_Every night the red-haired child_ _Begs to hear the story,_ _When the pasture ridges burn_ _With the sunset glory._ _She can never understand,_ _Since the tale ends gladly,_ _Why her mother, telling it,_ _Always smiles so sadly._ _Wonderingly she looks away_ _Where her mother’s gazing;_ _Only sees the drifting herd,_ _In the sunset grazing._ SPANISH JOHNNY The old West, the old time, The old wind singing through The red, red grass a thousand miles, And, Spanish Johnny, you! He’d sit beside the water-ditch When all his herd was in, And never mind a child, but sing To his mandolin. The big stars, the blue night, The moon-enchanted plain: The olive man who never spoke, But sang the songs of Spain. His speech with men was wicked talk-- To hear it was a sin; But those were golden things he said To his mandolin. The gold songs, the gold stars, The world so golden then: And the hand so tender to a child Had killed so many men. He died a hard death long ago Before the Road came in; The night before he swung, he sang To his mandolin. AUTUMN MELODY In the autumn days, the days of parting, Days that in a golden silence fall, When the air is quick with bird-wings starting, And the asters darken by the wall; Strong and sweet the wine of heaven is flowing, Bees and sun and sleep and golden dyes; Long forgot is budding-time and blowing, Sunk in honeyed sleep the garden lies. Spring and storm and summer midnight madness Dream within the grape but never wake; Bees and sun and sweetness,--oh, and sadness! Sun and sweet that reach the heart--and break. Ah, the pain at heart forever starting, Ah, the cup untasted that we spilled In the autumn days, the days of parting! Would our shades could drink it, and be stilled. PRAIRIE SPRING Evening and the flat land, Rich and somber and always silent; The miles of fresh-plowed soil, Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness; The growing wheat, the growing weeds, The toiling horses, the tired men; The long, empty roads, Sullen fires of sunset, fading, The eternal, unresponsive sky. Against all this, Youth, Flaming like the wild roses, Singing like the larks over the plowed fields, Flashing like a star out of the twilight; Youth with its insupportable sweetness, Its fierce necessity, Its sharp desire; Singing and singing, Out of the lips of silence, Out of the earthy dusk. MACON PRAIRIE (NEBRASKA)