Of the midnight with their barking,
And the prowling Wolves crept nearer,
Till the patter of their footsteps
Could be heard in stealthy rushes.

Still the fearless Sisters waited,
Watched the north for signal fires,
And in eager alternation
Held the Magic Yellow Iris.

Came at last the welcome singing
Of the Meadow Lark and Robin,
And above the eastern mountains
Flushed the rose-light of the morning;
Then again the sky was tinted
By the Elf who plays with colors,
And the sleeping poppies wakened
When the sunbeams kissed their eyelids.

From the Heights of Point Bonita
Rose a thread of smoke that lengthened,
Broadened, flaunted like a banner,
Black and ominous of evil.
"They are coming!" Yana whispered,
"See, the signal fires are lighted!
They are coming. Guardian Spirit
Of our native country, save us!"
And she pressed the Yellow Iris
Closely to her throbbing bosom.