olomon River
Reaching westward to its source,
With its fringe of sombre timber
Guides the lover on his course.
All the night he keeps his saddle,
Urging Zeb and Simon on,
Till the trail clears up before him
In the gray of early dawn.
Where it turns in towards the river,
Arched above with vine-growth rank,
He, dismounting, ties the horses
Near the steep and treacherous bank.

3

More than light and shade and landscape
Meet the plainsman's searching look,
For the paths that lie before him
Are the pages of his book.
Stooping down and reading slowly,
Noting every trace around,
Of the travel gone before him,
Every mark upon the ground,
Down the winding, deep-cut roadway
Furrowed out by grinding tire,
Where the ruts lead to the water,
In the half-dried plastic mire,
He beholds the telltale marking
Of an odd-shaped band of steel,
Welded to secure the fellies
Of old MacIntyre's wheel.

4

High above the wind is moaning
In a lonely, fretful mood,
Through the lofty spreading branches
Of the elm and cottonwood.
Where the willows hide the fordway
With their fringe of lighter green,
Is the dam, decayed and broken,
Where the beavers once have been.
On the sycamore bent o'er it,
With its gleaming trunk of white,
Sits the barred owl, idly blinking
At the early morning's light,
While, within its spacious hollow,
Where the rotting heart had clung
Till removed by age and fire,
Sleeps the wild cat with her young.

5

Plunging through the sluggish water,
Scarcely halting for a drink,
Toiling through the sticky quagmire,
They attain the farther brink.
Here the trail leads to the westward,--
Once the redman's wild domain;
Now the shallow rutted highway
Of the settler's wagon train.
Here and there along the edges,
Paths work through the waving grass,
Where at night from bluff to river,
Sneaking coyotes find a pass.
Here the meadow lark sings gaily
As she leaves her hidden nest,
While the sun of early morning
Double-tints her orange breast.

6

Up this broad and fertile valley,
Tracing all its winding ways,
Plodding on with dogged patience
Through a score of weary days,
Camping in the lonely timber,
Sleeping on the scorching plain,
Bearing heat and thirst and hunger,
Sore fatigue and wind and rain--
Halting only when the telltale
Mark was missing in the track;
Only when he called a greeting,
As he passed some settler's