Well, Dan O’Connell an’ I went out to search at the end of the week,
Fer all of us fellers thought a lot,—­a lot that we darsn’t speak. 
We’d been up the trail about forty mile, an’ was talkin’ of turnin’ back,
But Dan, well, he wouldn’t give in, so we kep’ right on to the railroad track. 
As soon as we sighted them telegraph wires says Dan, “Say, bless my soul! 
Ain’t that there Bill’s red handkerchief tied half way up that pole?”
Yes, sir, there she was, with her ends a-flippin’ an’ flyin’ in the wind,
An’ underneath was the envelope of Bill’s letter tightly pinned. 
“Why, he must a-boarded the train right here,” says Dan, but I kinder knew
That underneath them snowdrifts we would find a thing or two;
Fer he’d writ on that there paper, “Been lost fer hours,—­all hope is past. 
You’ll find me, boys, where my handkerchief is flyin’ at half-mast.”

THE SLEEPING GIANT

(THUNDER BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR)

When did you sink to your dreamless sleep
  Out there in your thunder bed? 
Where the tempests sweep,
And the waters leap,
  And the storms rage overhead.

Were you lying there on your couch alone
  Ere Egypt and Rome were born? 
Ere the Age of Stone,
Or the world had known
  The Man with the Crown of Thorn.

The winds screech down from the open west,
  And the thunders beat and break
On the amethyst
Of your rugged breast,—­
  But you never arise or wake.

You have locked your past, and you keep the key
  In your heart ’neath the westing sun,
Where the mighty sea
And its shores will be
  Storm-swept till the world is done.

THE QUILL WORKER

Plains, plains, and the prairie land which the sunlight floods and fills,
To the north the open country, southward the Cyprus Hills;
Never a bit of woodland, never a rill that flows,
Only a stretch of cactus beds, and the wild, sweet prairie rose;
Never a habitation, save where in the far south-west
A solitary tepee lifts its solitary crest,
Where Neykia in the doorway, crouched in the red sunshine,
Broiders her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.

Neykia, the Sioux chief’s daughter, she with the foot that flies,
She with the hair of midnight and the wondrous midnight eyes,
She with the deft brown fingers, she with the soft, slow smile,
She with the voice of velvet and the thoughts that dream the while,—­
“Whence come the vague to-morrows?  Where do the yesters fly? 
What is beyond the border of the prairie and the sky? 
Does the maid in the Land of Morning sit in the red sunshine,
Broidering her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine?”