A view-point on the trail. Then
He had no dread of dark,
No fear of change.
Now an uprolled rug upon the floor
Appalls his feet. His withered arm
Shakes at the menace of a door,
And every wind-waft does him harm.

God! 'Tis a piteous thing to see
This ranger of the hills confined
To the small compass of his room
Like a chained eagle on a tree,
Lax-winged and gray and blind.
Only in dreams he sees the bloom
On far hills where the red deer run.
Only in memory guides the light canoe
Or stalks the bear with dog and polished gun.

In him behold the story of the West,
The chronicle of rifleman behind the plow,
Typing the life of those who knew
No barrier but the sunset in their quest.
On his bent head and grizzled hair
Is set the crown of those who shew
New cunning to the wolf, new courage to the bear.

Another evidence of melancholy change came to me in the failing powers
of Ladrone, my mountain horse, who had come through the winter very
badly. I found him standing in the pasture, weak and inactive, taking no
interest in the rich grasses under his feet. In the belief that exercise
would do him good, I saddled him and started to ride about the square,
but soon drew rein. He had not the strength to carry me!

Sadly dismounting I led him back to the stable. It was evident that he
would never again career with me across the hills. Bowed and dejected he
resumed his place in the paddock. Standing thus, with hanging head, he
appeared to be dreaming of the days when as a part of the round-up, in
the far Northwest, he had carried his master over the range and through
the herd with joyous zeal. Each time I looked at him I felt a twinge of
pain.

Everything I could do for him was done, every remedial measure was
tried, but he grew steadily worse, and at last, I called a neighbor to
my aid and said, "Oliver, my horse is very sick. I fear his days are
numbered. Study him, do what you can for him, and if you find he cannot
be cured, put him away. Don't tell me when it is done or how it is
done--I don't want to know. You understand?"

He understood, and one morning, a few days later, as I looked in the
pasture for the gray pony, he was nowhere to be seen. In the dust of the
driveway, I detected the marks of his small feet. The toes of his shoes
pointed toward the gate, and there were no returning foot-prints. He had
gone away on the lo