Trailing towards the humble claim
He had lost when love and duty
Fired his soul to "being game";
Back, across the beaver fordway,
Where love first had found the track,
Now returning with the rankling
Sting of hate to bring him back--
Hate, that hunger made more bitter
When his last jerked beef was gone;
Climbing trees to cut off branches
For his horse to browse upon;
Back, where once the flower-decked prairie,
Spread its bloom of hope and bliss,
Now a blackened field of mourning,
From the fire of one sweet kiss.


31

Till one day, he saw beyond him,
In the distance, purple crowned,
That old monarch of the prairie,
Guard of ages, North Pole Mound.
Then the field where Zeb and Simon
Pulled the old sod-breaking plow
Stretching like a narrow ribbon
On the land that lay below.
Now the horse's steps grew lighter
As he passed each well-known sign
Of the old familiar landscape,