Retrospect

No longer moves the wagon train through clouds of rolling dust,

No longer speaks the musket, foul caked with yellow rust,

Wild days have passed; the yelping brave has vanished in the mists of time,

Wild fights are o’er, the valiant scout has ceased to cheer the firing line.

The brutish bison herds are gone—the lean coyote sneaks here and there,

Where once the pronghorn fed in peace, and shyly roamed the grizzly bear.

The elk are dead—the puma, too, no longer shrieks his wailing cry,

Where trapper’s fires are blazing clear, and sharply light the dark’ning sky.

From out the past, pale forms arise, the shapes of those who fought and bled

On treeless plains of alkali, and bravely found a gory bed.

The ghostly shapes go riding past; scout, voyageur, and priest,

Chief, warrior, and squaw, who gathered at the trader’s feast.

No more their laughter echoes loud, no more their voices rise and fall,

By bed of stream, ’neath aspen’s bough, where clumsy Indian children sprawl.

The chatter of the dance is hushed; the yells of warrior bands are gone,

As—gathering for the dance of death—they held high revelry ’till dawn.

We gaze upon the written page, we marvel that such tales are truth,

Of fighting fierce, of wrangling rude, of scalp-dance and the cries of youth.

Then thankfully we tread the paths, which voyageur and trapper bold

Were wont to tread in olden times, when passions fierce were uncontrolled.

Yes—blood was shed—yes—men were brave, who conquered and who won the West,

Now there is love where once was strife—the scouts have reached their Heavenly rest.

The End

Footnotes

1 See “Famous Indian Chiefs.”

2 See “Famous Scouts.”