still holds its grubstakeAs fine as ever was seen.
The stove still stands in the corner,
The table all neat and clean
The table all neat and clean
And the cupboard still holds its grubstake
As fine as ever was seen.
As fine as ever was seen.
But there are no traps or stretchersSo no trapper was he,No prospector's pick or shovel,—All adds to the mystery.
But there are no traps or stretchers
So no trapper was he,
So no trapper was he,
No prospector's pick or shovel,—
All adds to the mystery.
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.
No name upon the door-jamb,
No initials cut in the wall,
No initials cut in the wall,
No calendar hangs by the window,
Just silence and mystery—that's all.
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 answerAnd perhaps it's just as well.
But the hills hold many a secret,
That the trails and streams never tell,
That the trails and streams never tell,
We can only guess at the answer
And perhaps it's just as well.
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.
Now as I gaze at this cabin,—
Brush almost obscuring the door,—
Brush almost obscuring the door,—
Many moons have you guarded the secret,
Keep guard for as many more.
Keep guard for as many more.
But perhaps when we cross the borderAnd step aboard death's train,The secrets of hills and mountains,To us will then be plain.
But perhaps when we cross the border
And step aboard death's train,
And step aboard death's train,
The secrets of hills and mountains,
To us will then be plain.
To us will then be plain.
WHEN THE LEAVES COMMENCE TO FALL
When the days commence to shortenAnd the nights are getting long,And we miss the flies and skeetersAnd 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 frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.You get up in the morningAnd the air is crisp and cold,The hills have on their war paint,Crimson, orange, brown and gold;And to me they have a messageThat I can't forget at all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.I can easily foreseeThat 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 boyWhose red-top boots are new.And I work both late and earlyAnd don't want to stop at all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.Now the north wind is a-blowingBut, then little do I care,For I know a little cabinHolds all my grubstake there.And that very self-same cabinIs dearer to me than all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.And so I will soon be startingTo where the deer on meadows play,And the wondrous Northern lightsMake 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 frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.
When the days commence to shortenAnd the nights are getting long,And we miss the flies and skeetersAnd 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 frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.
When the days commence to shorten
And the nights are getting long,
And the nights are getting long,
And we miss the flies and skeeters
And the song birds' sweetest song,—
And the song birds' sweetest song,—
To some the summer's passing,
Leaves the world a darker hue,
Leaves the world a darker hue,
But to me it makes it brighter,
Just the same as if 'twas new.
Just the same as if 'twas new.
As I say, some people hate it,
But I love it best of all;
But I love it best of all;
When the nights are getting frosty
And the leaves commence to fall.
And the leaves commence to fall.
You get up in the morningAnd the air is crisp and cold,The hills have on their war paint,Crimson, orange, brown and gold;And to me they have a messageThat I can't forget at all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.
You get up in the morning
And the air is crisp and cold,
And the air is crisp and cold,
The hills have on their war paint,
Crimson, orange, brown and gold;
Crimson, orange, brown and gold;
And to me they have a message
That I can't forget at all,
That I can't forget at all,
When the nights are getting frosty
And the leaves commence to fall.
And the leaves commence to fall.
I can easily foreseeThat 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 boyWhose red-top boots are new.And I work both late and earlyAnd don't want to stop at all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.
I can easily foresee
That I cannot tarry long,
That I cannot tarry long,
So I at once get busy,
And my heart is full of song;
And my heart is full of song;
As I look my snow-shoes over,
And patch up my canoe;
And patch up my canoe;
As happy as a little boy
Whose red-top boots are new.
Whose red-top boots are new.
And I work both late and early
And don't want to stop at all,
And don't want to stop at all,
When the nights are getting frosty
And the leaves commence to fall.
And the leaves commence to fall.
Now the north wind is a-blowingBut, then little do I care,For I know a little cabinHolds all my grubstake there.And that very self-same cabinIs dearer to me than all,When the nights are getting frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.
Now the north wind is a-blowing
But, then little do I care,
But, then little do I care,
For I know a little cabin
Holds all my grubstake there.
Holds all my grubstake there.
And that very self-same cabin
Is dearer to me than all,
Is dearer to me than all,
When the nights are getting frosty
And the leaves commence to fall.
And the leaves commence to fall.
And so I will soon be startingTo where the deer on meadows play,And the wondrous Northern lightsMake 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 frostyAnd the leaves commence to fall.
And so I will soon be starting
To where the deer on meadows play,
To where the deer on meadows play,
And the wondrous Northern lights
Make the forest light as day.
Make the forest light as day.
Back to the lakes and rivers,
As straight as a laden bee,
As straight as a laden bee,
Back to the forest primeval,
That's where I long to be!
That's where I long to be!
Trapping on creeks and marshes,
Back where the bull-moose call.
Back where the bull-moose call.
When the nights are getting frosty
And the leaves commence to fall.
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 bloomAnd 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 deepHad told the flowers to go to sleep;And ever as I took my pen in handTo picture God's wonders so noble and grand,I felt if I was able to even phaseOne thing correctly, I would sing His praiseTo 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 timesWhen 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.
Now here's my pack of trail-told rhymes,Written by me at varying times;Some when the flowers were fresh with bloomAnd the air was fragrant with sweet perfume.
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 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 deepHad told the flowers to go to sleep;And ever as I took my pen in handTo picture God's wonders so noble and grand,
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 phaseOne thing correctly, I would sing His praiseTo the long trail's end where e'er I tramp,Till I drop my pack at the last home camp.
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 timesWhen you, yourself, were a knight of the hills,And these lines cause your heart some thrills;
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.
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.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKRHYMES OF THE ROCKIES***