The Heroes of the Last Frontier. Charles Haven Ladd Johnston

      Table of Contents

       THE FRONTIERSMAN

       COLONEL BENJAMIN LOGAN:

       GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE:

       JOHN SLOVER:

       LEWIS WETZEL:

       SAMUEL COLTER:

       MESHACK BROWNING:

       “BILL” BENT:

       THOMAS EDDIE:

       JIM BRIDGER:

       “OLD BILL” WILLIAMS:

       “BIG FOOT” WALLACE:

       CAPTAIN JACK HAYS:

       BILL HAMILTON:

       UNCLE JOB WITHERSPOON:

       HENRY SHANE:

       POOR JERRY LANE:

       THE SONG OF THE MOOSE

       RETROSPECT

THE FRONTIERSMAN

       Table of Contents

      He stood ’neath the whispering pines, by his cabin,

       Lanky and gaunt, his face seamed and scarred,

       Knotted his hands and blackened with toiling,

       Bronzed well his face; his palms rough and hard.

       Strangely he gazed in the dim, filmy distance,

       Gazed, as the smoke from the fire curled and swayed,

       Rapt was his look, for a voice from the forest

       Spoke—and in accents disquieting—said:

      Come! freeman! come! to the swirl of the river,

       Come! where the wild bison ranges and roams,

       Come! where the coyote and timber wolves whimper,

       Come! where the prairie dogs build their rough homes.

       Come to the hills where the blossoms are swaying,

       Come to the glades where the elk shrills his cry,

       Come—for the wild canyon echoes are saying,

       Come—only come—climb my peaks to the sky.

      A thrill shook the frame of the woodsman and trapper,

       A strange light of yearning came to his eye,

       Restless and roving by nature—this wanderer,

       Shuddered and paled at the wild, hidden cry;

       Trembling he turned towards the hut in the shadow,

       Shaking he strode to the low, darkened door,

       Then stopped—as sounded the voice from the meadow,

       Mutt’ring the challenge—o’er and o’er.

      Come, will you come, where the brown ouzel nestles,

       Come, where the waterfall dashes and plays,

       Come, where the spike-horn rollicks and wrestles,

       On a carpet of moss, in the warm Autumn haze;

       The cloud banks are blowing o’er Leidy and Glenrock,

       On Wessex and Cassa the sun hides its head,

       Come, will you come, where the trout leaps in splendor,

       Come, only come, let the veldt be your bed.

      By the rough, oaken chair lay the grim, shining rifle,

       On a nail o’er the fire swung the curled powder-horn,

       With a smiling grimace he seized on these weapons,

       Wild emblems of conquest—storm-battered and worn.

       “Stay,” whirred the loom, as it stood in the shadow,

       “Stay,” purred the cat, as it lay near the stove,

       “Stay where the woodbine and iris are trailing,

       Stay, only stay, calm this spirit to rove.”

      But, “come” shrilled the voice on the dim, distant prairie,

       “Come, where the Cheyennes are roving and free,

       Where the beavers are damming the wild, rushing ice stream,

       Where the lean puma snarls in the shaggy, pine tree.

       Come—for the call of the wild is resounding,

       From Laramie’s peaks rolls the smoke of the fire.

       Lighted by scouts, where the herds are abounding,

       Fattened and sleek, for the red man’s desire.”

      ············

      Thus came the call, and thus trekked the plainsman,

       Westward, yet westward his grim step led on,

       By the wide, sedgy steppes, where the Platte curled and whispered,

       By the brackish salt lake, stretching gray ’neath the sun,

       Where the purple, red flowers in clusters lay glist’ning,

       Where the wild kestrel whirled o’er the precipice sheer,

       He conquered the wild, while the grizzly stood list’ning,

       And growled, as the white canvased wagons drew near.