Part 12 (1/2)

And the watchers wept in the midnight gloom, Where the canyons yawn and the Selkirks loom, For the love that they knew of olden.

And April dawned, with its suns aflame, And the eagles wheeled and the vultures came And poised o'er the town of Golden.

G.o.d of the white eternal peaks, Guard the dead while the vulture seeks!-- G.o.d of the days so olden.

For only G.o.d in His greatness knows Where the mountain holly above her grows, On the trail that leads from Golden.

THE SONGSTER

Music, music with throb and swing, Of a plaintive note, and long; 'Tis a note no human throat could sing, No harp with its dulcet golden string,-- Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring, Is sweet as the robin's song.

He sings for love of the season When the days grow warm and long, For the beautiful G.o.d-sent reason That his breast was born for song.

Calling, calling so fresh and clear, Through the song-sweet days of May; Warbling there, and whistling here, He swells his voice on the drinking ear, On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere Till his music drowns the day.

He sings for love of the season When the days grow warm and long, For the beautiful G.o.d-sent reason That his breast was born for song.

THISTLE-DOWN

Beyond a ridge of pine with russet tips The west lifts to the sun her longing lips,

Her blushes stain with gold and garnet dye The sh.o.r.e, the river and the wide far sky;

Like floods of wine the waters filter through The reeds that brush our indolent canoe.

I beach the bow where sands in shadows lie; You hold my hand a s.p.a.ce, then speak good-bye.

Upwinds your pathway through the yellow plumes Of goldenrod, profuse in August blooms,

And o'er its tossing sprays you toss a kiss; A moment more, and I see only this--

The idle paddle you so lately held, The empty bow your pliant wrist propelled,

Some thistles purpling into violet, Their blossoms with a thousand thorns afret,

And like a cobweb, shadowy and grey, Far floats their down--far drifts my dream away.

THE RIDERS OF THE PLAINS [2]

Who is it lacks the knowledge? Who are the curs that dare To whine and sneer that they do not fear the whelps in the Lion's lair?

But we of the North will answer, while life in the North remains, Let the curs beware lest the whelps they dare are the Riders of the Plains; For these are the kind whose muscle makes the power of the Lion's jaw, And they keep the peace of our people and the honour of British law.

A woman has painted a picture,--'tis a neat little bit of art The critics aver, and it roused up for her the love of the big British heart.